tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-209668182024-03-07T14:46:26.364+05:30Dubious MovesTis all a chequerboard of nights and days ...?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-50810635389175021512021-05-08T23:09:00.004+05:302021-05-08T23:51:41.851+05:30Someone You Loved<p><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, we were born a few months apart, classmates, her mother died as she was born, and my father was dead by the time I was born. I was always the one getting things done, but she had the ideas".</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"My mother, she only remembered the jamun episode.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So she convinced the boys in our Class 1B that if they were real men, they would climb up the forbidden jamun tree behind the school and fill up our metal lunch box with the berries. I was convinced they just picked up fallen fruit, but she said we could wash the mud off. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I hid the box, and sometime when it was dark, I snuck out. The entire street was related anyway, an agraharam. So I went to her place and she was waiting. She was always afraid of going alone. We slid out the door and sat on the low wall of the well at the end of the street. We ate the overripe jamuns, and rejoiced in our adventure. But then she didn't want to go back alone into the house. So I snuck in again with her. And then she clutched at me. It was dark and she didn't want to be alone. So I leaned against a pillar, and she lay down, burrowing into my pavadai, the long skirt. I combed her hair with my fingers and held one of her hands and soothed her ... and we both slept. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So my mother wakes up in the morning, and notices me missing. More puzzled than alarmed, she looks about the house, and comes out - to see my slippers at their doorstep. She came in, and saw me sitting and dozing, and the other drooling all over my clothes. She came and gave both of us a shake. Just dozing, I said. And she said yes, we woke early to study. My mother just nodded . Wash the juice off your faces and hands, she said. And is that your lunch tin ? See that you wash it in time for school."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">" For me, I keep remembering the eighth grade, when we both would discuss about the people we would marry. We knew we would be married soon, at 16 if we were lucky or sooner. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We both decided we would marry out, not in the network of extended family and friends that extended in the agraharam here and in the half a dozen other places, or even as far as Hyderabad and other places. She said she'd grown up listening to how babies had their father's eyes and grandfather's nose and looks and stuff. She liked none of the people she saw, she said. She didn't want her babies looking that way. She was always vain.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We decided that our kids, if daughters, would be named after each other. So we would always love them. If I had a boy, he was to be named after her husband, she said. So that she could call out the name, and pinch the kid and hit him when she felt like it. What ? We were thirteen then. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You ? No, you were not the first kid. And you were properly named according to the stars, not given her husband's name. What was he called ? Why would you bother ? I tell you you weren't named after him. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">OK fine, your nickname was .... but she always treated you well. Poor chap had died by the time she came to visit, you see."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> "What did she remember most ? Well, it was essentially me showing off. We would write to each other in secret, see ? So she told her people she had to go to Tirupati. A promise to the god. With only her kid. I convinced your dad to fund her ticket. Madras to Bangalore, seven and a half rupees one way in the bus. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">She visited me in Bangalore. To see how I had set up an independent house, not in a joint family. I showed off how I was cooking and cleaning and washing and the total mistress of my own, independent place. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The last time we spoke, she was still describing her awe on that visit. To see me run a household! She spoke of her fear that she'd never be able to be that organised, that... grown up!"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Of course we haven't spoken for years. You don't stop loving though. You just love differently. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My mother always saw her as a 5 year old kid with juice smeared over her face.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I always remember her dancing eyes. Describing how she'd call my kid by her husband's name, add cuss words, and pinch. Get her vengeance on the as yet unknown husband for crimes to be determined.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And she remembered my grown up face as I showed her my kitchen.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">See ? We all loved different people. And they stayed with us, though their originals moved out of our lives.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I only felt sad she was alone at the end though. She was always afraid of being alone.I would have held her hand and combed her hair and let her sleep on my lap. She shouldn't have been alone. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">No, I'm not crying. Why would I ? At this age, we are all waiting for an excuse to die. This new thing as good a reason as any. And I told you. She is still talking about her future husband to me, whenever I think of her. And her babies, her plans for them. All I say is, she shouldn't have been alone, and she probably wasn't. She just had to think of me. And so I am not crying."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And so it goes, all you lovely people. The ones who have moved on, the ones who have moved out. You're all still here. And I talk to you often. And in these times, I remember the affection and the laughter and the sheer joy that comes when there is a connection. The songs and the stories, the jokes and the poems.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And then I'm never alone. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-54667245758158095342011-03-07T21:10:00.008+05:302013-06-15T11:35:40.450+05:30On Seeing An Unexpected Online Presence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Much have I dreamt in the days of old,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">And many goodly poems and stories written;</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now by absence of a muse sorely smitten</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">with unspun dreams and stories untold.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sometimes my wide expanse I’d behold</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">and rue the lost emotion that ruled my demesne;</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yet did I continue in vegetation serene</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">until by some chance did her glimpse unfold.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Then felt I like some astrologer wise </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When Ophiuchius swims into his ken;</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Or like stout housewife when with eagle eyes</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">she star'd at new series— and then</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I look'd in the mirror with wild surmise —</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">He still lives, that gent within.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Rusty, but still. Also, profound <a href="http://www.bartleby.com/101/634.html">apologies</a>.</span></div>
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?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-90622682333333811132009-05-17T07:09:00.009+05:302009-05-17T08:25:04.655+05:30Several Hours and Umpteen Days<p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The screech of tyres, the growing knot of people in the middle of the road, drew his attention away from the dappled gold in the green tapestry of trees lining the road. His colleague, till then gabbling inanities about the weekend, went slack-jawed and pasty in shock. He told the driver to carry on to the office and return, and got down in the middle of the slowing traffic.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">It was a young man. Somebody had removed the helmet that was now superfluous, and his face had nothing but a faint surprise in the arch of his brows. The eyes were closed, the breath shallow. Around the knot, the Monday morning traffic eddied and then continued. The 2-3 people who'd stopped were trying to lift him, somebody opening a waterbottle, looking for somebody to take action.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">He flagged a rick down by the expedient of catching a bar as it slowed, and refusing to let go. He flashed a couple of hundreds at the driver, who kept looking terrified and mumbling refusals. He lifted the young man : surprisingly light. He did not know if he still breathed, and didn't care to check. He awkwardly entered the rick, and told him to head for the hospital at the end of the road. The auto weaved nervously in and out of traffic, the driver touching the framed goddess on the dash every now and then. Five minutes, and they were at the hospital.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">He lifted the man gently, walked in, with a sense of relief, laid him on a stretcher in the hallway. People rushed, and thankfully, they began to wheel him without any delay. He fished in the jeans and brought out the usual flotsam of existence : a plastic comb, a licence, a balled up kerchief, a wallet and thankfully, a mobile. New message, it said, and he pressed the button. A smutty SMS opened up, inane jokes meant to cheer up a Monday. He dialled the number, and a voice asked him if he was late. Listen, he said. Main hospital se bol rahaa hoon. Your friend is hurt, badly. Come here immediately, and tell his family. Even to himself, his voice sounded unfeeling. I'm his brother, the voice on the other side quavered. Whatever, get here, he said and cut the connection before realising he hadn't said where. He handed over the phone to the receptionist as it rang again, and she started explaining addresses and locations. She looked at him questioningly, and he pointed to where the stretcher had been. I brought him, he said, give the phone to whoever comes. And he handed over the remainder items. She pulled a pad and began writing down the details. He gave name, showed ID, wrote his address, and came out.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">The rick was still there, and the driver shambled over mumbling. "Bura na manna bhaisaab, subah ka waqt hai, problem mein nahiin phas sakta tha". He nodded, weary in soul. "Bach jaayega ? " He shrugged. He sat in the rick, and the driver, sensing his mood, silently retraced their path. His car awaited him, and he went back to change the dress now specked with blood.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">That evening was one of their companionable silences punctuated by his occasional monologues and her rare replies. He was reflecting on his last translation of Faiz and the one commencing. He startled himself when he suddenly said " Don't say goodbye, OK ? Just leave when you decide to". </span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"Mmmmm ?"</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">He sighed. "No goodbyes</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">", he said. Then realized that she didn't get the context. He started to explain, and trailed off, knowing the futility. "Just this. No goodbyes</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">. Just say going, if you can, and go. Or just go."</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"So you have been thinking about my leaving". </span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">He smiled then; it suddenly struck him as amusing in a way. "Since the day I first spoke to you", he said.</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">"Why? “</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">“Too short a date”, he murmured, but to himself. He felt suddenly tired. I’m sorry, he said. It’s been a long day. </span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">“And what will you do when I go?”</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">He shrugged. Hope is the blanket one pulls over tighter in the far reaches of the night, while the heart knows the silence masks the pain that creeps in soft-footed.</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">“Inko sholon ke rajaz apna pataa toh denge </span></span></span></span></span></span></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Khair, hum tak woh na pahunchein bhi, sadaa toh denge</span></span></span></span></span></span></i></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Duur kitni hai subah, bataa toh denge”</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></o:p></span></i></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">“Mmmm. Translate.”</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">I shall remain unFaized, he was about to say, but checked himself. She was liable to explode at his puns when angry.</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">“We shall send burning verse to tell them of us</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Even if they never come, at least they will call out to us.</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">At least they’ll tell us how far the morning is”.</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Much later, when revisited this favourite of Faiz’s, he realized the problem, the reason that he was unable to let go. He was seeking a defining moment, a goodbye.</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style=" ;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Relationships, unlike rambling poems, do not necessarily end in killer lines.</span></span></span></span></span><br /></span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-1826381279357500472009-04-21T21:56:00.004+05:302009-04-22T07:11:33.873+05:30Slaying Them Softly<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Everywhere, it stares out at you.<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Earlier, I reacted in different ways. For the longest while, I would avoid any contact in that sphere, and if chance did throw me in harm's way, I would fidget and keep away from eye contact. If forced to make conversation, I would be as brief and polite as possible. <br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There was a brief spell of devil may care rudeness, when I decided to make others pay for my awkwardness by being a prig, by pushing them into zones of discomfort.<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am clean and reasonably groomed. My clothes are ironed, even if I mix and match according to what the dhobi has deigned to deliver lately rather than appropriate schemes of colour or pattern. My shoes are mostly shined, unless you have caught me at the end of an impromptu long walk. Or if I'm planning on ending the meeting with one, in which case I'll wear walking shoes a bit worse for the wear. I can speak a decent line or two in English without obvious mistakes. I even watch a movie or two in English now and then, and can discuss with some substance books and music.<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But I am never comfortable with representatives of what I call the Manicured Life. The one that jumps at you out of every serial, ad, magazine. Pastel shades, immaculate houses, perfectly white teeth, nattily casual men with superbly coiffed women. The men are not necessarily handsome, merely shiny and rich. The women who are not beautiful make do with being sexy. If they were merely confined to the ads, one could glance away. But when I meet them in real life, all the minor details start kicking in. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For example, the casual elegance with which they handle the lower classes : drivers, waiters, and such. None of my easy familiarity that so often embarasses. Nor the rigid hauteur which is caricatured in movies. Just that masterful dash of geniality that garnishes the evident command.<br /></span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm now older, if not wiser, and mostly, I do not have issues with The Manicured Life. My own polishing has been more in the nature of a grind, and that leaves its mark. I know that remnants of my awkwardness will always ensure, for example, that I fidget. Past practice will change the usually modulated tone into a harsh desi twang when I speak. I will always end up wearing the shirt just a little bit crumpled, the tie a tad askew. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ah well.They live as they should, and I live as I can, and who's to say which of us is living as we want, says I. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I recently read a lady who had been Photoshopped by a popular woman's mag into a fairer, slimmer avatar, while profiling her as a "woman of substance" (which she most emphatically is, I might add). She wrote about how the media is foisting the illusion of a generic plastic beauty across a diversity of cultures and what it does to a generation of youngsters trying to conform to it. I nodded, reminded of my own angst at not fitting into the shiny lives of people that I thought were "cool". And then, in the course of a restless wandering of a sleepless night, I chanced upon an article in the Guardian, and clicked the youtube link simultaneously. The </span><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/apr/16/britains-got-talent-susan-boyle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">piece </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">is laced with enjoyable invective against Simon Cowell ("buffed to the sheen of an ornamental pebble") and Amanda Holden ("a woman most notable for playing a psychotic hairdresser" and a "flat-packed, hair-ironed, over-plucked monstrous fool" : ) ). <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But it was the video that got me. You've sung "Cry Me A River", and "Killing Me Softly", friend. And that is enough to make most of us who go for the mush keel over. But when you hit the high notes so effortlessly in a song that was written for a posterchild of misfortune in one of the strongest emotional dramas ever, I stood up and cheered. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Perhaps some of your miracle was manufactured. Perhaps they'll lift you and may eventually trash you. They'll make you over or keep you as an icon of their tolerance. The future is unknown, </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Susan Boyle</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> : but today, from a member of the League for Extras and Ordinary Gentlemen, a salute.</span><br /></div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-36855621282690775782009-04-11T16:56:00.010+05:302009-04-12T21:28:28.517+05:30Up Close and Impersonate<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(From the archives, or rather, a temporarily loaned USB drive : )).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I had a momentary qualm, pausing outside the door. Then I shrugged and went in. The room’s cheery décor, more suited to a bright summer morning than the slate grey winter sky that was framed by the enamel windows, did little to quell the twinges inside. She was solicitous, speaking easily, while I was slightly awkward. It had been a while, after all.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><o:p><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">She gestured vaguely. I loosened my tie and went to lie down while she adjusted herself. I looked up at her sitting by me, into those eyes, and she smiled a bit sadly. “You could have come earlier, even last year”, she said, cupping my chin in her hands. I didn’t reply. She ran a loose hand over my forehead, asking me when I’d shifted jobs, and I realized she was trying to put me at ease. I consciously relaxed then, willing away the tension, feeling the tightness in the back give way as the muscles uncoiled. She bent her face to me, and I could see the thin spots of red on her cheeks. The cold, I thought, or perhaps just that touch of rouge. She was almost tender as she lifted my face toward her. As I shut my eyes, I could smell the citrus on her breath, and thought that I much preferred the carbolic acid smell of disinfectant that was more common in clinics.</span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One has none of the usual fears of dentistry. In my experience, they are the people one goes to on a yearly basis and talk politely of how long it has been and don’t you wish we’d meet oftener. Some talk of parietal cavities and whatnots may cause an eyebrow to rise considering the mixed company, but these are modern times after all. This particular visit, however, coming after a while and in the thick of the winter, has left me shaken. The first week after the procedure was blinding pain, and it was after the second sitting that I realized she had been lying when she said that things were going to get better. The alternative, of course, was to pop a painkiller or two. Painkillers have the effect of dropping me down dead until woken up by pain a couple of hours later. Since they expect me to be awake, if not contribute, at the job, one rather avoids the drooping gently bit. Which means 10 hours of pure agony the whole long day. In addition to idiot colleagues asking me if I’ve brushed up on a file or two. Hahaha, in case I didn’t get it, brush, file, hahaha. Even the boss, asking me if I was able to work through and telling me to take it easy. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew, hehehehheh”, he says, exploding in his own mirth like a demented Sidhu.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In other news, have been speaking in tongues. Not really, in other voices, in an attempt to find my own. The success of the originals has been mostly in their inimitable style. But one tries. Thank you, originals, for the inspiration. Here are the results (</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixudKk5fCEbo2na96Wrq6Pxsqn42aN0DHvsPRbWSGEnmFMZUiw-RaFSju5O8V58kdVIN8E1QnOrD4-1CM7-pbdDFLb_RE6jyA5UGMqasCymK1LX9fQtxWt4008vPLz2MaE004G/s1600-h/ma.JPG"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">1</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">,</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLYNbWgN068cQFnoWF0LBKgDvqjPG1vSTSeegC9p56JlSzlFGF2GqxGPKxo0p7Kd0YO83D9GK5HkSNnuUuyFqFrKzLb61Vknv3QEjqv1pXl_V5kmrMyLV2NDW5EijayhPzCMw/s1600-h/KA.JPG"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">,</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTP9iiEQVdebH8-h-9z9olrruw7Z5VldoXppSezUd5FlfbKUyE1OQxsSNK_k4PcN7feJwJzvyTZiYFC8qAQ-rPd9ZCfWqIKU9DtIP3nng5rz-97w_BciwejY_8PqUsNkHbi8B/s1600-h/AV.JPG"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">). (I recommend saving the links before viewing them so you can zoom and scroll easily).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">(Update : Added below as some issue@links).<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixudKk5fCEbo2na96Wrq6Pxsqn42aN0DHvsPRbWSGEnmFMZUiw-RaFSju5O8V58kdVIN8E1QnOrD4-1CM7-pbdDFLb_RE6jyA5UGMqasCymK1LX9fQtxWt4008vPLz2MaE004G/s1600-h/ma.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-i_BrmhrD8ZFNda7bbRJqrLvNPM9vjjinaovdgU6Wsa8k5WERoFIAk1L8Hg2MAbPTD-1ArJmq6jynVHkLjG4X0SQVOG9lHDxTTjqPu0Urh4rfgijbjOqGecFBmycCws5xe4V3/s400/ma.JPG" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323820800959837282" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOLYNbWgN068cQFnoWF0LBKgDvqjPG1vSTSeegC9p56JlSzlFGF2GqxGPKxo0p7Kd0YO83D9GK5HkSNnuUuyFqFrKzLb61Vknv3QEjqv1pXl_V5kmrMyLV2NDW5EijayhPzCMw/s1600-h/KA.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaRke6scKJki_UdqMTZpgIlW51xBPX8sqBr2SJS2Z8LOdN9nCuwA_ewg-6aGOmGVHfX2y5VVHfUFZ6GrlFOmGQNUigqchE0yftMl3ZsiTgHOtlKPOuPSKReOcaZCqAvVQ3urA/s400/KA.JPG" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 84px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323821320832205826" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTP9iiEQVdebH8-h-9z9olrruw7Z5VldoXppSezUd5FlfbKUyE1OQxsSNK_k4PcN7feJwJzvyTZiYFC8qAQ-rPd9ZCfWqIKU9DtIP3nng5rz-97w_BciwejY_8PqUsNkHbi8B/s1600-h/AV.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivoPuVxjiCA3PIeSHyacz12S2gvNkhhjVIk0jZvW8vIhKXIV04taW1bJS1Obf-lOR52XqGaJVYgjwih1wA6iLorCgcDYI4VHwrHPxkR0N_3ZZwFKXyhory2k71_0in1GX7YgyV/s400/AV.JPG" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323826729653304946" /></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><br /></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-17359303092921445642009-02-14T11:37:00.003+05:302009-02-14T11:42:35.398+05:30A Tale of Two Cities<div id=":15u" class="ArwC7c ckChnd"> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The ice cubes in the glass rattled as he drained the last of the clear liquid with a grimace. I politely raised my own glass as he stood up, though it just contained water. "Vodka, life", he said, and smiled as he left. "Votka, the unvoiced k at the end modifies the pronunciation", I said automatically to his back. Another flight took off from the airport nearby, the gleaming metal tube with brightly lit window slits booming unnervingly close. And suddenly the sentence and the noise took me back a long time ago.</span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">It was in a coffee shop in that city near the airport, bright lights and Paul Mauriat playing unobtrusively to the gentle clink of silver on china. <span> </span>We both knew that goodbyes were impending, and that what we'd shared was but a piece of time stolen from our respective worlds. Goodbyes should be brief, you said, and we both smiled at the reference. <span> </span>As always when under stress, I hummed softly. "I'm the truth you'll never know, I'm the place you'll never go". <span> </span>You joined in, "I'm the song you'll never hear, I'm the course you'll never steer". <span> </span>A few of the sparse 3 AM crowd looked incuriously at the two of us, and you smiled "But I thought you were more of a vodka man". <span> </span>I grinned. "Votka, the unvoiced k at the end modifies the pronunciation".<span> </span></span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span> </span>That was the city where I once enveloped you in my arms. This is the city where I open my arms wide and wider, wider to encompass your presence in my world.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where we walked on the roads late at night, laughing as we tried to hold hands and yet jump across the puddles. This is the city where I walk into potholes uncaring, lost in your thoughts.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where the roar of the early morning locals and the newspaper vans belted out an aubade before the sun's accusing rays sought proof of our hidden tryst. This is the city where the moon casts merciful shadows on the emptiness everywhere.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where I once sang to you dreadfully out of tune, and this is the city where music brings you to life.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where you once spoke at such length that you complained your throat was sore. This is the city where your silence is the subtext of every conversation I hold.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where your gossamer fingers once soothed me. This is the city where the liquid caress of your memory startles me as I drift into sleep.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where I once traced songs of love across your back. This is the city where I paint landscapes of my solitude in the inky blackness of the night.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where hope once fluttered like a page in the breeze settling down. This is the city where I crumple pages full of writing. </span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">That was the city where we were lovers.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">This is the city where I fell in love.</span></p> <p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">One city a figment of imagination that has never quite faded, and the other a reality that has never completely dawned. </span></p> </div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-40916162569684160872009-01-08T12:08:00.008+05:302009-01-10T19:51:44.549+05:30Even These Least<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Note : Normal programming resumes soon. Really, I mean, Hopefully).<br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The past few weeks have been about conversations about helping, about parents and about the usual bleeding heart stuff. </span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A brief background. The details are unimportant. Still. An old lady, probably about 65, relatively kempt, carrying about 10 + in cash, enough for her to get mugged. Leaving out details of how I came across her, I realised she was disoriented and unfit to take care of herself, shivering in the cold and rambling. I took her to a nearby place, put in some food into her and probed a bit more. She had medical papers identifying her as a patient for some heart/BP whatever problems and as a depressive. One doc had noted a tendency to skip medication. She is now in a hotel in Delhi, running out of money. My efforts for her were mostly ineffectual. Thankfully, somebody far more effective and formidably networked has taken charge, and while a solution is not in sight, at least people are doing their best. A son, a businessman in a relatively affluent portion of Delhi has shown no interest. The daughter is abroad, and is aware of the situation. Efforts are in hand to make her help. </span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The lady, like most old ladies, can easily get on your nerves. She is clinically depressed and launches into long rambling tales about her life :how sweet a person her daughter is , her evil son. She has no one to talk to and hence any audience is welcome. Her kids (daughter, as son is not contactable) claim that she has been a patient very many years, is obstinate, has in fact driven her husband to suicide, is an alcoholic ... and doesn't deserve their help.</span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'll not get into a debate about how much (or not) we are to put in towards parents. I'll only paraphrase one of the most balanced,equable (and happy:)) persons I know:-</span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I will not compromise the person I am to give them their happiness...'cause there are so </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">many ways to keep them happy. Don't focus on 'how much they have done' to do what you have to do. If you tot up that balance sheet, and it is in your favour, you feel like crap, and if it is in theirs, you end up feeling a righteous saint and wearing a halo. They don't owe you anything, they did the best they could. You don't owe them anything better, you just do the best you can." </span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It is the portion about "not deserving" that really stabs at me. In my lights, you don't help somebody because they "deserve it". </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You help because you can</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Judging the recipient is an injury to the spirit of giving. I only glance occasionally at Heather's blog, but I was impressed by </span><a href="http://www.dooce.com/2008/10/09/rhetorical-question"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">this post</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> both for the story and for the detailed discussion that follows in the comments. </span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So this gent rings up, downcast. He was asked for a voluntary project (having undertaken such before), for a most deserving cause. He is already stressed, these are bad times, but hell, how can I refuse ... I replied on the same lines : You don't owe anything, just do the best you can. Just as you don't bother if they "deserve it", don't flagellate yourself for not doing as much as they need. You'll end up merely hurting yourself, or worse, resenting them and a bad example for someone else who might be tempted to help.</span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm not a bleeding heart, by a long shot. I could blame time and space and life, or perhaps it never was in me. I really don't know. Moral <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Triage">triage</a> is something every person carries out on a daily basis, navigating through the million abrasions of the daily grind. Constrained by my own needs, I can and do walk off from situations and places without necessarily feeling heart-broken. What is amazing, however, is that there always </span><a href="http://www.geeta-kavita.com/hindi_sahitya.asp?id=92"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">seems to be somebody</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> who cares.</span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Magar vishwaas ko apne bachaaye kaun baitha hai ?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Andheri raat mein deepak jalaaye kaun baitha hai ?<br /></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But w</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ho is this who has kept his faith alive? / Who has lit a lamp in this dark night ? <br /></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">These are cold, cold times, dear heart. Maybe they are merely lamps, giving a feeble light; maybe they aren't able to warm anything except a few hearts. But I see plenty of people around me doing the most unlikely things. The alpha-Punjabi, super-cynical gent in the office who carries strips of biscuit packs in his car, handing them out at the lights to the people who walk up. Even more unbelievable, his daughter who was once in the car and said namaste to them . The middle-class lady wrapped up in a shawl at Sector 8 RK Puram market the other day, buying a plate of steaming hot momos, depositing it in front of the shivering wretch on the roadside and walking off without a word. People who, on a larger scale, are trying to do something, anything that will make at least one more person happy, one more person safe. People like </span><a href="http://projectwhy.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Anuradha Bakshi</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and </span><a href="http://www.johnsseniorcitizens.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bessie Mathew</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. I wouldn't know just how they became this way. Perhaps what the king says in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Glass-Palace-Novel-Amitav-Ghosh/dp/0375758771">The Glass Palace</a> is true ... that there is a life force that takes over.</span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"... </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Karuna -One of the Buddha's words, Pali for compassion, for the immanence of all </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">living things in each other, the attraction of life for its likeness. A time will come, he told </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">the girls, when you too discover what this word karuna means, and from that moment on </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="WHITE-SPACE: pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">your lives will never again be the same".</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"></div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-76857857932382681142008-12-02T22:58:00.006+05:302008-12-05T19:11:04.930+05:30It's Hip to be Hypocritical<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Travelling around the country gives you a window into disparate viewpoints. Train journeys were the best: they afforded the opportunity to get into the viewpoints over an extended period.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">While flights are inherently much more snobbish, random snatches of conversation between fellow travelers are still very interesting, since the babudom mostly pretty much insulates me from overtly political viewpoints.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And here, lads and lasses, intellectuals and pack-asses, is mine own struck-by- the-blindingly-obvious conclusion : there ain’t nothing like a good disaster for us to come slavering to the carrion. So this post merely details what was left unsaid by this good babu to the people of Bharat that is </span></span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">India</span></span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, over the past week or so.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#1 These bastid terrorists! Killing innocents! Targeting foreigners!</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“… eight tracksuit-clad Black September members carrying </span></span><span style="text-decoration:none; text-underline:nonecolor:windowtext;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">duffel bags</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> loaded with </span></span><span style=" text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonecolor:windowtext;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">AK-47</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> assault rifles, </span></span><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonecolor:windowtext;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Tokarev pistols</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, and grenades scaled a two-meter chain-link fence”.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Munich_massacre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">26 years ago</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">No, we called them freedom fighters then, they were not targeting us. What was that about sowing a wind ?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#2 Everything about the Pakis rings false. Even their denials are so wishy-washy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“… when he first heard of these events, the official spokesman of the Ministry for External Affairs said: "The act resulting in this tragedy was senseless and condemnable. It remains so, whatever the disappointments and frustration leading to it. There is no justification for dragging terrorism into the arena of sports. </span></span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">India</span></span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">'s support for the Arab cause is well known, as we believe that justice is on their side.”</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#3 I bet “they” bloody enjoy it inwardly, regardless of what you hear about them criticizing it in public.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“"Bajrangi: It was a huge pit… You could enter it from one side but you</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">couldn't climb out at the other end… They were all there together…They started clinging to each other… Even while they were dying, they told each other, you die too, … so the number of deaths increased.… There were bodies everywhere… it was a sight to be seen, but it wasn't something to be filmed, in case it got into someone's hands… There was a video-wala there, some mediawala, we set him on fire too…"</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Q:How do you feel after you have killed …<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Bajrangi: Maza aata hai na, saheb [I enjoy it]… I came back after I killed them then, called up the home minister and went to sleep… I felt like Rana Pratap, that I had done something like Maharana Pratap…I'd heard stories about him, but that day I did what he did myself."<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Before you go to town about virgin-dreaming brainwashed terrorists ...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><a href="http://in.youtube.com/watch?feature=related&v=mfnTl_Fwvbo"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">here</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> is our </span></span><a href="http://www.tehelka.com/story_main35.asp?filename=Ne031107After_killing.asp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">home-grown article</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span></div></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> #4 Having the BJP in power/something draconian like POTA will automatically reduce the terrorism.</span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> Like having a rabid dog loose might help in combating stray dog menace. Till he bites you, that is. Akshardham. Parliament House. Yawn. IC 814. In fact, to stretch things back, guess who was part of the ruling coalition when somebody exchanged terrorists for darling daughter Rubiya ? Right. As far as POTA goes, its like saying the death penalty reduces crime. It is actually worse, since the death penalty occasionally is used for criminals. POTA has the record of having only ever being misused. BTW, seen Modi’s record in preventing blasts in his state ?</span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> #5 Goddam the media ! Politicos, insensitive bloody vultures! Empty bombast!</span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Err…Everybody has an agenda. Some like Modi were obvious. Some like the Bharti/Indian ad was underplayed, just right.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Whereas </span></span><a href="http://shobhaade.blogspot.com/2008/11/wake-up-mumbai.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">this lady</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, with her howls of “ We won’t stand by. We will fight. Politicians get lost” etc merely made a lot of noise. What do you intend to do, ma’am ? I have so many snide remarks to make, I feel positively Gandhian at not making them. For the record, sir, I support </span></span><a href="http://www.hindustantimes.com/StoryPage/FullcoverageStoryPage.aspx?id=e2e484fa-5734-4ecf-8249-015eddff7df3Mumbaiunderattack_Special&&Headline=BJP+distances+itself+from+Naqvi's+'lipstick'+remark"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">you</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">BTW, all those howls about the Taj … a driver in Mumbai summed it up best. “saala koi bhi CST mein marne waalon ko nahiin poocha. Local party thi toh kya ? </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">unka khoon khoon, hamara khoon coca-cola ?”</span></span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#6 Hell. If only this was phoren, it wouldn’t have happened.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Be clear. Your reactions will get better. Your intelligence will need to get a lot, lot, better. There ain’t any way this could have been prevented by policing, however. Read what every security expert the world over says.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#7 This is a national shame. It’s the single biggest thing to have ever hit </span></span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">India</span></span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Uhuh. It is the most publicized, maybe. Single biggest shame ? Check these out, as easily googled.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><a href="http://www.hinduonnet.com/2008/09/30/stories/2008093058040100.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#</span></a><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“My appeals to the policemen who were standing nearby and watching only resulted in further beating. At one point the nun slipped away to plead with the police for help but she was dragged back by the mob and her blouse torn,” he said. The nun was gang raped in a nearby building, and he was doused with kerosene by the mob, which threatened to set him on fire.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span><a href="http://www.pucl.org/Topics/Religion-communalism/2003/who-are-guilty.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#</span></span></a><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“With cans of petrol they went round the localities and systematically set fire to Sikh houses, shops and gurudwaras. We were told by the local eye witnesses in all the area we visited, that well know Congress (I) leaders and workers (their names are to be found in Annexure-I) led and directed the arsonists and that local cadres of the Congress (I) identified the Sikh houses and shops.</span></span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style=" ;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> “</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 16px; "><a href="http://www.desivideos.net/2008/02/05/face-the-nation-whos-mumbai-is-it-discussions/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">#</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The taxi drivers say they are being targeted for being northerners.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="txt" style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 9.4pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 6.25pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 12.5pt; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“We have to ply taxis and get the beatings to fill our stomachs,” says taxi driver Ashok Kumar. Another taxi driver, Anil Kumar, adds, “We haven't come 1500 km to fight with anyone.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="txt" style="text-align: justify;margin-top: 9.4pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 6.25pt; margin-left: 0in; line-height: 12.5pt; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Apart from 100 other such instances.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Seller V, people. The good thing is, that though IPL and such like will get cancelled, there is always Bigg Bossss 2 or something to divert us. Scusez while I head for the remote. </span></span><br /></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-88138370717210433302008-08-26T22:23:00.002+05:302008-08-27T06:25:20.414+05:30Lone Star<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Serendipity. <span style=""> </span>A lovely word, with a beautiful etymological background to it. Perhaps it is but natural that serendipity led me to her blog. A chance set of remarks on a now forgotten site introduced me to her, and I must confess that I started with a negative attitude: I had been irked by something she’d said and not content with muttering to myself, wrote a frigid mail. She replied back with a puzzled civility, wondering why I had mailed.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">By then I had skimmed her blog, and was impressed by both her easy erudition and range of topics. A series of exchanges later, we started talking, and it was then that I committed the first of a series of gaffes. We were discussing ethnic heritages and the importance of retaining an ethnic identity, even if chauvinism of a particular language was not acceptable. I asserted that I was diligently assimilating my Telugu roots. I asked her about her background, and was secretly pleased to see that she was a non-resident Telugu like myself. She casually tossed off a series of Telugu literature-based allusions, all of which I was blissfully ignorant of. She casually mentioned her father, and I ignored it as I blathered on about how she must be out of touch with her roots etc. Upon which she asked, not without some amusement, just exactly how much of my cultural enthusiasm translated into actual intelligence. Thankfully, a sixth sense told me to blurt out the exact truth: i.e, that all I didn’t know about the subject would fill several libraries. She laughingly said that she’d suspected as much, when I showed no reaction at the mention of her father, who was one of the foremost literary figures of the century.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">That exchange also set the pattern of many of our talks : I would blunder into a new area of inexpertise with total enthusiasm, and she would benevolently let me go on making a fool of myself almost till the very end and then step in with a smile. I remember telling her in sepulchral tones about how difficult it was to write : oh, not her little asides, but serious writing, and the travails of a professional author. She was full of respectful noises. It was not long before I discovered that she’d published her first book of poems at 18. In her typical self-deprecatory fashion, she pooh-poohed any praise of her writing, but she sent translations of her Telugu poems, and I discovered first hand just how complex her thought processes were. I bragged about a poem I’d written with a crossword clue embedded in it, only to discover that eminent crossword setters were amongst her acquaintances, and that she routinely solved Guardian prize crosswords that I could only shake my head at.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""> </span>I sent her long mails of ideas about writing and demanded that she read my entire blog, from the first post onward, and send me detailed comments (by which I meant praise). She lavished praise, and while her criticism was unerring, it was also gentle and coddled in enough warmth for it not to hurt. I continually badgered her about every conceivable topic in music and literature, and she never tired of answering me. <span style=""> </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Over a year, she stuck by me while I swung between periods of dark depression, utter inebriation, wild elation and sheer cussedness. I demanded that she like all my friends and she assented. I informed her that I detested all of hers and she would dutifully agree that I showed excellent taste. I would type in ten lines to each of hers ignoring her interruptions, and then blame her for not responding enough. Always tolerant, she would only send me more mails about her day and her ideas. I would cascade puns, each increasingly wilder, till she would cringe and beg me to stop. I would make increasingly extravagant statements, sometimes sexist, sometimes just plain stupid, to prod her out of her prim manner and make it increasingly difficult for her to maintain her cool. Finally, just as she began to declaim in acerbic tones her opinion of my faculties, I would stop her in mid-spate and tell her I was only joking. She would splutter and swear that she would never talk to me again. </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">She never stopped.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""> </span>I demanded attention and received huge doses of affection. </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">She insisted that I play Scrabble, a game I’d never played before. But it isn’t rocket science, exactly, I sneered at her. She proceeded to …no, really, this hurts, but she whipped me for the first 50 odd games that we played. We’d start a new game every time one finished, and despite my best efforts, I just could not seem to win. I was winning games with assorted strangers, even those with high ratings, but it seemed I just couldn’t beat her.<span style=""> </span>There were games I’d coast along, inwardly telling myself that this was IT, and then she’d come out with a bingo when no tiles were left, leaving me cursing on the sidelines of a new game. The first game I beat her was when a mutual friend interceded to tell her that continually losing like this was sapping my self-esteem. She promptly lost a game, and chided me for browbeating a woman in this manner. Look, I said. Either I won, in which case it is a bit of a boost to the old ego, or you liked me enough to make me look good and win. In which case it is a MAJOR boost to the old ego. Any which way, I was a winner, chivalry be damned. To the end, I never knew if the 2-3 wins amongst the scores of games we played were gifts from her to pep me up when I was unusually subdued or whether I actually bested her.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">You are now preparing for a last journey alone, my friend. You have far too many things unfinished, amongst them teaching me the Telugu heritage I now may never learn, teaching me music, teaching me about crosswords, and singing the song you translated for me. No, you never promised me any of those things, but on the other hand I’ve always made promises on your behalf and you’ve never let me down. I should be sad at your leaving, but as usual I am grumpy at goodbyes. Don’t be stupid, I seem to hear you remark. This idiot, however, always had the sense to know how lucky he was to come across you and thank you for it. </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Once when it seemed I must cut off all contact for a while, I quoted lines that appeared to explain why we, random strangers who never once met,<span style=""> </span>shared such a deep and instinctive bond. You not only found one of my favourite poems, but replied with lines from them that were much more apt. I repeat them today, my belief in them multiplied manifold<span style=""> </span>:-</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">"Like the stars that gem the sky,<br />Far apart, though seeming near,<br />In our light we scattered lie;<br />All is thus but starlight here."</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">With respect, warmth and lots of love, <a href="http://lalitalarking.blogspot.com/">Lalita</a>. Always a star.</span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-47532910726202823772008-07-13T10:32:00.002+05:302008-07-13T10:35:13.567+05:30How Will He Know<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">“Blaupunkt”, I said, as she braked at the light, and she looked at me quizzically.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We both were in different wings of the same organisation. Passing acquaintances, casual hellos exchanged in corridors and an occasional conversation about inanities when we happened to meet over a cup of tea.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Then I went to another place on deputation for three months, and she came there a week later on transfer. Thrown together in a new place, we interacted more, though our official circles still did not intersect. I was relatively better off, having many old friends there, and I could introduce her to them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We hit it off well: it was gratifying to have a pretty girl several years younger laugh at my jokes, and I enjoyed her company well enough. She was grateful at having somebody to break the ice in a new place, and for company walking up and down the hills.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We really started talking on those long walks. About the different paths our lives had taken. I told her about my worlds of books and music, she told me about how she had always marched in determined fashion through life. She tut-tutted about my haphazard method of letting life swirl around me, and I smiled (only, inwardly, though) about her earnest plans.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“Navi Mumbai, maybe, or Pune”, she said. “I don’t like Mohali”. We were talking one day about where one would settle after a lifetime spent shunting around according to the caprices of faceless puppeteers. “I’d like an independent house, even if it is very small, rather than a flat. I want a garden, and a swing for the kids”. I asked her if she had the colour scheme mapped out, and she seriously considered the question before seeing the smile in my eyes. “One has to plan”, she said crossly. I went ahead on the path, and looked out over the Ghats. “Door gagan ki chaaon mein”, I said. Or to quote another song, Somewhere, out there …. She again bemoaned my lack of definite plans, what she (adding with due respect) called my woolly-headedness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We sat down, legs dangling over the edge. Life happens, I told her. And all your piety nor wit , etc etc. So it’s best to roll with the punches during the spats and dance when the music is on. No plans to encumber me, I said. I’m flexible. Throw a situation at me and I’ll face it. Or duck it, I’m no hero. I’m no fatalist, I said. But thinking about the future is not about making a map, but about packing your rucksack with wit and brains and a sense of humour, not to mention a healthy resistance to disappointment. Look at the present, see your needs and if they can be satisfied, hey, you’re happy for now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Not at all, she said. And spouted the usual self-help book phrases about self-determination. Tcha, and I suppose you’ve got it all pat, I said. Two kids, and a house in Navi Mumbai, and you can come for lunch if you behave yourself, she rattled off. Don’t forget the swing, I said, and be sure that you have fresh lime for the vodka. Since you are all for the planned life, I said. She made a face, and we got up to return. She whipped out a snap. This is the gent I’m going to marry, she said. “Does he know yet ?”, I asked, and she smiled. “He will”.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">That was one of the last times we went for a walk together; my spell there soon ended and I went on. We didn’t keep in touch, except for a sporadic (and unanswered) New Year e-mail or a Diwali one. Mutual acquaintances gave news about one to the other. She’d been through some very tough times, for a while her world seemed to collapse about her ;I arranged my life in a not-so-haphazard manner.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">When I met her here, after the better part of a decade, she was reserved, and I was tentative, coming to a strange place in a state of flux. She was giving me a lift to the office, making small talk about the landmarks enroute. I pointed out where a kindly soul had taken me out to dinner the previous evening. So tell me about life, she said, suddenly. So yours worked out after all, I said. Even if the gent took some time. What do you want now, she asked, and I mused over the question in silence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“Blaupunkt”, I said, and she looked at me. “ When I went out last evening, the guy received a call on his mobile, only it wasn’t on his mobile. His car stereo was Bluetoothed to the phone, and it cut off the FM and cut in the phone call, he spoke as he drove and then the radio resumed. I thought it was pretty neat. I want that car stereo and that phone”. She laughed then, and it was a signal of return to the old companionability. It’s probably Mohali now, she said. And probably only one kid, but soon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I kept a straight face and asked, “Does he know ?”</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“He will”, she smiled, and put the car into gear as the light changed.</span></div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-16582822352316959792008-07-13T10:17:00.006+05:302008-07-13T10:34:35.783+05:30As Beer As It Gets<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">In Stephen King's rites of passage novella "The Body", there is a part where one of the kids asks the others if it is right to be having fun when they are trekking to see a dead body. The others agree, but then the fun part takes over again.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I didn't want to laugh too much when I saw <a href="http://www.wmctv.com/global/video/flash/popupplayer.asp?vt1=v&clipFormat=flv&clipId1=2667012&at1=News&h1=Murder%20Investigation%20%287-7-08%29&rnd=89672557">this </a>either, considering that it IS,after all,a murder that is the news. But listen to the 2nd witness (there is a spelling mistake there, methinks) talk : no WAY you can be serious about that.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">And then read <a href="http://boobsinjuriesanddrpepper.blogspot.com/2008/07/contest.html#comments">this</a>, to find out various versions of what she said.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">(Somebody has just managed an Internet connection, and has WAY too much time on his hands ! )</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Welcome home to myself : )</span>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-49254879020052803162008-07-06T13:41:00.003+05:302008-07-06T14:12:28.016+05:30Darkness On The Edge of Town<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">He sat easily on the edges of the group, letting the standard shop-talk flow about him. The sweat on the tracksuit chilling in the evening breeze began to feel clammy on the still hot flesh. He idly noted random muscles in the shoulders and calves twitching as the weariness of the day gradually unwound. A plane went by overhead, impossibly low, and he followed its reflection in the pool, dark metal body undulating in the gentle ripples.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">“Orange juice ?” cackled one of the guys. “Hey, what plans for the weekend, man ?”</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">The weekend, he thought. He heard the muted strains of the music and recognized the lines. Plans for what, he wanted to ask. For the weekend is the houri with dancing eyes and painted lips displayed fleetingly with a swish of diaphanous veils and you unwillingly follow the beckoning finger</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""> </span>(<i style="">Why does the sun go on shining)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">And you know why there are birthdays and that some eyes crinkle when they smile and how people come to believe in miracles and that some things are said without having to put them into words and what the blue in the sky stands for</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""> </span>(<i style="">Why does the sea rush to shore)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">And then there are promises of the future and the joys of the present and you are carried along the swirling edges of the whirlpool, faster and faster</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""> </span>(<i style="">Why do the birds go on singin)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Till you are sucked into the abyss where all dreams fade <span style=""> </span>to black , where the frenzied channels lapse into the tired re-runs and you are lying with the malignant rictus of that hag, Sunday afternoon, leering at you and you know why all love stories end in the past tense and that even magic has a sell by date and why<span style=""> </span>you clutch at the haft of the knife that is embedded in your heart and the truest things are hardest to tell and that if it had not been for religion and alcohol and the cicatrices of lingering relationships,<span style=""> </span>oblivion would have descended on the world a long while ago</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style=""> </span>(<i style="">Why do the stars glow above).<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">And he feels the madness building up and that curtain of blackness drop just behind his eyelids, the stage where you crook a finger and ask him to bring over a double, then two, threefourfive and then …</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><i style="">(Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world)</i></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">He blinks a little uncertainly, like a man emerging into sudden sunshine, and says “Weekend ? Nothing, bro. Just catch up on some sleep, I thought”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-66915031995228555162007-12-30T22:19:00.000+05:302008-12-10T22:37:05.921+05:30With Or Without Use<span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">People don’t die, unfortunately, when the hope dies within them.</span></span><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>You can hear each beat inside the emaciated ribcage of the beggar child at the traffic signal asking if this window is going to roll down, feel the missed beat as the driver looks away or mutters a curse. It starts with this extreme sensitiveness to the daily parade of hopes and fears. Living with each nerve ending exposed, you are keen to each nuance of every person you come across. Someone doesn’t acnowledge you, you feel it as a stab to the heart. You see clearly the meanness in the actions of those you supposed to be fair, and you feel soiled by their perfidy. You see clearly the pettiness that results from the fear in the other man, and you are not enraged, but merely saddened by the degradation of the soul. You hear a tinge in someone’s voice, you read between the lines in a conversation, and it clenches the heart in a cold grip that chills every vestige of warmth. Your own troubles begin to assume a disproportionate importance as auguries of a bigger fate, strands of a faded tapestry of dreams. And then, somewhere, the last flame of hope is exuitnguished, and there is almost a relief , a welcoming of the cold after the heat of despairing batle, of the darkness that envelops.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>The coldness causes a detachment, a stepping out of the self. One then stands apart, watching the self flail in futility at nebulous windmills. The troubles pile up, but the detachment also causes them to shrink in significance, just another set of broken threads as hurtful and as remote as others. Shorn of an identity as a person, you stand as an observer, watching the self flounder along further and further into trouble.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Of course, one doesn’t sink in lassitude. As the outside world screams at your doorstep, one seeks to drown out those voices in frenetic activity. Hundreds of mindless computer games. Scrabble. Reading random books. With the inner core lost, you seek to validate your existence, your importance by convoluted logic : by hurting people who matter. I can hurt them, so I must be. By grabbing, by crossing lines. They give in, so I must matter. The detached self watches as you degrade yourself, noting with passing interest the bridges that are being burnt.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">As you watch, personal life and work both develop scenarios where the point of no return is imminent. Without any particular interest, you wonder what would happen if the self was allowed to continue its pointless way to perdition. An impersonal interest with which one sees the bright red lines blossom on your hands, the distanced yet enthralled attention that you pay to the slow numbness as oxygen deprivation begins when you settle at the bottom of the pool. And always there is that idea, that small voice, that impels you to see it through to the end this time. To let it all go, to seek possibly an oblivion that attracts more than any picturebook heaven would.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>And then, almost reluctantly, one is drawn back into the vortex of the turmoil. Suddenly you are back in yourself, and there is no time for regret or remonstrance. And all else is forgotten as one concentrates on retrieving situations, on stepping back from the brink, on chipping away industriously at the masses of big and small issues that have piled up.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">And then the confining walls have been razed to the foundations, and there is only the small voice asking if it would have been better to let all end this time, assuring that next time, one would slide on, one would let go, next time …<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Walking away with the crisis resolved for the nonce, there is a sign that lifts your heart. You press on in wet sand in the gathering twilight. And now the moon is out, the sands are an expanse of powdery silver, </span><span lang="EN-GB">and </span><span lang="EN-GB">the waves that hit the rocks dissolve into shards of glass that abrade the last detritus of depression away. A slow joy </span><span lang="EN-GB">awakens </span><span lang="EN-GB">at the beauty of the world that has people who do care , a spark that re-ignites.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXFSTD7Q6oRng2zU45P3IxkE5IeVrVlBt-ZnKkCjTkVJ7DyWc-oTV0zbXd1XjSi8ViYTR956ppkdpEYXpzr-laSnG3CfFv35-HMq7lgTMy3npJ9k2Y1K9T2829hyphenhyphenP7R8zlZIke/s1600-h/Mukammal.gif"><span lang="EN-GB">People don’t die, fortunately, when the hope dies within them.</span></a></span></p> <br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/MELE/Desktop/Writing/Mukammal.gif" alt="" />?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-11991601517028994152007-10-15T03:00:00.000+05:302007-10-15T06:45:11.248+05:30The strands in your eyes<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Your number on the phone stares back at me. Should I call ? Will you be there ?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">What did we talk about, in those meandering conversations ? Remniscences of the past, details of the present. Sharing vignettes of a life even as it ebbed and flowed by us, converstations that stretched. Till the nitty-gritties of a life were but interregnums in the connect, to be given short shrift while we sought to pick up the threads from where we’d left off. I could never run out of topics, not while your stories remained untold. Not while I found pleasure in the most mundane of your details, in marvelling at the way you navigated what seemed vicious shoals. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I now recollect that I once thought of the patterns of dappled sunlight on a wooden floor while we talked. Of someone practicing scales that seemed to fall in glistening pieces on the floor, melting in the warmth of an afternoon sun filtered through flower-patterned curtains. The sound of your voice is an abiding memory, but of the mist that covered the peaks in the early morning rather than the details of the landscape down below, for I recollect your voice without quite remembering what it was you said. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"> I start with surprise, and then realize that a desperate mind is trying to tell a heart the soothing lie that a random voice is yours. I see arms in the familiar gesture of smoothing back your hair, and I wonder if that tendril is still as obstinate as ever. I once went through a phase where you filled every crevice in the consciousness that was not already occupied by the debris of existence. Now is the time for you to visit, for I have split myself asunder, creating a palace of solitude for you, with a hut of the remnants being reserved for the bits and pieces of the daily grind. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">You have no idea, you often said, and though I protested, it was true. For my writings were but the treasures of a beachcomber wandering where waves of your voice carried magical pieces of flotsam onto the shores of my heart, and now he waits in vain for the tide to roll in again. And in the meantime, he is loth to move on to another shore, for he carries with him the burden of unsaid words that the tide was to sweep away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">For there are so many of them, the unsaid words. I have yet to tell you of the tiff with the younger one, and the gaffe I committed with a well-meaning acquaintance. There is the story which you must listen to with sympathy, for I am too afflicted to be proud. Another which I know that I will rue telling you, for you will laugh. But with the tinkle in your voice that will make me see the silly side of it too, and so it will be alright. This one I know I must not tell you, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">for you will belabour me with it for a long time to come</span><span style="font-size:130%;">,but I will . The dream I had of sitting next to you in a car in the road adjoining the runway, of sipping lukewarm wine in waist-high grass while around us the planes soared, and the moonlight fell about us in casacading sheets of remonstrance, awaits your chiding for being absurd. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"> I had nothing but the mundane to offer you, and yet the lightness of spirit that came with the shedding of words was great. Now the words tumble out faster than I can stuff them back, and yet the tide does not come.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"> I now sit and type incoherent words that lack the uniting strands of your thoughts. And the screen reflects a pallid light on my countenance, for it is in these early hours that I have spoken most to you. The morning will soon come, and I shall sit in the hovel and attempt to arrange the odds and ends of an existence, a sentinel to that empty cavernous edifice of the heart that awaits your arrival.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Your number on the phone stares back at me. I call, and you aren’t there. Perhaps you never were.</span><br /></div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-58664512887850428252007-09-20T12:05:00.000+05:302008-12-10T22:37:06.291+05:30Small Mercies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxN9Zy-EG3oqFhpGBKf-VtLX52HXhyiO3RCanWa3GCIMADoDCly_13G7_c6-O8gLEhNQFq9yqTOOv1TKMvSmD3CZlX7AAfziDbhMq2cFwEvz6fsqta2Up8D_mSJA2CKeB4DG6G/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxN9Zy-EG3oqFhpGBKf-VtLX52HXhyiO3RCanWa3GCIMADoDCly_13G7_c6-O8gLEhNQFq9yqTOOv1TKMvSmD3CZlX7AAfziDbhMq2cFwEvz6fsqta2Up8D_mSJA2CKeB4DG6G/s400/untitled.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112173648661437666" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg649cjeEY0RJDSETDJD27HbVr6hqGCdfS4-J5iQ8Fy1JMKtMqNJq3jmSsoWuVVCcrMDJPt5aV9jYWr5Lp10RINe5xSjgA8htDGCynjYU90-fwECjJ7JzTYHuqtfAjkFuBq8RI6/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><br /></a>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-53195415497129565732007-08-18T23:28:00.001+05:302007-08-18T23:51:14.420+05:30It's a Wonderful Life<div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">The air conditioner shut itself off with a rattle. From across the tinted glass of the cabin came the distant but unmistakable hush of the surf. The PA’s fan next door emitted its periodic whine of an awry bearing, and I willed myself to concentrate on it, anything to visibly shut myself off from the woman trying to compose herself on the other side of the table. Gradually her sobs died out, and I looked at her again.<br /><br />“He’s not a bad man, actually”, she said. “He never used to blow up his money on liquor or beat me up, at least not as often as some of his mates in the quarters”. I nodded, trying to reconcile her defence of the man with the stark reality of the three laminated cards lying on the table. Three cards, different names, the same photograph, of the woman in front of me. Blood donor cards, since one card could not be used more often than once in 15 days. Or rather, the cards she used to sell her blood.<br /><br />“He just left. We are still in the town quarters, and he has rented a house in the village here”, she said. The girls’ college was paid for, she said. But the milkman and the bus tickets and the gas and the vegetables and the rice was now so costly, and she therefore decided to sell blood… she almost sobbed again, then contained herself with an effort. “Life saar, we have to do something no”. And now the woman was falling ill, she was afraid that she could no longer sell enough blood to support two daughters and herself any longer. She had heard the saab could speak the language, and so …<br /><br />I called for the driver, and told him tersely to put some food into her and drop her back to the bus stand for the city, a 2 km walk that she had undertaken, alternately ranting and crying her way through the occasional guards and officials who attempted to stop her. He came back to report that she had packed the lunch he bought her, presumably to carry back to the girls.<br />________________________________________________________________<br /><br />“Fireman, leading hand, means a pay of around 5 thousand”, he said, chewing his paan with some relish. “But these people, saar knows… they take all sorts of loans, and end up with just around enough to survive. Do not involve, saar, all worthless people. Must have found somebody to live with in the village, the dog. The tribal bitches out here will fuck for a handful of rice.” Given my unfamiliarity with the worker-related issues, I had asked around, and the local union rep had paid a visit. I asked him a few questions, and he categorically squashed my plans. “Cannot attach pay saar”, he said, shaking his head vigorously. “Need court order, and for that file petition. Too long”. He rose, and motioning me to wait, went outside. A noisy expectoration of spittle hit the flowerpot, and he came back picking his teeth with a matchstick. The break seemed to have made up his mind. He leaned close, and I could smell the sickly sweetness of the paan on his breath. “One way, saar. If you say so, I’ll arrange for small accident. A hand or leg fracture, only, nothing serious permanent type. Disability pay, goes straight to family, saar”. He leaned back with a complacent look. I stuttered and then shouted. “Don’t misunderstand me saar. It is not something we do every time. Generally we don’t interfere. And then mostly the threat works. But this chap… once in two three years a case comes where we have to do something saar. Life, saar, all sorts of things required. And then saar has taken a personal interest in the matter, I’ll have to take care of the bastard no ? ”<br />I escorted him with reassurances that I would definitely ask for his help and took a promise that he would not proceed till I asked.<br /></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">___________________________________________________________________</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I stopped at the panshop and bought a pack of cigarettes. Driving on, I stopped at the beach. It was a fine night, and I took off my shoes. Walking alone on the beach in the darkness produces its own peace, and I dangled my shoes in one hand and the bottle in another. I flopped down, opened the bottle, and pouring some into the plastic glass, took a swig. A shadow came behind, and I was mildly resentful of this intrusion. The man neared and I recognized him. He came and stood, and I gestured to him to sit down. He grinned, and sat down. I gestured again, and with a wide grin, he poured a healthy tot for himself into another glass, and gulped it down neat, clearing his throat with an ahhhh as the liquid seared its way.<br /><br />“Did she tell you about the girls ?” , he asked, looking at the sea, not me.<br />“Mmm. She said the college is paid for”.<br />“Three loans, the third that whoreson Somaraju gave at three and half rupees”, he said.<br />“Three and a half ? Why did you take it, you idiot ?” Three and a half rupees per hundred per month … payable monthly, equivalent approx to 40 % p.a. The loan sharks charged ruinous rates of interest, and conversely, asked for no credit rating or documentation except a blank stamp paper.<br /><br />“You should’ve asked her. One is in third year, BSc Computers. The other is in second year of Commerce”.<br />“You bastard. In a year, she’ll earn in a month what you make annually, and you’ll be begging for a few coins at her feet”.<br /><br />“I may, and I may not”. Then he turned and faced me. “I get 1400 a month, after all the loans. The bus season ticket from there to here works out to almost 400. Then comes the electricity and the meals and the kids’ season tickets and …” He opened his palms and gestured.<br /><br />“So you left. That’s a solution ?”<br />He shrugged. “A man can take so much. I left. Maybe they’ll make it through this year, till the elder gets a job. Maybe they’ll not. Now I pay 500 for the rent here. And I live off the remainder. At least I don’t have to face them daily.”<br /><br />“And your wife ? Daughters ?” Then I finally spoke of what had been a red hot knife in my heart for the past three days. “She’s selling blood, you bastard. You fucked around with her and produced two kids and now she is selling blood to live.” In my anger, I leaned into him, gripping his collar, and flecks of spit landed on his face as I shouted.<br /><br />He shrugged away, and then casually cleaned his face. “I couldn’t live there. I left and wiped them off from my head. Everybody survives”, he said. “And then, they are women, they’ll do something. Life saar, everyone has to live.”<br /></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">________________________________________________________________________<br /><br /><br />And what a wonderful gift Life must be, that we each succumb to so many slights and indignities in order to live.<br /><br /></span></div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-79503864783969933012007-06-03T13:27:00.000+05:302007-06-03T13:58:50.842+05:30Wish You Were Here<span style="font-size:130%;">The fading light tells of dusk that draws near;<br />bringing to the midst of banter a numbing chill.<br />But nothing matters, since you're still here.<br /><br />Through riotous times of sunshine and good cheer<br />a soft voice hums a dirge that mirth cannot still<br />telling us "the time, it inevitably draws near."<br /><br />We laugh louder, and pretend we cannot hear,<br />fearing the effort will consume us against our will.<br />But your presence bringing joy anew, is still here.<br /><br />Every day we find something that we hold dear,<br />a peace that renews, a hope that seeks to fill;<br />But all under the shadow still drawing near.<br /><br />We have watched the bubbles in the glass disappear<br />bemoaning cups that slipped, as they sometimes will.<br />Forgetting your intoxicating laughter was still here.<br /><br />Tis far too late that we've learnt this lesson, I fear;<br />only the wine drunk matters, not the tears you spill.<br />Now I know as the time for final goodbyes draws near,<br />Life, I sometimes missed you while you were still here.<br /><br />_____________________________________________________<br /><br />An <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aubade">aubade</a>, though I find the idea has been implemented before.</span>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-56107853614782885332006-12-04T19:47:00.000+05:302006-12-04T19:54:03.400+05:30And All The Poems I Never Wrote<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">All the doubts I never bared<br /></span><span lang="EN-GB">All the fears I never shared<br /></span><span lang="EN-GB">All the works I’d never quote<br /></span><span lang="EN-GB">And all the poems I never wrote.</span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>All the stories that remain untold.<br />The narrative that is yet to unfold.<br />Your past and present, all that is hidden.<br />A half-portrait Serendipity drew unbidden.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>Wondrous threads of conversations, this tapestry of our making;<span style=""> </span><br />from the start, we only wove this tableau of inevitable parting.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-82843538341093341712006-11-23T22:20:00.000+05:302006-11-23T22:31:14.331+05:30Pawn To King 4<span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">It all started with a scrap heap. It used to be in front of the office, on both sides of the path that was the entrance. Repeated attempts at clearing it were to no avail. The more I got the area cleared, the more junk used to get dumped there by assorted passers-by.</span></span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>Then one day we had an idea. Through a concerted effort, got the area levelled; mud that was being excavated from a nearby area was dumped into the place. A few workers who still retained rudiments of their childhoods, spent in labouring away in orchards, scrounged around and came with saplings. We made a garden.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p>And you cannot dump garbage in a garden.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">It is now around 10-12 months since the garden was planted. The garden is more lush than beautiful, more a labour of love than landscaped. The workers show it off to everybody: remember there used to be a garbage heap here ? I planted that, look ! Their enthusiasm has meant of course, that it is dreadfully haphazard. Except for one pathway of grass that was my own and hence inviolate, there is a riotous profusion of flowers everywhere. One of my favourite areas in the whole place, it is where I used to come to when some imbecile or the other had driven me mad. And when I had to receive calls on my phone, since the building had poor reception.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">We’d cleared the area on the other side too, and the requisite paperwork done, had a cemented patch that we used as a parking lot. A rail made of discarded scrap, brightly painted over, made a festive fence for the parking lot on one side and the garden on the other.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Last morning, as I stepped out of the office heading for a meeting, I saw an officious-looking man with a few welders, cutting away at the paring lot fence. With a few crisp words about his ancestry, relations with the female members of his family and such like, I summarily told him to get the hell out. He scuttled off, and I went for the meeting.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">When I came back, all hell had broken loose. A Big Name was there at the parking lot, questioning my subordinates as to who the hell was stopping Law And Order from doing its Duty. I went across and shooed away the minions. Instantly I saw there was trouble. Did we cringe ? Did we grovel ?<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">You bet we did. We ‘umbly submitted and respectfully put for consideration. We gave weaselling grins and spoke in wheedling tones. Big Name, sadly, did not agree. This is a <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Public Place</st1:address></st1:Street>, he said. And you cannot put a fence in a <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Public Place</st1:address></st1:Street>. I did enough to make <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uriah_Heep_%28David_Copperfield%29">Uriah Heep</a> sound a churlish rebel, but to no avail. The fence went. For a moment, I considered letting it go, then decided that we would revert to type. I told Big Name that yes, I was mistaken. This was a scrap yard, I said. And it was <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Public Place</st1:address></st1:Street>. Under Big Names. And basically, Big Names dealt with garbage dumps. With them and their misbegotten whelps in charge, no wonder anybody who made a garden, or a parking lot, was making a Big Mistake. Big Name was unfazed. He gave me a considering look, and informed me, with just that tinge of satisfaction, that the garden fence would go next. Public Places, tsk tsk.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">We were just mulling it over this morning, regretting the outburst, when a phone came. Another <span style=""> </span>Big Name wanted to speak to us. His deputy was leaving. We had been picked for the job. Could I join yesterday? And yes, welcome and looking forward to meeting you. Bye.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">The whole day was spent fending off congratulatory phone calls. As the sun set, I walked down, gesturing to the gent behind, who, as was custom, followed with a cuppa.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">I saw the garden, and the fencing, now torn down. Soon this would be a <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Public Place</st1:address></st1:Street> again. I thought of my new job. Like a dog thrown a bone, I was expected to scarper with joy on the news. And I heard Boss To Be, with an undertone that asked why I was not.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Because we forgot we were a pawn, you see. Pawns are shifted, not asked choices. Pawns should not make gardens. Pawns should be eternally grateful, just dreaming of surviving the next move ahead, serving their Kings till they reach the last square, where, Glory Be, they might become a Piece. A Queen, even. (Because they would be impotent enough by then).<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">Hehhhhhhhhhh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illegitimi_non_carborundum">Non illegitimis carborundum</a><span lang="EN-GB">, dear heart.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com91tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-9852693215769128712006-11-12T05:14:00.000+05:302006-11-12T07:07:08.156+05:30Occasionally planned series : Noveau Rasa<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"> 1. Maudlin<br /><br />We have often been accused of being maudlin. And the word accused is precisely what one has always sought to refute, for its derogatory undertones.<br /><br />The accusatory view: Maudlin is the two bit hoe you take because you cannot afford the emotional upheavals that come with that supposed Empress of emotion, Grief. Maudlin is the calorie-free saccharine substitute for depth of feeling and the mocktail with which you salute the grand gesture.<br /><br />Not so.<br /><br />Glorious peaks of emotion are scaled by vivid images on bright screens. They can afford to do so because their life rewinds after 3 hours; plus, it's so much better with background music. Us mortals sit in darkened halls, rapt in attention. Then when the lights come on, all of us get up, the gorment servant to the rickshaw puller, and head home, emotions purged in vicarious satisfaction. Their struggles are not heroic; their hopes and fears do not add up to tragedy; their loves and losses, their grind and the occasional success are all merely commonplace.<br /><br />Which is why they require songs of lost love, tales of courtesans with hearts of gold, stories of rich girl falling for poor boy, and such like. To clothe themselves in the fantastic, to keep out the insistent drone of reality from overwhelming them.<br /><br />Maudlin is the arrack made of battery acid and drainwater that the labourer takes to remember that he is alive and forget that he would be better off dead. It is the Mills n Boon that the college girl presses to her chest to ward off the sweaty bastard trying to cop a feel in the bus, the song of love that the maid hums as she removes the debris of last night's dinner from the table and the sequence filmed in Switzerland on chiffon wrapped heroines that the garbage truck man dreams of to keep the stench out of his head.<br /><br />Maudlin, dear heart, is the armour that is given to stop us from stabbing ourselves dead. </span> </div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-85384256948380444772006-11-12T05:12:00.000+05:302006-11-12T07:07:43.868+05:30In search<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">The late afternoon sun came in bits and pieces through the faded blue of the soft drink vinyl hoarding that served as a curtain. Outside, in the din that accompanied the evening throng of people making their way home, a bus honked tiresomely.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">He reached down for her nipple, running his tongue over the hard tip of her areola before lifting his head to look at her. He half-raised himself, one hand pawing her breast, the other gripping the edge of the cot for support, thrusting rhythmically. The soft sheen of sweat on her body gave her a golden hue. She saw him looking at her through half closed lids, and moaned. Her false encouragements and the practiced wetness suddenly irritated him. Even as he thrust harder, he felt himself losing interest, and suddenly stood up. Grabbing hold of a fistful of hair, he pulled her to him and pushed himself in her mouth. She half-gasped at the suddenness, and then she had swung her legs off the bed and was making wet noises as he jammed her to his body. As suddenly, he turned her around and she was face down, on the bed again. He began licking her body, starting from the ridge between her shoulder blades, following the curve of the spine till it reached the cleft with its soft roundness at the bottom. He moved up again, easing his body over her, heavy, pressing insistently into her, still licking as he came to the nape of her neck, brushing aside her hair, soft tickles with his tongue. Even as she struggled to mould herself beneath him, he reached down, and spreading those mounds of firm softness apart, drove into her. She cried aloud at the violation, but he had her pinned down, one hand still on the cot for purchase, the other on her shoulders, pressing her down with his full weight, her whimpers muffled through the lumpy cotton mattress he ground her into. She clenched involuntarily as he gave a mighty shove, the roughness chafing him, hurting her, but she couldn’t move. He ground himself into her, welcoming the burning friction as he swivelled his hips in and out of her. He saw her in profile then, the black hair a cascading curtain behind which she cried. And then he saw nothing, the feeling starting as a velvety caress around his balls, tightening, and then progressively becoming aflame. He grunted as the flame moved upward, a hotness that seared through his bruising prick till it was a bloody release. Finally losing control, coming in spurts, half inside her, half spattering her ass that quivered involuntarily, till he ended in a dribble over her back.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>He gave a deep sigh, rose and went into the bathroom, washing himself in the washbasin. He came out lighting a cigarette, and looked at her, still face down, still whimpering. He pulled on his trousers, and as he was zipping up, looked at the crumpled notes on the stool next to the bed. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled out a couple more, and placed them there before walking out of the door.</span></span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-3271890334469311562006-11-12T05:08:00.000+05:302006-11-12T07:12:29.296+05:30Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:130%;">“Enduke, pichchi, he is so paapam no ?”<span style=""> </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p>There was a laugh in Gowri’s voice. Lakshmi snorted. “If that much sorry, you go and talk to him”, she said. “I could murder him so easily”.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:130%;"><o:p></o:p>“But what did he do ? And I’ll have just one more gulab jamun. I tell you, my diet goes to hell each time I come over to your place”.<span style=""> </span>Vijaysri aka Visiri, talking with her mouth full in the precise fashion she so discouraged in her kids.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:130%;">“See, he asked to come on cam no ? And you have sent him pics before, so what big deal ? He did not ask for something crass, no ? Poor man, edho koncham diet cheyya oddu annadu. And you blocked him out for it.” Gowri, heaping another hot mound of rice.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:130%;">“ See, I sent him pics before no ? And now I come on cam. 32 pounds, I tell you, that haircut. 32 freaking pounds, maa oorlo saloon itself you can buy with that money. Does he notice ? Does he say, hi, nice haircut ? Or even you look different today ? No, he just goes ummm and hmmm, says brb and disappears. Vedhava what went to do god knows, comes back and then says I don’t look fat. Men, I tell you!”</span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-65065701296351187332006-11-12T05:06:00.000+05:302006-11-12T11:14:06.039+05:30In Whino Veritas<span style="font-size:130%;">One cannot hope to join the elite list of bloggers, one notices, till one has written about the dreaded “writer’s block”. (All snide remarks about the remainder qualifications for being an elite blogger may be dispensed with for the nonce, please).</span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I thought, therefore, that we would write something suitably grave and vague. Indicating how words, wisps of insubstantial clouds languorously drifting away, now seem to be eluding one’s grasp. How language, till yesterday a slave begging for attention, seems to have turned a coquette, dancing away with laughing promises from the arms that reach out to her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Errr. Anyway.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">There was a time when misplaced pretensions to kindheartedness nearly led to an unplanned abbreviation of the allotted span. That thrilling account, complete with spine-chilling details of our intrepid ...anyway. As I was saying, we decided that what was required was a blogworthy incident. And having thus resolved, (mentally adjusting that banner with the strange device, <a href="http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/Excelsior.htm">Excelsior</a>! (having also checked that it came with the exclamation mark)) (and having checked that our brackets match) we set out to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carpe_diem">Carpe </a>inspiration. (Actually, to work, in the hope that there would be more of “important” meetings and less of actual-by-god crisis managing that has plagued us for the last 4-6 weeks).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Oh well. In the lift, one noticed suddenly that the fly was undone. These things happen sometimes. Did we say we were intrepid ? Add to that, suave. A mere shift of the laptop to ensure that this discovery was ours alone. The liftman was picking his teeth with a match displaying the intentness of a Leakey with a skull. Not noticed. The schoolteacher who stays 2 floors above caught our eye. She gave a bright smile. ( The bright smile teachers always give). (Before they ask all those who have not finished homework to stand up on the bench). But not the look of somebody figuring out if you are the kind of perv who flashes at women in lifts. Maybe an Incident would’ve been blogworthy, but nix non nada nothing. Maybe it was for the better.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Had a flat coming back after another exhausting day. Got out of the car, and signaled for a taxidriver from the stand nearby to come and fix the spare. In <a href="http://www.shantaram.com/">Shantaram, </a>the hero gets all kinds of heartwarming dialogues about how India is about the heart, don’t you know, from a taxi driver. This guy merely asked for 20 bucks, grimly assented when I bummed a ciggie off him, and completed his work in silence. No dialock, no block. Rather, blog.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Sigh.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Eat, drink, sleep, work. The hundred banalities of a nondescript existence. Where is Life when you want to describe it ?</span><br /><br /></div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-1158468600214932682006-09-17T10:14:00.000+05:302006-09-17T10:47:18.426+05:30The Final Frontier<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">When you go beyond the usual inanities of superficial conversations, you end up giving of yourself. To let go of a part of yourself, to place a piece of you in somebody else’s hands, is an admission of trust. Of surrender, if you will. And an entrée into the mind; that from now on, the other can make you happy. And have the capability to cause grief.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Of course there is a remedy. (Isn’t there, always ?)</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>You can cut off the part. Without the invisible, yet umbilical link of your attention, all that will remain of it is a shrivelled, desiccated memento that some will junk and others will keep in old diaries like pressed flowers, in the bottom of trunks below old sarees, forgotten jackets and books once read. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>And you can forget about that chunk of you, removing forever its capacity to grieve you, hurt you. And the price to pay for that is an emptiness inside. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>There are boundaries of refusal and whispers of love. <span style=""> </span>And when they are broken, there emerges a yawning distance in the relationship.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>The boundaries of refusal are those that limit our affections to what is possible, what is appropriate, what is real. And beyond that are the whispers of love; that promise more, that promise freedom, that promise joy. That make the relationship endure despite the refusals.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>The mistake made once too often is to let people in beyond that boundary. Or go into places one shouldn’t. <span style=""> </span>For once inside, the inability to fit in with the other facets of life creates a discordance, a conflict. And grief.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>And a distance then ensues.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Learning not to enter other’s boundaries is the easy part. A kindly <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Providence</st1:place></st1:city> that has blessed with a bland exterior , with a little help from the self in being remote, can easily ensure nobody is knocking at own gates. The mistake that has endured is the straining to hear the whispers of affection beyond the keening threnodies of the daily grind. Of imagining them from quarters unknown, and searching for their source.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Which is why when I give you a part of me, it is with a catch. Much joy may you give me; but I will not be offended by you. Or hurt. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>Ever. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p>And those sneering in the head,<span style=""> </span>those who talk of ersatz affections, can hear their voices resound in the emptiness inside.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style=""> </span><o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20966818.post-1156694670304751862006-08-27T21:24:00.000+05:302006-08-27T21:34:31.810+05:30Cognitive Dissonance<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">I searched for an avenue of escape, even for 5 minutes. I touched the pack in the pocket of the kurta, checked that the all important light was there too. Nodding and smiling politely to the assorted people prattling about the weather and the arrangements, I gently sneaked off to a corner and yes … there was a cubby hole behind the stage. I went into the room, and found it was a sort of office. Went behind a cupboard, and there was a window. Fished the pack out, and lit up. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style=""> </span>One of those weddings one is expected to attend. The girl was a daughter of one of the workers. “Well settled”, said the proud father. I had done the usual namaskaars and the congratulations, and posed for the obligatory photograph. The blinding, hot light of the video was irritating, but the usual gift and bouquet were duly handed over and accepted with the forced, tired smile that the groom and girl usually sport on these occasions. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">I puffed in sheer relief, and wondered how soon I could go for the buffet and make a dignified exit. Suddenly, from the other side of the cupboard, I heard a shuffle. Someone else in the room, probably making a call or something, I thought. Then came the unmistakable sound of a match being struck. I waited a moment or so, and came out from behind the cupboard ; face to face with the girl.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style=""> </span>She still wore the heavy silk saree, and for a moment, her features tightened in pure shock. I looked at her hand, with the cigarette just lit, and at her panicked face, and smiled. Careful, I said gently. You’ll burn a hole in that saree. The incongruity of the situation struck her then, and she smiled helplessly. I don’t smoke that much, she said, holding the stick away from her saree carefully. I’m sure, I said. How are things ?</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style=""> </span>She smiled. “<st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New Jersey</st1:place></st1:State>”, she said. “I am a biochemist”. I said nothing, just looked at her hair, bolstered with an ornate scaffolding of bamboo sticks on which was laid a tapestry of flowers. She laughed and laid it carefully on a table. “God, this thing weighs a ton. It’ll pull my head off ”, she said, flicking the ash into the rolled up paper cone I was using. “This…” I said. “Faking it”, she said, with a glint in her eye. I laughed.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB">“It’s just a week, then we are off again”. “The gent…” I ventured. “Online matrimonial, properly arranged and all”, she smiled. “But he’s cool, we have spoken and mailed each other, he’s in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">US</st1:country-region></st1:place> too”. </span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p><span style=""> </span>The music outside changed, indicating the next step in the sequence was about to begin. “I must go”, she said. I handed her a breath mint and she smiled. “Biochemist and aadapadachu, believe it. Thanks”, she said. Out of the blue, I heard myself saying “ I blog, believe it”. Her eyes widened, then twinkled. I do, she said, and scurried off.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p><span style=""> </span>I made the usual farewell noises, and pressed my host to go ahead with looking after the ceremonies. Waved to the groom, poor harassed soul, and looked at the stage. She was demurely sitting in a wicker basket, being handed over to her new family. There was a flash of the girl I’d met in her eyes, and then she nodded a goodbye.</span></span></p>?!http://www.blogger.com/profile/09517113517754531034noreply@blogger.com8