Dedicated to somebody. An long known yet lot unknown somebody.....
If someone had asked me what I was doing, I would have been absolutely blank for an answer. Luckily, no one did. In fact, had I seen someone doing what I was doing, I would've pitied that man for the state he was in – mentally handicapped.
I was trying to count the tiny sparkling grains of sand on that seashore. The sands.....of time.
The evening sun was still hot. Strictly speaking, was it the evening sun..? No, rather I'd call it the late afternoon sun. A boy and girl, a furlong away, in their very pristine and kiddish form were as ever building castles on sand. “Innocence,” I pondered, “is as blissful a quantity as ignorance.”
I stared at the horizon on the west. The mating of the blue line of the ocean waters with the clear blue skyline. The fusion of two substances in its purest form. It seemed as if the water, beyond the point, fell off a cliff dragging along with it, the bright blue sky.
Bright blue sky. We used to call it sky blue. In fact, whenever the school reopened after the long-on-paper-yet-short-on-ground summer vacations, we used to flaunt our new uniforms and bags in school. I always used to get that bright white shirts and sky blue shorts from the Kumar's Emporium, on the Nayagam Streets along the banks of mellifluous flowing Kabini. The uncleji with a jerry-laden topi on his head, omnipresent at Kumar's billing counter, always used to give me two packets of Poppins and a chilled bottle of Fanta. Although my dad seldom allowed us in family to use soft drinks, he was always a different self when we went shopping at Kumar's twice a year – once at school reopening time, to buy those lovely brand new uniforms for me and my sister and another during Diwali, for buying new attire for entire family. And my sister always used to cry that she wanted “that” ghagra choli, although it always turned out that the one she liked was always a size bigger than her. And those sessions in which my Appa would coax her to “adjust” with a Ghee Dosa and filter kaapi at Venki's and a candy bar after that. And boy, didn't we love the smell of the hot filter kaapi at Venki's... anything I'd give to go there for that Ghee Dosa and Venki's kaapi.
Aaah..kaapi. It all changed when the small town guy me got admitted to the college in town around 60 km and two bus routes away. For someone whose world revolved around Mudaliar Street where my house was located, the St. George's high school where I completed my schooling, the local avatar of “Times Square” Nayagam Street and the Kabini river, life ceased to be as slow and simple as it once used to be as I was sucked into the charms and pace of town life. Che Guevara and Karl Marx became people I worshipped although their communist ideologies scathingly decried idolatry references. You would rather splash concentrated sulphuric acid over a mug of water bare handed than to buy a “Made in USA/UK/Germany” merchandise.
But all that was teens – the psychology of youth, as I explained to myself later. I will never know how or when but it so happened that all the enmity against all those multi nationals in the world and the “corrupt ideology” of capitalism deserted me in favour of adulation in an equal or probably an exceeding measure. Branded clothes seldom got off my torso as the metamorphosis by the time I reached my final year in college took me through short bursts of mental turmoil.
Looking back, it was the final year in college, when I really imbibed the depth of the term metamorphosis. A black and white story, out of the blue, turned vibrantly colourful. There was this somebody who I met (rather, I'd like to believe I was destined to meet) The meeting was ever etched in my memory – a strange and unique one at that. She a fresher into college, I found her struggling to convince the canteen bhaiyya that she was short by 1 rupee and 4 annas and that she would pay up the next day. Somehow, I nudged in and offered the missing amount. There was nothing abnormal about the cute “Thank You” that followed up that incident. It was casual meetings here-and-there in the campus subsequently, lit up by either side with gentle smiles. If I were to pin point what made me ask her for a cup of coffee sometime after a month, I'd have had to brood for the answer but the fact still remained. The smiles persisted, the only difference being that we were smiling across the table, two cups of coffee that emptied over an hour ago separating us, yet the smiles no less blossom.
The small conferences across the canteen table over cups of coffee slowly made way to short, and eventually longer “walks to remember” circumventing the college campus. Rumours spread across the campus, as with my class. After all, they were bound to talk what they talked when they saw what they saw. There were times when I despised the whole world for going on speculating the way it did without caring for my explanation, although if some intellectual ever had the sense to do so, I honestly didn't possess a solid answer to counter. I didn't know. I didn't want to know. And I didn't know if she knew.
But the better part was she didn't care. And her resilience taught me too. To take it in my stride. A very simple question from her put an end to all the turmoil in my mind, “If those people who spread that rumour mean nothing to you, why should you be bothered by what they speak?” There was no objective answer to this question, yet this question managed to answer all the questions raging in my mind.
Everybody complains that final year in college spans on the scale of time, a value nowhere close to the actual time it should take. When life was beginning to take the path it never treaded a priori, life was, as well, beginning to approach the end. Or at least the life in college. Separation was as always hard as was inevitable. As the reel in my mind started to roll through those final days in college and that parting gift, that cute handmade greeting card of her’s which I still keep a lot priced than a lot of supposed memorabilia, I was interrupted. As ever the interruption was perennial and yet, it wielded the same power as it used to do over a decade ago in college.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“What are you dreaming? You still acting that scene in canteen, 1 rupee and 4 anna one?” Shrugging, I woke up to a sound which once upon a time I loved to hear. Once upon a time? Well, I’ll let that question remain a question. I rubbed my eyes. It took my eyes, some real adjustment to focus on the red ball that lost most of its royalness but yet maintained a visually pleasing elegance. The sun was retreating…the same red ball to rise at a place thousands of miles away, at the same time, on some eastern horizon.
“The usual. Cappuccino. Two cubes of sugar. Not stirred. I took an Espresso today. I didn’t feel the usual, needed a strong dose of coffee.” I wondered. If this radio, which always unerringly used to switch on in my presence and blare non-stop, would ever comprehend the meaning of silence. Oh yeah, she had to. After all, what bare minimum I could expect from someone who always professed her desire to explore nature, is to know silence profoundly.
“Inertia,” long back the legendary Issac Newton had observed for laymen, “is the reluctance of a body to change its current state.” I wondered if lethargy was a word that conveyed the same unpleasant meaning in a more pleasant manner. I was toying between the beauty of Newtonian physics and the structure of English language when she embarked on her usual demeanour. Module two in her algorithm went to execution as her legs came up in an aggressive pose, the target being my back as though she was assigned to execute the final penalty kick in the penalty shootout in the Italy-France Soccer World Cup finals in 2006, which Frenchman David Trezeguet shot out of target to hand Italy the soccer World Cup. Although Trezeguet, as any other Frenchman might miss, I had complete faith in the precision of some people to execute some steps with clinical precision, even if they had never in life seen a soccer ball. Thankfully, Newton had proved long before I attempted to that every action had to have an opposite reaction (equal and opposite..?? Not very sure of the former…) and that very action of hers evoked a response from me, which was to lift myself up from sand and thrust out my hand for my coffee. Filter kaapi..?? Boy, no one in the Gen X goes for filter kaapi, that is for the oldies. A Cappuccino from one of the nearby coffee shop (the Gen X equivalent of Venki’s) is the trend of the day. So there was me, with my coffee in hand and she with hers.
“Kitna old girl friends ko dekha yaar apne dream mein?” With all its sarcasm intended, I realized that some things will never change. Years of life, job, marriage, kids...nothing can alter very minute nuances of character that are bound to come out of suppression when the optimum opportunity comes along. The radio went into active mode and all this unfortunate listener could think of was when would the power to the radio be cut off. Sporting my usual smile, which seemed to recharge the radio rather than put her off, I started walking in the direction of the car park, a couple of hundred metres away. Although she didn’t like it, I don’t know why she started following me, the radio still at its peak output. The smile in me integrated into a gentle laughter. Very often, I could predict the next move or sign she would make. Not always, yet often was good enough a consistency. But I never could explain why she did so. Nor was I sure if she knew the answer to the same. And I knew, at least this time, that she was going to follow me to the parking bay.
I realized that I had reached the car park bay when I got a sharp pull on my collars from my back. I had instructed her umpteen numbers of times that I am best left alone when I get into one of those “Do Not Disturb” modes yet she keeps violating that law and keeps getting agitated reactions from me. Somethings though, never change. Rather shouldn’t. But today I was rather enjoying the non-stop chatter, the way I used to over a decade ago. The Cappuccinos replaced by ordinary coffee, the car bay replaced by the crumbling yet lively canteen. Or rather, the other way around.
“You have any intentions of getting back home or you plan to sleep the night here on the beach?” For the umpteenth time today and that raised to another comfortable umpteen times in the past few years, my chain of thoughts snapped. “Well, I guess you’ll remain stranded here if I choose to stay back and hence, I think it’s a wiser option to get back home.” I too hadn’t lost my tone completely, I observed. At least when I was speaking to her. The modulations in indentations were as crisp as it was ever.
Locating the car in the bay, we headed in its direction.
As I turned the Audi A4 onto the Express way heading east into the hassles of the city, I shot a glance through the rear view mirror at the setting sun that was just disappearing over the horizon. She sitting beside me, didn’t notice. The setting sun had seen them all...from the cups of coffee to the long walks to remember. And those long drives as well. All it didn’t see were those that mattered. The dreams of a dreamer.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Sleeping Scorpion
My grandma's home,
long ago I recollect,
there hung a few photographs.
Framed they were,
embellished in stature,
seldom failed to arouse the curious sprite in me.
Every now and again,
me the naughty used to get onto the table beneath
lift the frames from their rusted iron clamps.
Loved the creaking sound, sure did I.
But sound was never the sole consequence.
There always was this brown scorpion,
lifting her tail up.
Seemed me was the only entity in world
disturbing his slumber.
"Keep away, keep away!!!"
Used to shout my grandma.
"A bite of she causes pain 'n woe,
keep away dear."
And the hurricane of fantasy in me,
would be transformed...into a gentle zephyr.
Now I stand tall,
now I realize,
that past is beautiful,
when let alone,
when viewed afar.
long ago I recollect,
there hung a few photographs.
Framed they were,
embellished in stature,
seldom failed to arouse the curious sprite in me.
Every now and again,
me the naughty used to get onto the table beneath
lift the frames from their rusted iron clamps.
Loved the creaking sound, sure did I.
But sound was never the sole consequence.
There always was this brown scorpion,
lifting her tail up.
Seemed me was the only entity in world
disturbing his slumber.
"Keep away, keep away!!!"
Used to shout my grandma.
"A bite of she causes pain 'n woe,
keep away dear."
And the hurricane of fantasy in me,
would be transformed...into a gentle zephyr.
Now I stand tall,
now I realize,
that past is beautiful,
when let alone,
when viewed afar.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Now....just an old story
Looking back,
it's now....just an old story.
It was once upon that time,
that I started eliminating
little fragments of white hair
oddly springing up.
It was once upon that time,
that I bathed myself,
in a sea of fragrant perfumes.
It was once upon that time,
that I allowed him to do all the talking.
Those affectionate hugs,
I conceded myself to him.
I believed, I had fallen in love.
We celebrated life,
behind closed doors and muffled sounds.
Rather, I thought I celebrated life.
An year did pass,
so quick, I never realized.
But little did I perceive,
the dream was to petrify.
He "earned" what he desired,
he decided to call it quits.
He searched for the route to escape me,
I opened the door that lead to it.
Silently, I let him go.
Not a drop of tear fell from me,
for, all those tears sank my heart from inside.
it's now....just an old story.
It was once upon that time,
that I started eliminating
little fragments of white hair
oddly springing up.
It was once upon that time,
that I bathed myself,
in a sea of fragrant perfumes.
It was once upon that time,
that I allowed him to do all the talking.
Those affectionate hugs,
I conceded myself to him.
I believed, I had fallen in love.
We celebrated life,
behind closed doors and muffled sounds.
Rather, I thought I celebrated life.
An year did pass,
so quick, I never realized.
But little did I perceive,
the dream was to petrify.
He "earned" what he desired,
he decided to call it quits.
He searched for the route to escape me,
I opened the door that lead to it.
Silently, I let him go.
Not a drop of tear fell from me,
for, all those tears sank my heart from inside.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Common Man
Hmm. Twenty two years. By no means, is a short span of life. Maybe one-third of my entire lifespan. Aaah..while dreaming, why dream till the roof?? Dream till the sky, dream beyond…..cross the world. Then, maybe I can say, I have lived up around one-fifth of my entire life that Almighty has licensed me to be in this world.
Born into this great nation, I have had the dispensation to live in two very contrasting parts of the country. My home state, the “State of Domicile” as the official records put it, is one of the southernmost in the country. And the state where I stayed for near half a decade, where I did my graduation, towards the opposite direction.
This is just a random jotting down of thoughts. The way of life in either of these states, rather the way I assimilate the life of an aam aadmi in these places. I do apologize at the very outset if this entire piece seems satirical, for that is the very aim, the very zest of this article!!!
Aaah, home sweet home. Do allow me the freedom to start off with my home state. What is widely renowned as God’s Own Country. Am sure though, that God might be having a slight difference of opinion.
This friend, very appositely called aam aadmi, owns a motorbike. All through his life, he toils hard for buying a Maruti mid-size car [well, a lot of socio-cultural and business revolutions like Hyundai Santros and Tata Nanos do threaten the Maruti dream, but the “status” of owning a car remains unaltered, no matter the brand]. Wealth, however scanty, is ostentatiously displayed, with women (and often men indeed) showing unbounded zeal for 22-carat gold jewellery. The higher the grade of the car one owns, the higher is his “status” in the society. And every person strives to be in a class higher than the one he actually belongs to. A person in the lower middle class strives to show-off as if he belongs to the upper middle class; someone in the latter category displays attire and attitude that is supposedly the trademark of a higher “elite” class.
When it comes to educational qualification, this person is almost certainly a graduate or at least, in too very rare cases, a matriculate least of all. Malayalam medium schools are the places where only the “lower class” peoples’ children go. For our aam aadmi, his dream is to see his child study in an English medium school. And yet, in spite, the English accent of a common man is so very strange and unique that it’s hard to comprehend for many an outsider. And contrastingly, for a state that boasts of near centum literacy rate, the “level of sensibility” is alarmingly low. To be added is the fact that since a significant proportion of the populace are literate, every other person you come across desires a job “in an office, sitting on a revolving chair under the fan.” Hence, the people hard to find by are laborers like painters, blacksmiths, household helpers etc because we believe, these are jobs “not fit for the educated” and it is better to sit at home jobless than take up some of these as vocation. Even though the state is a global tourism destination, tourists – both foreigners and north Indians, are treated as if they come from another planet. A typical Keralite has a disgusting stare towards anyone who cannot speak Malayalam in his vicinity, one that leaves any human being puzzled and often irritated.
The earlier generation Keralites seemingly had a higher degree of civic sense when it comes to etiquette like avoiding spitting on road or throwing waste on roadside, but the modern generation seldom seems to care of those little factors. For a Keralite, communism is a part of the political fabric and for Communists, revolution is an integral part of them. They seem to be a group of people who feel that absolutely nothing in India is correct, the United States ( and CIA ), they claim, are the root cause of all the problems in India, including petroleum products’ price rise and India should learn and practice the policies of China and erstwhile Soviet Republic (curiously enough, they take care not to mention about Poland in any of their propaganda ). And very amusingly, the Left government in the state, which has regularly gone in for increasing bus, auto-taxi and essential commodities like milk prices almost annually, announces a harthal the day after Central government decided to raise the fuel prices, when no other state in the country shut down (Read this together with the fact that Kerala was possibly the only place in the world which held a harthal (declared by the ruling Communists) the day on which Saddam Hussein was executed; not even Iraq would’ve thought of this idea!!)
Blown the trumpet too much. On my home state. I’ll shift the domain north. To the state which I completed my graduation. To Uttar Pradesh.
Talking about the common man here, he owns a bicycle. And a lifelong toil in the fields earns only a lucky few the opportunity to own a motorbike. In villages, which are the places where probability of finding this person is maximum, a car is considered a symbolism of eliteness in a social setup which is still based more or less on a feudal structure. This person is more straight and pure at heart when compared to his counterparts down south (Hold on…we’re not talking politicians here. Those class of people are corrupt – no regional barriers apply there). And he is in general very naive, with rather little “display” of his wealth, if any.
In a general perspective, this person’s educational qualification is relatively low. One cannot expect this person to be qualified above matriculate, or intermediate at best. But the better part is, he is more or less satisfied with his life in his village and in satisfaction index, ranks very high in my view. Anyone with a strong educational background is revered highly in the north Indian village culture. His display of respect towards persons elder in age to himself is very commendable, with gestures including falling onto the feet which are very much absent down south.
Little is he expected to know about politics outside Mulayam Singh Yadav and Mayawati. Any place south of Bambai[Bombay], is, for him, Madras and anyone from there is considered a Madrassi. Basic amenities like power is very scantily available [even heard of places with eighteen hour power cuts!], whereas I remember in the case of my state, there was an outrageous uproar from public when the government tried to implement a half-hour per day “load shedding” power cut. A typical aam aadmi cannot escape the clutches of Paan and Gutkha and has a very unhygienic habit of spitting any convenient place he finds. As such, the level of civic awareness is quite low, propounded by higher amount of illiteracy. As a direct consequence, the levels of hygiene in villages and cities alike are quite poor when compared to towns in Kerala.
Although I’ve heard a lot about the north Indian attitude of travelling ticketless in trains quite widely, I have not found any instance of any such happening personally.
Let me wind up this piece with a couple of outstanding feature of Keralites. Their overwhelming lust for harthals [a re-christening of what is known elsewhere in India as bandh. The Kerala High Court was literally mocked when it banned bandhs in the state and the intelligent political assemblage came out with a new name – harthal] and booze. An eminent social scientist once pointed very accurately that harthal is the only “festival” in Kerala which is celebrated across socio-economic-religious barrier by all the people throughout the state. People now view it as a public holiday, a day when everyone in the family stays at home and enjoys a complete “day-off.” Shops, business and academic establishments are off, public examinations, if any scheduled on that day, are often postponed. Television channels celebrate it as well, with special programmes and new movies on that day, the kind of stuff one would typically expect on a festive occasion or on a regional or national holiday. For a very educated populace, it seems rather an odd phenomenon in stark contrast to Uttar Pradesh, with a significant proportion of the population being relatively illiterate, where life moves on normally, as on any other day during a bandh.
It’s not just quarters like education and health care that Kerala ranks among the top in the country, but also in the consumption of alcoholic beverages. The explosion of number of people consuming alcoholic beverages is a rather recent trend. The state Government owned Beverages Corporation is one of the most profit making public undertakings operating in the state. There have been cases of occurrence of traffic jams in some areas due to the queues in front of Beverages Corporation outlets on the roadside stretching onto the roads.
Been quite a contrast. I have not delved into the cultural or linguistic differences that exist across the two states, but instead, tried to focus on the difference that exists in the attitude and habits of the aam aadmis on either side. Diversity of India is a topic that never ceases to fascinate and there is going to be no dearth on discussions, deliberations and literature on this subject and this is no way meant to be counted among those. I would rather term it a purely individual perspective, how I have seen and experienced life in various parts of the country, in my very short span of life so far.
On the concluding note, I very faintly remember a cartoon that appeared in a Malayalam newspaper sometime in which a “common man” was asked the significance of October 2nd in contemporary India. The reply was, “Beverages Corporation outlets remain closed on the 1st of every month, as a Government policy. In October, the next day being a public holiday due to Gandhi Jayanti, again the outlets are closed. So the first two days of October are dry days and if one wants to have “the stuff”, he must stock it up a couple of days beforehand!! ” Aptly certified by the BBC ( http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8557215.stm ), the alcohol crazy state had recently come up with a brand titled "Jesus Christ". You drink it, you "resurrect" after three days, the analogy to Jesus Christ being crucified on Good Friday and supposedly resurrected on Easter day, two days hence!!!
Born into this great nation, I have had the dispensation to live in two very contrasting parts of the country. My home state, the “State of Domicile” as the official records put it, is one of the southernmost in the country. And the state where I stayed for near half a decade, where I did my graduation, towards the opposite direction.
This is just a random jotting down of thoughts. The way of life in either of these states, rather the way I assimilate the life of an aam aadmi in these places. I do apologize at the very outset if this entire piece seems satirical, for that is the very aim, the very zest of this article!!!
Aaah, home sweet home. Do allow me the freedom to start off with my home state. What is widely renowned as God’s Own Country. Am sure though, that God might be having a slight difference of opinion.
This friend, very appositely called aam aadmi, owns a motorbike. All through his life, he toils hard for buying a Maruti mid-size car [well, a lot of socio-cultural and business revolutions like Hyundai Santros and Tata Nanos do threaten the Maruti dream, but the “status” of owning a car remains unaltered, no matter the brand]. Wealth, however scanty, is ostentatiously displayed, with women (and often men indeed) showing unbounded zeal for 22-carat gold jewellery. The higher the grade of the car one owns, the higher is his “status” in the society. And every person strives to be in a class higher than the one he actually belongs to. A person in the lower middle class strives to show-off as if he belongs to the upper middle class; someone in the latter category displays attire and attitude that is supposedly the trademark of a higher “elite” class.
When it comes to educational qualification, this person is almost certainly a graduate or at least, in too very rare cases, a matriculate least of all. Malayalam medium schools are the places where only the “lower class” peoples’ children go. For our aam aadmi, his dream is to see his child study in an English medium school. And yet, in spite, the English accent of a common man is so very strange and unique that it’s hard to comprehend for many an outsider. And contrastingly, for a state that boasts of near centum literacy rate, the “level of sensibility” is alarmingly low. To be added is the fact that since a significant proportion of the populace are literate, every other person you come across desires a job “in an office, sitting on a revolving chair under the fan.” Hence, the people hard to find by are laborers like painters, blacksmiths, household helpers etc because we believe, these are jobs “not fit for the educated” and it is better to sit at home jobless than take up some of these as vocation. Even though the state is a global tourism destination, tourists – both foreigners and north Indians, are treated as if they come from another planet. A typical Keralite has a disgusting stare towards anyone who cannot speak Malayalam in his vicinity, one that leaves any human being puzzled and often irritated.
The earlier generation Keralites seemingly had a higher degree of civic sense when it comes to etiquette like avoiding spitting on road or throwing waste on roadside, but the modern generation seldom seems to care of those little factors. For a Keralite, communism is a part of the political fabric and for Communists, revolution is an integral part of them. They seem to be a group of people who feel that absolutely nothing in India is correct, the United States ( and CIA ), they claim, are the root cause of all the problems in India, including petroleum products’ price rise and India should learn and practice the policies of China and erstwhile Soviet Republic (curiously enough, they take care not to mention about Poland in any of their propaganda ). And very amusingly, the Left government in the state, which has regularly gone in for increasing bus, auto-taxi and essential commodities like milk prices almost annually, announces a harthal the day after Central government decided to raise the fuel prices, when no other state in the country shut down (Read this together with the fact that Kerala was possibly the only place in the world which held a harthal (declared by the ruling Communists) the day on which Saddam Hussein was executed; not even Iraq would’ve thought of this idea!!)
Blown the trumpet too much. On my home state. I’ll shift the domain north. To the state which I completed my graduation. To Uttar Pradesh.
Talking about the common man here, he owns a bicycle. And a lifelong toil in the fields earns only a lucky few the opportunity to own a motorbike. In villages, which are the places where probability of finding this person is maximum, a car is considered a symbolism of eliteness in a social setup which is still based more or less on a feudal structure. This person is more straight and pure at heart when compared to his counterparts down south (Hold on…we’re not talking politicians here. Those class of people are corrupt – no regional barriers apply there). And he is in general very naive, with rather little “display” of his wealth, if any.
In a general perspective, this person’s educational qualification is relatively low. One cannot expect this person to be qualified above matriculate, or intermediate at best. But the better part is, he is more or less satisfied with his life in his village and in satisfaction index, ranks very high in my view. Anyone with a strong educational background is revered highly in the north Indian village culture. His display of respect towards persons elder in age to himself is very commendable, with gestures including falling onto the feet which are very much absent down south.
Little is he expected to know about politics outside Mulayam Singh Yadav and Mayawati. Any place south of Bambai[Bombay], is, for him, Madras and anyone from there is considered a Madrassi. Basic amenities like power is very scantily available [even heard of places with eighteen hour power cuts!], whereas I remember in the case of my state, there was an outrageous uproar from public when the government tried to implement a half-hour per day “load shedding” power cut. A typical aam aadmi cannot escape the clutches of Paan and Gutkha and has a very unhygienic habit of spitting any convenient place he finds. As such, the level of civic awareness is quite low, propounded by higher amount of illiteracy. As a direct consequence, the levels of hygiene in villages and cities alike are quite poor when compared to towns in Kerala.
Although I’ve heard a lot about the north Indian attitude of travelling ticketless in trains quite widely, I have not found any instance of any such happening personally.
Let me wind up this piece with a couple of outstanding feature of Keralites. Their overwhelming lust for harthals [a re-christening of what is known elsewhere in India as bandh. The Kerala High Court was literally mocked when it banned bandhs in the state and the intelligent political assemblage came out with a new name – harthal] and booze. An eminent social scientist once pointed very accurately that harthal is the only “festival” in Kerala which is celebrated across socio-economic-religious barrier by all the people throughout the state. People now view it as a public holiday, a day when everyone in the family stays at home and enjoys a complete “day-off.” Shops, business and academic establishments are off, public examinations, if any scheduled on that day, are often postponed. Television channels celebrate it as well, with special programmes and new movies on that day, the kind of stuff one would typically expect on a festive occasion or on a regional or national holiday. For a very educated populace, it seems rather an odd phenomenon in stark contrast to Uttar Pradesh, with a significant proportion of the population being relatively illiterate, where life moves on normally, as on any other day during a bandh.
It’s not just quarters like education and health care that Kerala ranks among the top in the country, but also in the consumption of alcoholic beverages. The explosion of number of people consuming alcoholic beverages is a rather recent trend. The state Government owned Beverages Corporation is one of the most profit making public undertakings operating in the state. There have been cases of occurrence of traffic jams in some areas due to the queues in front of Beverages Corporation outlets on the roadside stretching onto the roads.
Been quite a contrast. I have not delved into the cultural or linguistic differences that exist across the two states, but instead, tried to focus on the difference that exists in the attitude and habits of the aam aadmis on either side. Diversity of India is a topic that never ceases to fascinate and there is going to be no dearth on discussions, deliberations and literature on this subject and this is no way meant to be counted among those. I would rather term it a purely individual perspective, how I have seen and experienced life in various parts of the country, in my very short span of life so far.
On the concluding note, I very faintly remember a cartoon that appeared in a Malayalam newspaper sometime in which a “common man” was asked the significance of October 2nd in contemporary India. The reply was, “Beverages Corporation outlets remain closed on the 1st of every month, as a Government policy. In October, the next day being a public holiday due to Gandhi Jayanti, again the outlets are closed. So the first two days of October are dry days and if one wants to have “the stuff”, he must stock it up a couple of days beforehand!! ” Aptly certified by the BBC ( http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8557215.stm ), the alcohol crazy state had recently come up with a brand titled "Jesus Christ". You drink it, you "resurrect" after three days, the analogy to Jesus Christ being crucified on Good Friday and supposedly resurrected on Easter day, two days hence!!!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Information Technology
Aaahh…it was my dream. I submitted myself to those two words. The talk of the town, the buzz of the world.
They called it Information Technology. “IT” was a real cute nickname. The dream of my generation. It was as if some unknown demi-God had just developed the seed of a tree that had the abilities to grow money. It fascinated me.
Those boring classes in Plus One and Plus Two never extinguished the spark in me. Those giant sized dusty reference books that I was supposed to “assimilate” never seemed a burden to me. Nights were never far where I used to picturize myself as a handsome young man in his well-pressed formal attire and tie, sitting in a revolving chair in an air conditioned room in Bangalore, New Delhi, Detroit, New York……or beyond. The traction provided by the smell of afresh bundles of currency in those dreams of mine was more than enough to leap across the hurdle called entrance examinations.
I eagerly waited. In an obscure corner of my engineering college. For the angel called campus selection. And after three years that seemed like ages, the day came. My angel came. I too was selected….into the wings of a company…a by product of “information technology explosion.”
It took my mother a good part of six months to come anywhere near pronouncing the name of my company, recognizably...
Phew...what else in life. Another damn year in this college and then am a free bird I reflected. Working in those heavenly conditions, living in those grandiose villas and stashing away those bundles of money that I’ll continue “earning” into some bank accounts and investment stocks…for me to enjoy later.
The day dawned. My joining day. Afresh in a new set of branded casuals, the keen desire to encounter the world of computers, I set out to my office in the Electronic City in Bangalore. And lo !!!! It was heaven… For a youth of twenty three, who could dream of better prospects in life at this stage itself?
Life at the first week at job strengthened my beliefs. Those instructions from the firangi boss of mine, seemed like music to my ears. The paraphernalia around me never bothered me, the way it used to until a couple of months ago. In spite of sitting motionless in front of my computer from nine in the morning to ten in the night, it never seemed enough for me. The feelings of hunger and thirst seemed ethereal.
Days passed by. With every passing day, it seemed as if my mind had stopped working. Enthusiasm, joy, happiness, eagerness...all these suddenly seemed mere words in a lexicon. Those commands of my Iboss started feeling less like music and more like having a tinge of contempt and haughtiness. The same monotone, sitting in front of the same idiotic computer. Starting to feel dull, was I?
Naah! All these melted away into thin air the day I got my first salary. Not thousands….tens of them !!! More money than I had ruefully counted and given at the counter of my entrance examination coaching institute. At that moment, I felt on top of the world, literally.
But...but what to do with the money?? Never really had the time to spare to eat what were once my favourite food items in the midst of a spare-timeless work routine. Could not even afford to think of a vacation to places I so badly wanted to visit as a kid, thanks to my boss who opined that taking leave was a greater sin than homicide. Aah..no problems...I consoled myself. Sure once in life, I’ll have the opportunity to spend lavishly this hard earned money, the way I desire.
Hard earned money...the way I desire !!!!
Life ceased to flow like music. It was as if time had lost its tempo. A day dawns, a day ends…and life in between these two events never altered. Six days a week, three hundred plus days an year. Couldn’t recognize days and dates, unsuccessful quests for the feeling called joy behind those fat money bags….every passing day seemed like an eternity frozen in time.
Hardly “found time” to go home. Countably few occasions. And one fine morning, I get a call from home. My marriage had been fixed. With those handful of days of casual leave that was mercifully granted at the behest of my Canadian boss, I journeyed home. Bespectacled with a pair of thick lenses coupled with a slightly wrinkled and expressionless visage, no one even dared talk to me. And I was elated for that. Recently, I had noticed…that I had started enjoying solitude more than anything. So far, so good.
The bride too was from my office, they said. Maybe…I reflected. I…not only me, was the same case with everyone...seldom talked. After all, what role has informal chats to do with the Goliath they call information technology, huh?
Marriage hardly did anything to rework the me in me. Just that in what was earlier a “single room” made way to become a “double room.” I shared space with her, never gave a thought to share my life. Before the time sun thought of rising to way after the time when even the moon and stars got tired of darkness, I “realized my dreams”...realized my life, in front of that white monitored devil with, very symbolically, white body and a dark screen. It seemed…no it was as if I had lost the ability...to laugh, to cry, to dream. Times were few and far in between when I and my wife met.
We were close...yet we lived poles apart. No complaints, no remorse….for either of us.
Now, I have stopped dreaming...about future. Those things come to fore only if you have certain goals to achieve, isn’t it? But whenever I do, I feel stranded. Like a little boy, trapped in a tunnel…with the false hope that at the end, there is going to be light. I remember the moment….when I was signing my offer letter, with a proud smile on my face and dreams of a prosperous future in my mind. I remember the enthusiasm, the spark in me….the resolve to earn money, however, whatever the means. After all, this is what I dreamt of from the time I was in high school.
My mind was raring to go. I was ready. To perform. For a profligate life.
I WAS ready...
Today...everything seems frozen. Me, my self, my mind, my character...I even have doubts as to the very existence of some of these. I am not able to laugh aloud at the dreams of a fifteen year old….at least if I could have done that, I would have justified my presence in this world as a human being.
Lying on my bed, this night...naah, my definition of nights once never used to stretch this far; five used to be very early morning for me as was for my mother a few decades ago, I am unable to sleep. Sleepless nights have become way too common nowadays. I looked to my bedside. I could gauge that even my wife was only half-asleep, the way she twisted and turned in her bed so frequently proved it. I thought of the time ahead….those faces that I came across daily but never really generated any emotion in me, flashed across through my mind…my wife, Canadian boss, canteen bhaiyya…. And the recent dreams, in which information technology as a gigantic satan, chased me with loud guffaws and outstretched hands.
I used to see demons in my dreams in childhood. But the presence of my mother at my bedside used to reassure me...that I was safe.
The alarm rang. Three days is what is left in the deadline given to me, to finish my allotted project, which is only just about half done. Three hours is what I slept...oops, no what I spent in bed, trying to sleep. Without a hint of fatigue, I removed my blanket and got out of bed.
Back to office. Back to the lifeless ethos I call life.
They called it Information Technology. “IT” was a real cute nickname. The dream of my generation. It was as if some unknown demi-God had just developed the seed of a tree that had the abilities to grow money. It fascinated me.
Those boring classes in Plus One and Plus Two never extinguished the spark in me. Those giant sized dusty reference books that I was supposed to “assimilate” never seemed a burden to me. Nights were never far where I used to picturize myself as a handsome young man in his well-pressed formal attire and tie, sitting in a revolving chair in an air conditioned room in Bangalore, New Delhi, Detroit, New York……or beyond. The traction provided by the smell of afresh bundles of currency in those dreams of mine was more than enough to leap across the hurdle called entrance examinations.
I eagerly waited. In an obscure corner of my engineering college. For the angel called campus selection. And after three years that seemed like ages, the day came. My angel came. I too was selected….into the wings of a company…a by product of “information technology explosion.”
It took my mother a good part of six months to come anywhere near pronouncing the name of my company, recognizably...
Phew...what else in life. Another damn year in this college and then am a free bird I reflected. Working in those heavenly conditions, living in those grandiose villas and stashing away those bundles of money that I’ll continue “earning” into some bank accounts and investment stocks…for me to enjoy later.
The day dawned. My joining day. Afresh in a new set of branded casuals, the keen desire to encounter the world of computers, I set out to my office in the Electronic City in Bangalore. And lo !!!! It was heaven… For a youth of twenty three, who could dream of better prospects in life at this stage itself?
Life at the first week at job strengthened my beliefs. Those instructions from the firangi boss of mine, seemed like music to my ears. The paraphernalia around me never bothered me, the way it used to until a couple of months ago. In spite of sitting motionless in front of my computer from nine in the morning to ten in the night, it never seemed enough for me. The feelings of hunger and thirst seemed ethereal.
Days passed by. With every passing day, it seemed as if my mind had stopped working. Enthusiasm, joy, happiness, eagerness...all these suddenly seemed mere words in a lexicon. Those commands of my Iboss started feeling less like music and more like having a tinge of contempt and haughtiness. The same monotone, sitting in front of the same idiotic computer. Starting to feel dull, was I?
Naah! All these melted away into thin air the day I got my first salary. Not thousands….tens of them !!! More money than I had ruefully counted and given at the counter of my entrance examination coaching institute. At that moment, I felt on top of the world, literally.
But...but what to do with the money?? Never really had the time to spare to eat what were once my favourite food items in the midst of a spare-timeless work routine. Could not even afford to think of a vacation to places I so badly wanted to visit as a kid, thanks to my boss who opined that taking leave was a greater sin than homicide. Aah..no problems...I consoled myself. Sure once in life, I’ll have the opportunity to spend lavishly this hard earned money, the way I desire.
Hard earned money...the way I desire !!!!
Life ceased to flow like music. It was as if time had lost its tempo. A day dawns, a day ends…and life in between these two events never altered. Six days a week, three hundred plus days an year. Couldn’t recognize days and dates, unsuccessful quests for the feeling called joy behind those fat money bags….every passing day seemed like an eternity frozen in time.
Hardly “found time” to go home. Countably few occasions. And one fine morning, I get a call from home. My marriage had been fixed. With those handful of days of casual leave that was mercifully granted at the behest of my Canadian boss, I journeyed home. Bespectacled with a pair of thick lenses coupled with a slightly wrinkled and expressionless visage, no one even dared talk to me. And I was elated for that. Recently, I had noticed…that I had started enjoying solitude more than anything. So far, so good.
The bride too was from my office, they said. Maybe…I reflected. I…not only me, was the same case with everyone...seldom talked. After all, what role has informal chats to do with the Goliath they call information technology, huh?
Marriage hardly did anything to rework the me in me. Just that in what was earlier a “single room” made way to become a “double room.” I shared space with her, never gave a thought to share my life. Before the time sun thought of rising to way after the time when even the moon and stars got tired of darkness, I “realized my dreams”...realized my life, in front of that white monitored devil with, very symbolically, white body and a dark screen. It seemed…no it was as if I had lost the ability...to laugh, to cry, to dream. Times were few and far in between when I and my wife met.
We were close...yet we lived poles apart. No complaints, no remorse….for either of us.
Now, I have stopped dreaming...about future. Those things come to fore only if you have certain goals to achieve, isn’t it? But whenever I do, I feel stranded. Like a little boy, trapped in a tunnel…with the false hope that at the end, there is going to be light. I remember the moment….when I was signing my offer letter, with a proud smile on my face and dreams of a prosperous future in my mind. I remember the enthusiasm, the spark in me….the resolve to earn money, however, whatever the means. After all, this is what I dreamt of from the time I was in high school.
My mind was raring to go. I was ready. To perform. For a profligate life.
I WAS ready...
Today...everything seems frozen. Me, my self, my mind, my character...I even have doubts as to the very existence of some of these. I am not able to laugh aloud at the dreams of a fifteen year old….at least if I could have done that, I would have justified my presence in this world as a human being.
Lying on my bed, this night...naah, my definition of nights once never used to stretch this far; five used to be very early morning for me as was for my mother a few decades ago, I am unable to sleep. Sleepless nights have become way too common nowadays. I looked to my bedside. I could gauge that even my wife was only half-asleep, the way she twisted and turned in her bed so frequently proved it. I thought of the time ahead….those faces that I came across daily but never really generated any emotion in me, flashed across through my mind…my wife, Canadian boss, canteen bhaiyya…. And the recent dreams, in which information technology as a gigantic satan, chased me with loud guffaws and outstretched hands.
I used to see demons in my dreams in childhood. But the presence of my mother at my bedside used to reassure me...that I was safe.
The alarm rang. Three days is what is left in the deadline given to me, to finish my allotted project, which is only just about half done. Three hours is what I slept...oops, no what I spent in bed, trying to sleep. Without a hint of fatigue, I removed my blanket and got out of bed.
Back to office. Back to the lifeless ethos I call life.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Mela
A small farmer that he was,
a large grace that he had.
Outside the confines of his dusty village,
he seldom envisioned a world.
A world that was his village,
a village that was his soul.
A small family Ramchand had,
the smaller the sweeter they did say.
A charming spouse and a sweet kid,
is after all, what all yearn.
Half a decade since Munnu came into his world,
he knew life since prospered.
Lucky charm, believed he thus.
Sarayu meandered through his village,
its waters the life giving blood
for an otherwise parched village.
It was on her banks the Mela occurred,
the full moon week of Phagun.
Holi, the tyohaar of colours,
the Holi Mela was a celebration for the village.
Crowds thronged, from villages afar.
‘twas only this once a year his village
liberated herself from shackles of slumber.
Only once, she bathed herself sublime.
As a dozen months ago, it was Phagun,
And then, it was Phagun again.
All these four years Munnu was never taken,
mela was just a glorious fable for him.
Afraid of the crowd Ramchand was,
lest Munnu get lost.
He bought him candies and balloons,
but Munnu to Mela was a stubborn no.
Topped his class Munnu did.
What he wanted was no new bag,
no new slate,
but....a visit to the mela.
Reluctant was Ramchand,
stubborn was Munnu.
Tried to coax Munnu he did,
Munnu this time, didn’t seem yielding.
The “Haan” from Ramchand was muted,
but least cared Munnu,
as a “haan” was ever a “haan”
Friends, neighbours-Munnu beamed,
in front of everyone.
Was as if he dreamt a notch above heavens,
and the heavens bent downwards.
The day it dawned.
The night previous sleep kept afar,
still Munnu was as afresh a rosy petal.
They say a child smiles, a home beams.
A new attire, afresh expectations,
he charmed, he real did.
The afternoon sun resigned,
the evening sun took over,
and off were father and son.
Words of advices to be careful and strong grip on Ramchand’s hands,
but Munnu was in a world of his own.
Sarayu draped in a thousand colours,
her banks crowded with humanity.
The smile on Munnu’s face broadened seconds in,
Ramchand too was enjoying....at least it seemed so.
A lot of known faces, a lot of pleasantries,
he stole the show, Munnu did.
Pink blotched balloons were irresistible,
so Ramchand bought one before even being demanded.
“Five takas, so small a price for Munnu’s smile”
is all what the blessed father thought.
They roamed around,
candies, china balls, toys, odds and clutters,
the father didn’t seem in a mood to resist,
to an over-the-moon child.
Time flew, dusk setting in,
either were still in not in a mood to depart.
The sun into its shelter for the day,
the stars started mimicking Munnu.
Just then Munnu lost his grip on his balloon,
away it rose, and wind taking it westwards.
Tears welled up in Munnu’s eyes,
something Ramchand didn’t want to see.
First time thus, Ramchand slackened his fatherly grip,
told Munnu to stay put,
headed west he did, chasing the balloon,
chasing Munnu’s dream.
Run he did,
near half a mile did the balloon tease him,
until it surrendered, to the will of a father,
to the heart of a kid.
All smiles he returned,
to the spot he left little Munnu.
A pink balloon in hand,
and a picture of his kid running toward him.
But.....
Nowhere was Munnu to be seen !!!
The smile disappeared,
stars overhead went blight,
as Ramchand tore apart the world.
He searched, ghat to ghat,
quizzed multitude, if anyone saw little Munnu,
alas, he wished it all were a practical joke.
But the Gods weren’t joking,
all energy drained out,
in a frenzy was Ramchand,
his world had just gone dark.
Through the night he searched,
fatigue in him never did try overcome the father in him.
A pair of tireless legs,
the thrust of a stabbed heart,
all but proved hardly enough.
The stars set to bid farewell,
the sun making his daily debut,
the reality had dawned....way before dawn.
A heart broken soul sat on the banks of Sarayu,
it rather, was a soulless body.
His mind was rewinding,
as in a flashback, all the years went past,
but something indelible was Munnu.
Ramchand couldn’t go home,
thought he, “How can I break this news to her?”
Front of his eyes Sarayu meandered,
her banks were empty.
The village back to her annual aestivation,
only to awake, thought Ramchand,
the next Mela.
Sun’s rays started trickling in,
ensuing the morn spectacle,
the dazzle of sulight against Sarayu waters,
seemed way less charming to Ramchand than it ever did.
His visage betrayed his grief,
facial contours nowhere indicated a fuming mind.
Seemed the rising sun brought in fresh ideas,
A determined Ramchand, it looked.
Had made up his mind,
the sun a backdrop,
A west flowing Sarayu,
Ramchand knew he shouldn’t....but he couldn’t otherwise.
What he didn’t was that Munnu was picked,
by Ali Kaka their neighbour.
Spotted Munnu he did, standing alone in throng,
and escorted him home, a couple of candies on the way back.
An ever beaming Munnu was back home,
waiting to tell his father as he came back,
the story of those pebbles he pocketed from river bank.
Someone found a lifeless body a few miles downstream,
no one in neighbouring village knew Ramchand,
And hence none recognised Ramchand, lifeless.
Munnu still waited, a look of expectations,
a bundle of exciting stories,
his eyes ever fixed onto the dusty pavement in front,
through which he expected his father to spring up,
anytime......
Anytime.......
a large grace that he had.
Outside the confines of his dusty village,
he seldom envisioned a world.
A world that was his village,
a village that was his soul.
A small family Ramchand had,
the smaller the sweeter they did say.
A charming spouse and a sweet kid,
is after all, what all yearn.
Half a decade since Munnu came into his world,
he knew life since prospered.
Lucky charm, believed he thus.
Sarayu meandered through his village,
its waters the life giving blood
for an otherwise parched village.
It was on her banks the Mela occurred,
the full moon week of Phagun.
Holi, the tyohaar of colours,
the Holi Mela was a celebration for the village.
Crowds thronged, from villages afar.
‘twas only this once a year his village
liberated herself from shackles of slumber.
Only once, she bathed herself sublime.
As a dozen months ago, it was Phagun,
And then, it was Phagun again.
All these four years Munnu was never taken,
mela was just a glorious fable for him.
Afraid of the crowd Ramchand was,
lest Munnu get lost.
He bought him candies and balloons,
but Munnu to Mela was a stubborn no.
Topped his class Munnu did.
What he wanted was no new bag,
no new slate,
but....a visit to the mela.
Reluctant was Ramchand,
stubborn was Munnu.
Tried to coax Munnu he did,
Munnu this time, didn’t seem yielding.
The “Haan” from Ramchand was muted,
but least cared Munnu,
as a “haan” was ever a “haan”
Friends, neighbours-Munnu beamed,
in front of everyone.
Was as if he dreamt a notch above heavens,
and the heavens bent downwards.
The day it dawned.
The night previous sleep kept afar,
still Munnu was as afresh a rosy petal.
They say a child smiles, a home beams.
A new attire, afresh expectations,
he charmed, he real did.
The afternoon sun resigned,
the evening sun took over,
and off were father and son.
Words of advices to be careful and strong grip on Ramchand’s hands,
but Munnu was in a world of his own.
Sarayu draped in a thousand colours,
her banks crowded with humanity.
The smile on Munnu’s face broadened seconds in,
Ramchand too was enjoying....at least it seemed so.
A lot of known faces, a lot of pleasantries,
he stole the show, Munnu did.
Pink blotched balloons were irresistible,
so Ramchand bought one before even being demanded.
“Five takas, so small a price for Munnu’s smile”
is all what the blessed father thought.
They roamed around,
candies, china balls, toys, odds and clutters,
the father didn’t seem in a mood to resist,
to an over-the-moon child.
Time flew, dusk setting in,
either were still in not in a mood to depart.
The sun into its shelter for the day,
the stars started mimicking Munnu.
Just then Munnu lost his grip on his balloon,
away it rose, and wind taking it westwards.
Tears welled up in Munnu’s eyes,
something Ramchand didn’t want to see.
First time thus, Ramchand slackened his fatherly grip,
told Munnu to stay put,
headed west he did, chasing the balloon,
chasing Munnu’s dream.
Run he did,
near half a mile did the balloon tease him,
until it surrendered, to the will of a father,
to the heart of a kid.
All smiles he returned,
to the spot he left little Munnu.
A pink balloon in hand,
and a picture of his kid running toward him.
But.....
Nowhere was Munnu to be seen !!!
The smile disappeared,
stars overhead went blight,
as Ramchand tore apart the world.
He searched, ghat to ghat,
quizzed multitude, if anyone saw little Munnu,
alas, he wished it all were a practical joke.
But the Gods weren’t joking,
all energy drained out,
in a frenzy was Ramchand,
his world had just gone dark.
Through the night he searched,
fatigue in him never did try overcome the father in him.
A pair of tireless legs,
the thrust of a stabbed heart,
all but proved hardly enough.
The stars set to bid farewell,
the sun making his daily debut,
the reality had dawned....way before dawn.
A heart broken soul sat on the banks of Sarayu,
it rather, was a soulless body.
His mind was rewinding,
as in a flashback, all the years went past,
but something indelible was Munnu.
Ramchand couldn’t go home,
thought he, “How can I break this news to her?”
Front of his eyes Sarayu meandered,
her banks were empty.
The village back to her annual aestivation,
only to awake, thought Ramchand,
the next Mela.
Sun’s rays started trickling in,
ensuing the morn spectacle,
the dazzle of sulight against Sarayu waters,
seemed way less charming to Ramchand than it ever did.
His visage betrayed his grief,
facial contours nowhere indicated a fuming mind.
Seemed the rising sun brought in fresh ideas,
A determined Ramchand, it looked.
Had made up his mind,
the sun a backdrop,
A west flowing Sarayu,
Ramchand knew he shouldn’t....but he couldn’t otherwise.
What he didn’t was that Munnu was picked,
by Ali Kaka their neighbour.
Spotted Munnu he did, standing alone in throng,
and escorted him home, a couple of candies on the way back.
An ever beaming Munnu was back home,
waiting to tell his father as he came back,
the story of those pebbles he pocketed from river bank.
Someone found a lifeless body a few miles downstream,
no one in neighbouring village knew Ramchand,
And hence none recognised Ramchand, lifeless.
Munnu still waited, a look of expectations,
a bundle of exciting stories,
his eyes ever fixed onto the dusty pavement in front,
through which he expected his father to spring up,
anytime......
Anytime.......
Friday, March 26, 2010
Geek
There's nothing special about this poem. It was written in one of those innumerable boring lecture classes, yesterday. It started off from the person who was sitting next to me and as the poem progressed, it ceased to draw inspiration from one person and I was getting ideas from a horde of people.
I believe the poem does not match upto the standards of a lot of poems and prose written by me, but the fact that it was spontaneous, fast and in the middle of a class makes me post this onto my blog.
Happy Reading !!!
Think did I long time before,
that engineers rule the world.
Realise did I, not long before,
that just a few geeks do,
the rest just stare.
A shabby picture I had,
about this genre of Homo Sapiens.
A prejudiced stereotype,
deeply rooted, worldly habituated.
They say geeks are not made geeks,
they are born so rather.
I didn't know if it is to be believed or otherwise,
until I meet up this person.
Defying trademarks, his natural self.
"Stereotypes...? Not my cup of tea" his bhaashan
I thought before that people were born to live,
I realise after,
he was born...to "geek".
A guy amazing he was,
oops....amazing's way too an understatement.
Seemed all normal did he,
except for being....hmm
being...a little other-worldly??
A good student he was,
illuminated a lot of unclear scholastic avenues,
with his ....grace.
A good friend was he,
stood by me in my crises,
and laughed with me, when I wished.
As humble too,
often made me wonder...ideal?
He was a friend in a lot of needs,
I hope, I too was.
Geek? Naah...a good friend,
is how I like to remember.
Some things, they say, are priceless,
for me, he really is one.
And a humble prayer,
from heart of hearts,
that he remains one,
long time to come,
a long time to go.
I believe the poem does not match upto the standards of a lot of poems and prose written by me, but the fact that it was spontaneous, fast and in the middle of a class makes me post this onto my blog.
Happy Reading !!!
Think did I long time before,
that engineers rule the world.
Realise did I, not long before,
that just a few geeks do,
the rest just stare.
A shabby picture I had,
about this genre of Homo Sapiens.
A prejudiced stereotype,
deeply rooted, worldly habituated.
They say geeks are not made geeks,
they are born so rather.
I didn't know if it is to be believed or otherwise,
until I meet up this person.
Defying trademarks, his natural self.
"Stereotypes...? Not my cup of tea" his bhaashan
I thought before that people were born to live,
I realise after,
he was born...to "geek".
A guy amazing he was,
oops....amazing's way too an understatement.
Seemed all normal did he,
except for being....hmm
being...a little other-worldly??
A good student he was,
illuminated a lot of unclear scholastic avenues,
with his ....grace.
A good friend was he,
stood by me in my crises,
and laughed with me, when I wished.
As humble too,
often made me wonder...ideal?
He was a friend in a lot of needs,
I hope, I too was.
Geek? Naah...a good friend,
is how I like to remember.
Some things, they say, are priceless,
for me, he really is one.
And a humble prayer,
from heart of hearts,
that he remains one,
long time to come,
a long time to go.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Cadaver
The dusk fog was mystic,
so did they feel....the shoal of chirpy sparrows.
A setting sun the backdrop,
and the painting looked perfect,
for, no shaman was I.
Across the eastern horizons,
where thee sky and thou river mated,
thou senses picked up a nuance.
An odd catamaran, was it?
Thus ensued a hide and seek,
till thou vision won over the sun’s dwindling rays,
till it surfaced, the answer.
Wasn’t a catamaran,
it was a corpse instead.
A lifeless soul roamed somewhere,
thou saw its soulless cadaver.
A cute girl she looked,
adorning her innocence, a wry smile was.
Dreams transformed,
into a frenzy went my mind.
Came rushing the visage of a young kid,
playing gleefully on thee river banks.
Maybe the Gods got envious,
maybe the river got charmed,
but whatever cameth,
cameth upon her was her fate.
Where did she come from,
I sure don’t know.
How did fate tease her,
I didn’t want to know.
Who was she?
Another corpse on thee river,
seemed to whisper, the nearby flora.
The sun a hurry to go home,
the stars were out, ever shining.
As she came, so she flowed away.
Deep into horizon wandered her cadaver,
escorted by my solitary vision,
Thee river took her away,
her pace meandered.
The sun long set, I stood thus,
a pair of closed eyes,
a muted prayer from a solitary heart,
for an unknown person... an unknown cadaver.
so did they feel....the shoal of chirpy sparrows.
A setting sun the backdrop,
and the painting looked perfect,
for, no shaman was I.
Across the eastern horizons,
where thee sky and thou river mated,
thou senses picked up a nuance.
An odd catamaran, was it?
Thus ensued a hide and seek,
till thou vision won over the sun’s dwindling rays,
till it surfaced, the answer.
Wasn’t a catamaran,
it was a corpse instead.
A lifeless soul roamed somewhere,
thou saw its soulless cadaver.
A cute girl she looked,
adorning her innocence, a wry smile was.
Dreams transformed,
into a frenzy went my mind.
Came rushing the visage of a young kid,
playing gleefully on thee river banks.
Maybe the Gods got envious,
maybe the river got charmed,
but whatever cameth,
cameth upon her was her fate.
Where did she come from,
I sure don’t know.
How did fate tease her,
I didn’t want to know.
Who was she?
Another corpse on thee river,
seemed to whisper, the nearby flora.
The sun a hurry to go home,
the stars were out, ever shining.
As she came, so she flowed away.
Deep into horizon wandered her cadaver,
escorted by my solitary vision,
Thee river took her away,
her pace meandered.
The sun long set, I stood thus,
a pair of closed eyes,
a muted prayer from a solitary heart,
for an unknown person... an unknown cadaver.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Anushree
Everybody in the audience was mesmerised by the spectacle of lights. Not Anushree.
As soon as she completed her song, Anushree didn’t know from where she mustered enough courage to look up to her mother’s face. She could surmise what the visage on her mother’s countenance would be. And she wasn’t mistaken. It was what it had to be when you lost your tempo in the middle of the performance plus missing out on a low-pitch note completely, twice in succession. This was the first of two stages of the Elimination Round. Her mother’s face looked drained. Reluctantly, she turned. To face the jury.
“Anushree, do you think you did well?”
It was an expected question. She gave it a thought on what to say. The director of the show had showed her the statistics of the SMS votings she had received. And it didn’t look impressive. The director had suggested an alternative to boost up her “rating” – cry.
Tears were at the brink of her eyes, ready to gush out at her command.
“Anushree is a very talented girl. But we think it was not Anushree’s day today. You could’ve done a better job.You lost the tempo in so-and-so stanza and tone modulation too wasn’t upto the mark in so-and-so section.............”
Anushree couldn’t hear any more. The whole amount of lightings was now blinding her. She longed....for a drop of water, a grotesque statuette in front of a hundred pairs of blazing eyes. Even before those words thrust into her brains like shrapnels, she felt her consciousness deserting her.
The microphone which fell from her hand as she fell, send reverberations across the studio.
The director didn’t “cut” even as Anushree fell. In fact, he was elated at her “outstanding performance.” After all, he had “taught” her just to cry, look melancholic. And here was someone doing a better job than he expected. He was continuously motioning to the cameras panning onto the anxious judges’ face, to take shots of the gaping audience as well. Her fellow contestants came rushing onto the stage, and a significant majority of them succeeded in displaying a glance of their faces onto the ever zooming camera lenses.
Even after Anushree was moved from the stage, the sober mood of the session was sustained by the anchor, who the director reflected, very efficiently sensed the pulse of the show. The adjudicators focussed on Anushree’s flashback performances. And one of them even went on to the extent of saying that she was one of the most talented performers in the whole bunch of contestants.
It took quite some time for Anushree to regain consciousness. She glanced around to the faces of her fellow participants-envy and jealousy were implanted all over their expressions. Instead, her “performance” after a flopped performance, gave new ideas to many of her co-contestants, in case something goes wrong. The director too was overjoyed-he got a few amazing moments, which could be used in the show’s advertisements. And he conveyed that with a gleaming nod, to Anushree’s mother.
But the tension on the face of Anushree’s mother still lingered. She knew that Anushree’s SMS ratings were on the decline. And the revalation that “buying” SMSes with their dwindling bank balance sheets was becoming a bleak possibility, set the direction for her thoughts. Calls continued to pour to and from her mobile phone. And her father, who was running around trying to obtain economically viable solutions to the same problem, never stood by for a moment and thought...about Anushree.
That Anushree needed them the most. Then.
Even after they reached home, Anushree’s mind was still pre-occupied with the whole debacle. She often sobbed when she rehearsed the song, the one she had chosen had a sombre tone. She didn’t know why she was crying. In fact, more and more she went through the song, the more she felt that she was isolated in the world.
She despised an alien world. She did.
No sooner had her mother gone to the club, Anushree closed her room door and fell onto her bed. She reflected, sobbing all the while, that she had lost her childhood in her race behind learning and music; rather books and music competitions. She found it hard to recollect a few faces of her kindergarten classmates, whom she once thought she’ll never forget. She saw a small butterfly trapped in the mesh cover of her French windows. She made herself to rise up and go to the window. The little butterfly was making fruitless efforts to disentangle itself from the trap it was in. Wiping her tears, she freed it and opened the windows. Her gaze followed the butterfly as it happily burst off into distant world....into freedom. Into life....And seeing that, as if in frenzy, Anushree screamed and ran off into her bed. She thought she would find some solace under her blanket, hugging her dear cotton pillow. But it was not to be. The cartoon characters imprinted on her bedsheet seemed to mock her.
She discovered some noise in her screaming. To get away. To get out. She felt as if her small world-something that till recently comprised of her mother and father other than herself, had become a mere Utopian concept. The song for the next performance was filtering its way into Anushree’s ears from the Sony music system at the corner of her room. Armed as if by a divine courage, she caught hold of the nearest book she could grasp and threw it at the music system. And she got all the more infuriated when she saw that the music had not stopped in spite. Getting up from the bed, she charged down her room, lifted the music system and threw it on the wall.
As the music ceased to emanate from the “music system” anymore, Anushree for the first time in days, felt relieved.
Armed with her bedsheet, she wriggled her way onto the final stage-one final elimination. Her ears seemed to throng with reverberations of claps from the audience....her eyes seemed to visualise cameras panning in upon her from all possible range of angles. The sobbing picture of her parents made the close up.... wet towels of her relatives formed the long range shot.....And the background was subdued with a solemn song.
The wings of the ceiling fan proved strong enough.
At the recording studio, the director motioned “Start camera rolling...action!” A dark colour clad adjudicator pronounced the verdict, “Anushree Suresh....age sixteen....eliminated from the show.”
As soon as she completed her song, Anushree didn’t know from where she mustered enough courage to look up to her mother’s face. She could surmise what the visage on her mother’s countenance would be. And she wasn’t mistaken. It was what it had to be when you lost your tempo in the middle of the performance plus missing out on a low-pitch note completely, twice in succession. This was the first of two stages of the Elimination Round. Her mother’s face looked drained. Reluctantly, she turned. To face the jury.
“Anushree, do you think you did well?”
It was an expected question. She gave it a thought on what to say. The director of the show had showed her the statistics of the SMS votings she had received. And it didn’t look impressive. The director had suggested an alternative to boost up her “rating” – cry.
Tears were at the brink of her eyes, ready to gush out at her command.
“Anushree is a very talented girl. But we think it was not Anushree’s day today. You could’ve done a better job.You lost the tempo in so-and-so stanza and tone modulation too wasn’t upto the mark in so-and-so section.............”
Anushree couldn’t hear any more. The whole amount of lightings was now blinding her. She longed....for a drop of water, a grotesque statuette in front of a hundred pairs of blazing eyes. Even before those words thrust into her brains like shrapnels, she felt her consciousness deserting her.
The microphone which fell from her hand as she fell, send reverberations across the studio.
The director didn’t “cut” even as Anushree fell. In fact, he was elated at her “outstanding performance.” After all, he had “taught” her just to cry, look melancholic. And here was someone doing a better job than he expected. He was continuously motioning to the cameras panning onto the anxious judges’ face, to take shots of the gaping audience as well. Her fellow contestants came rushing onto the stage, and a significant majority of them succeeded in displaying a glance of their faces onto the ever zooming camera lenses.
Even after Anushree was moved from the stage, the sober mood of the session was sustained by the anchor, who the director reflected, very efficiently sensed the pulse of the show. The adjudicators focussed on Anushree’s flashback performances. And one of them even went on to the extent of saying that she was one of the most talented performers in the whole bunch of contestants.
It took quite some time for Anushree to regain consciousness. She glanced around to the faces of her fellow participants-envy and jealousy were implanted all over their expressions. Instead, her “performance” after a flopped performance, gave new ideas to many of her co-contestants, in case something goes wrong. The director too was overjoyed-he got a few amazing moments, which could be used in the show’s advertisements. And he conveyed that with a gleaming nod, to Anushree’s mother.
But the tension on the face of Anushree’s mother still lingered. She knew that Anushree’s SMS ratings were on the decline. And the revalation that “buying” SMSes with their dwindling bank balance sheets was becoming a bleak possibility, set the direction for her thoughts. Calls continued to pour to and from her mobile phone. And her father, who was running around trying to obtain economically viable solutions to the same problem, never stood by for a moment and thought...about Anushree.
That Anushree needed them the most. Then.
Even after they reached home, Anushree’s mind was still pre-occupied with the whole debacle. She often sobbed when she rehearsed the song, the one she had chosen had a sombre tone. She didn’t know why she was crying. In fact, more and more she went through the song, the more she felt that she was isolated in the world.
She despised an alien world. She did.
No sooner had her mother gone to the club, Anushree closed her room door and fell onto her bed. She reflected, sobbing all the while, that she had lost her childhood in her race behind learning and music; rather books and music competitions. She found it hard to recollect a few faces of her kindergarten classmates, whom she once thought she’ll never forget. She saw a small butterfly trapped in the mesh cover of her French windows. She made herself to rise up and go to the window. The little butterfly was making fruitless efforts to disentangle itself from the trap it was in. Wiping her tears, she freed it and opened the windows. Her gaze followed the butterfly as it happily burst off into distant world....into freedom. Into life....And seeing that, as if in frenzy, Anushree screamed and ran off into her bed. She thought she would find some solace under her blanket, hugging her dear cotton pillow. But it was not to be. The cartoon characters imprinted on her bedsheet seemed to mock her.
She discovered some noise in her screaming. To get away. To get out. She felt as if her small world-something that till recently comprised of her mother and father other than herself, had become a mere Utopian concept. The song for the next performance was filtering its way into Anushree’s ears from the Sony music system at the corner of her room. Armed as if by a divine courage, she caught hold of the nearest book she could grasp and threw it at the music system. And she got all the more infuriated when she saw that the music had not stopped in spite. Getting up from the bed, she charged down her room, lifted the music system and threw it on the wall.
As the music ceased to emanate from the “music system” anymore, Anushree for the first time in days, felt relieved.
Armed with her bedsheet, she wriggled her way onto the final stage-one final elimination. Her ears seemed to throng with reverberations of claps from the audience....her eyes seemed to visualise cameras panning in upon her from all possible range of angles. The sobbing picture of her parents made the close up.... wet towels of her relatives formed the long range shot.....And the background was subdued with a solemn song.
The wings of the ceiling fan proved strong enough.
At the recording studio, the director motioned “Start camera rolling...action!” A dark colour clad adjudicator pronounced the verdict, “Anushree Suresh....age sixteen....eliminated from the show.”
Saturday, January 9, 2010
In The Lurch
Across the bantering rains,
mystic obscurity of haze and fog,
standing alone was I.
Me but a solitary me,
scared I was, alone I was
No light to guide, no shade to hide,
a lonely road is all I saw.
An alien world was busy,
who cared if an alien I wasn’t.
Hungry askance of ravaging predators
Oh but I had only myself to pray.
Through the raindrops the rainbow smiled,
only to make me realise it wasn’t beautiful, after all.
The thankings of a thirsty hornbill,
the elation of a novice peacock,
I never knew where they melted away.
In the lurch I stood,
waiting for an angel to lift me up
Crying, was I?
No I don’t know.
But God, I didn’t want you to send me here.
A life is what thou dreamt,
shattered dreams are all what I got.
A dwelling is what thou yearned
didn’t know I was destined a broken glasshouse.
So here I was in the lurch,
unsheltered in the deluge of rains,
when I saw thy angel.
The lonely road I took.
Sure was a tear in my eye,
a tear sent by God it seemed.
All I remember thus, my last second of life.
‘Coz it blocked my vision.
And there I saw thy four wheeled angel,
coming to take my life.
All over in a flash it was,
a new life after life I hope.
No more was I in the lurch.
And at last I realise,
the rainbow never looked so lovely.
mystic obscurity of haze and fog,
standing alone was I.
Me but a solitary me,
scared I was, alone I was
No light to guide, no shade to hide,
a lonely road is all I saw.
An alien world was busy,
who cared if an alien I wasn’t.
Hungry askance of ravaging predators
Oh but I had only myself to pray.
Through the raindrops the rainbow smiled,
only to make me realise it wasn’t beautiful, after all.
The thankings of a thirsty hornbill,
the elation of a novice peacock,
I never knew where they melted away.
In the lurch I stood,
waiting for an angel to lift me up
Crying, was I?
No I don’t know.
But God, I didn’t want you to send me here.
A life is what thou dreamt,
shattered dreams are all what I got.
A dwelling is what thou yearned
didn’t know I was destined a broken glasshouse.
So here I was in the lurch,
unsheltered in the deluge of rains,
when I saw thy angel.
The lonely road I took.
Sure was a tear in my eye,
a tear sent by God it seemed.
All I remember thus, my last second of life.
‘Coz it blocked my vision.
And there I saw thy four wheeled angel,
coming to take my life.
All over in a flash it was,
a new life after life I hope.
No more was I in the lurch.
And at last I realise,
the rainbow never looked so lovely.
Friday, January 1, 2010
ADIEU A POWERFUL DECADE
Often wondered on many previous New Year eves-why is it that we always show a great zeal in welcoming the New Year as we simultaneously neglect the year that goes by. We often talk about New Year resolutions but do we ever look back to see if we fulfilled any of those resolutions which we took the same day a year ago?
This time around, the New Year is a little more special than usual. Because it is the beginning of a new decade. Or rather, I would say, it is the end of a powerful one.
The past decade is something that “revolutionized” the me in myself. I distinctly remember those days of the late 1990s and early 2000s. That was a time when I used to be a regular reader of Tinkle Digest (must admit it’s something I do even now!!!). The “thickest” books I ever read were those of Enid Blyton – Famous Five and Secret Seven series. The few things I knew about a computer was to use MS DOS, Paint, MS PowerPoint and a few games. And for me, life was all home, school and my dad's college. And home, school and dad's college was life.
The past decade also infused in me a lot of thoughts and ideologies, the most important one being communism. I was influenced by communism and I believe this happened because I went through a lot of communist-based literature at an age when I was not very much in a position to take decisions.
Terrorism,Twitter,Google,Transistors,Tsunami-all these were words unknown at the dawn of the millennium. In fact, a lot of these were unknown to me until the latter half of the decade. Also this decade has the speciality that I started my tryst with the world of competitive examinations. Something which I am not entirely in favour of till date.
I don’t know if I am a changed person as compared to what I was ten years ago, but certainly I like myself the way I did then. I started the habit of reading, a very good habit at that. Mainly fiction novels, but I don’t mind the occasional philosophy as well. While in primary sections, I had the habit of writing regularly. But that habit became intermittent as I looked upon people and incidents to make me write. Another change that was brought about was the writing style. I started writing fewer poems and more prose as compared with the opposite trend earlier. And also I started writing in my mother tongue in this decade. And I still find it way more hard to write in Malayalam than in English, something I wish to rectify with time. Reading particularly news magazines and soccer world cup history was something I picked up in the early part of this decade.
This is a decade when I started taking resolutions. And stopped the practice as well. But one resolution which I took somewhere in the middle of the decade, possibly 2004 or 2005 is something I very strictly adhere to, even till date. That I will not miss the chance to sing my national anthem anytime. And I make it a point to go to any function that has the national anthem in its agenda as much as possible.
Another set of memories of the gone-by decade would be the life in college. College life is something that influences everybody, me being no exception. All those (un)successful mass bunks, those sleepy lectures from the last bench, night outs at hostels, delivery (and in unfortunate cases, the recipt as well) of GPLs, night walks through the college campus-every moment had a special charm. Remember someone saying that how he wished he was born on February 29 so that he would’ve had to bear only one GPL in his college life! And it is this decade that gave me all these.
Oops. I nearly missed out. 2000 is the last year I studied Hindi officially!! It was in mid 2000 that I attempted to read Munshi Prem Chand’s Godaan. Remember flipping through around 35-40 pages with persistent hard work. After that the book went back to the school library shelves.
I don’t know what prompted me to write this article. But I regret the fact that I didn’t write anything this day 10 years ago and I might not want to regret the same mistake when India and the world awake to 2020. I never imagined that I would be here 10 years before and I do think that I can repeat the same statement a decade ahead. Maybe a few years down the lane, I might look back on this article. And smile.
Maybe that’s what I write this for.
Maybe.
Adieu a powerful decade.
This time around, the New Year is a little more special than usual. Because it is the beginning of a new decade. Or rather, I would say, it is the end of a powerful one.
The past decade is something that “revolutionized” the me in myself. I distinctly remember those days of the late 1990s and early 2000s. That was a time when I used to be a regular reader of Tinkle Digest (must admit it’s something I do even now!!!). The “thickest” books I ever read were those of Enid Blyton – Famous Five and Secret Seven series. The few things I knew about a computer was to use MS DOS, Paint, MS PowerPoint and a few games. And for me, life was all home, school and my dad's college. And home, school and dad's college was life.
The past decade also infused in me a lot of thoughts and ideologies, the most important one being communism. I was influenced by communism and I believe this happened because I went through a lot of communist-based literature at an age when I was not very much in a position to take decisions.
Terrorism,Twitter,Google,Transistors,Tsunami-all these were words unknown at the dawn of the millennium. In fact, a lot of these were unknown to me until the latter half of the decade. Also this decade has the speciality that I started my tryst with the world of competitive examinations. Something which I am not entirely in favour of till date.
I don’t know if I am a changed person as compared to what I was ten years ago, but certainly I like myself the way I did then. I started the habit of reading, a very good habit at that. Mainly fiction novels, but I don’t mind the occasional philosophy as well. While in primary sections, I had the habit of writing regularly. But that habit became intermittent as I looked upon people and incidents to make me write. Another change that was brought about was the writing style. I started writing fewer poems and more prose as compared with the opposite trend earlier. And also I started writing in my mother tongue in this decade. And I still find it way more hard to write in Malayalam than in English, something I wish to rectify with time. Reading particularly news magazines and soccer world cup history was something I picked up in the early part of this decade.
This is a decade when I started taking resolutions. And stopped the practice as well. But one resolution which I took somewhere in the middle of the decade, possibly 2004 or 2005 is something I very strictly adhere to, even till date. That I will not miss the chance to sing my national anthem anytime. And I make it a point to go to any function that has the national anthem in its agenda as much as possible.
Another set of memories of the gone-by decade would be the life in college. College life is something that influences everybody, me being no exception. All those (un)successful mass bunks, those sleepy lectures from the last bench, night outs at hostels, delivery (and in unfortunate cases, the recipt as well) of GPLs, night walks through the college campus-every moment had a special charm. Remember someone saying that how he wished he was born on February 29 so that he would’ve had to bear only one GPL in his college life! And it is this decade that gave me all these.
Oops. I nearly missed out. 2000 is the last year I studied Hindi officially!! It was in mid 2000 that I attempted to read Munshi Prem Chand’s Godaan. Remember flipping through around 35-40 pages with persistent hard work. After that the book went back to the school library shelves.
I don’t know what prompted me to write this article. But I regret the fact that I didn’t write anything this day 10 years ago and I might not want to regret the same mistake when India and the world awake to 2020. I never imagined that I would be here 10 years before and I do think that I can repeat the same statement a decade ahead. Maybe a few years down the lane, I might look back on this article. And smile.
Maybe that’s what I write this for.
Maybe.
Adieu a powerful decade.
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