The Warlock

The Metropolis

2012-02-06T01:41:00.012-05:00

My first tryst with this city was more than a decade ago. It was a nascent metropolis then. With every road representing a tunnel formed by a canopy of trees on either sides, it seemed as if Sher Shah's dream of the Grand Trunk Road was finally being realized here. The individual houses, characterized by the mask of a demon's face (usually atop the main entrance), a solar tank on the terrace, and a stairway gracing the outside of the house seemed to be in perfect harmony with their ambiance. The city was a burgeoning metro that had not yet graduated in terms of cunning, complexity, and ruthlessness. The autowallahs, despite the bloodline of their profession did not have the guile that characterized their cousins in the other metros. All you needed to provide was the destination name, and your man-in-khaki would turn the meter on, and take you on a pleasant ride. The food you ate was simple yet unadulterated, much like the people you were likely to meet during a random walk across the city. They did their daily work, but also found time to help you, even if you did not speak their language. Even the gods seemed to bless the city with pleasant weather; A slight yet refreshing chill in the morning, a lukewarm afternoon and an ephemeral drizzle before the end of the day to condition the rise in mercury; Like the icing on a cake.

This was a city that had no metro-rails, no trams, no mono-rails, few construction sites, a single circular-design bus terminus, and a pygmy of a railway station (when compared to Howrah or The Victoria Terminus). It was perhaps an idyllic town amidst the wilderness at the time when its cousins (Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras) were already anointed either as a financial or administrative or military capital of the country by one or several erstwhile empires. Yet, it was striving to raise its green horn among these colossus of cities to claim its rightful place on the country's map.

Somewhere down the line, that desire not to be left out transformed into a passion and eventually a necessity. For better or for worse is a question that I cannot answer (since I haven't spent enough time with her off late). But Bangalore fought a mighty battle to be counted. A decade ago she was a little girl with her hair massaged lavishly in coconut oil, made up in braids and entwined with red ribbons and a strand of mallige. Today she wears a different coiffure, more in line with the occidental taste. Even if by chance you spot her without the Ray-Ban, the maskara will not let you peep into her eyes. She has discarded the old-fashioned pallu and has adorned the checkered Monte Carlo scarf. She is not afraid of the "whistles" any more, but dismisses them as compliments from mortals who suffer from a dearth of expression. The timidity has given way to a certain boldness that stands precariously on the border of being brash. But she does not care. She has taken the cultural swing by its horn and learnt to time a perfect Mexican wave.

Today, the locust-like increase in the number of multiplexes, office complexes, housing complexes, and a plethora of other complexes along with the numerous roads, boulevards and flyovers are a prima facie testimony that the city is fighting well against its aging adversaries, at least on the "infrastructure" front. The overweening billboards are replete with ambitious promises of a Home-Sweet-Home amidst the garden of Eden, for every Adam and Eve who cares to look up. The out-of-vogue individual home-owner too has not fallen far behind. He has draped every tree trunk and electric pole with advertisements that read "1BHK - 8000, 2BHK - 12000, 3BHK - 18000". The city has opened up to let in the Pied-Piper's mice. She has become the Promised Land (where milk and honey flows albeit at an exorbitant price) primarily for a stream of humanity who belong not to the biblical Jewish faith, but to a more modern clan called "IT". The little girl sure has transformed into a shrewd saleswoman. She has marketed herself well.

Today, the young women and men who tread her have a purpose in every footstep. The previously ubiquitous "chappal" has relinquished its popularity to the Nike and Marie Claire. Every T-shirt has an emblem of Armani, or LeeCooper or UCB on it, no matter how "country-made" the caption on its front may seem (I saw a "LeeCooper" which read "I can give headache to an Aspirin"). One secretly desires to voluntarily work for one of these T-shirt makers and provide them ones indigenous two-liners. Surely the idea of cottage industry isn't dead yet. Spike (the bull dog in the Tom and Jerry show) can now die in peace for his namesake now resides on (not "in") every teenager's head.

When you have a million mouths; They will eat. Bangalore knows that. She has strewn her roadsides with food stall aplenty. But, rarely will you find one that sells the traditional dosa, uthappam or kesari bath. No, she is too smart to know what sells among the Pied-Piper's minions. She will hold the Afghan, Punjabi, Bengali, Hyderabadi and other delicacies at the passer-by and stop him on his path every day, till ( like Pavlov's dog) one day he learns to stop by himself and crave for the dishes. It is a trick she has learnt well. As someone once said, "Its nothing personal, its strictly business".

Change to her has come with a compromise. Her honest men-in-khaki have learnt to shed the gentleman in them. They now resemble more a taxiwallah from Kolkata who can smell a tourist from a mile away and refuse to use the meter. They now "quote" a price when you quote a destination. You can dream of a "pleasant ride" still, but in a Meru Cab at five times the price. The canopy over her roads have become less verdant and the typical city-smog has hijacked the once clean atmosphere. The sea of red and amber lights along with the discord of horns on her roads are reminiscent of the infamous traffic-jams of Kolkata. However, through all the transition she has managed to maintain sanity. The innumerable parks that once earned her the Garden City tag; The roads that are kept clean by the timely sweeping of a diligent man; The coconut and maize vendor as you turn a street corner; The smell of coffee; The sight of Palash and African Tulip waiting patiently for a discerning eye. Together they have kept the redolence of the city intact. Bengaluru today is like an old friend who has transformed over the years. Yet her dimpled smile reminds one of the carefree days gone by.

A volte-face that mattered

2012-01-31T01:16:00.039-05:00

A sinuous road culminates at the apex of the hillock. It is said that a great emperor once stood on top of it and looked down at the meandering river Daya that had turned crimson with blood. The sight is purported to have transformed the man. A testimony to that legend lies at the base of the hillock etched in stone (in the ancient Pali script).

Two millenniums and two centuries later, the idyllic river still flows albeit belying the morbid sight it once witnessed. A herd of buffaloes lie prostrate on its bank, basking in the sun that beats hard on the anvil of Utkal. The benign calm of the place is eerily deafening, like the introduction of Death in The Seventh Seal. The warm air flowing over the expanse of the region rushes through the nostril, fills the lungs and forces a gasp out of the bystander; As if to say that perusing such a sight only befits a lion-hearted monarch and not a lesser mortal. The land, whose allurement once caused the war (that cost a "million" lives) now gives life in the form of lush green farming fields, as if in an act of penance.

On fulfilling this tryst with history the traveler now walks down the circutous path to where the rock edict lies, at the foot of the hillock. A monolithic elephant (left in its semi-sculpted state) stands sentinel, guarding the edict for two thousand years. Time shows in the eroded tusks and the tired eyes. A dozen rules on morality and benevolence are etched in the stone below. It is the closest to the proverbial "writing on the wall" that I have witnessed in my life. This is not Belshazzar's court; Neither were the inscriptions written by the hand of god. And it wasn't certainly deciphered by Daniel. That these could be the rules charted by the same man who caused the Daya to turn scarlet is beyond the comprehension of a lesser man.

There have been ruthless conquerors like Alexander, Chengis Khan and Julius Caesar. And there have been supreme givers like Mahavira and Buddha. But perhaps none who transitioned from a ruthless ruler to a supreme giver in one lifetime, like Asoka!

As I mull over, I realize how difficult it must have been to change oneself, so late in life, and after much "success". The depth of self introspection required to realize ones own flaws (amidst the "glory" of this success) and the subsequent determination to be able to alter oneself for the better, is unfathomable. Asoka could have left his legacy at Kalinga. History would have remembered him as a great emperor still, like Alexander, Akbar, Caesar and others. Shahrukh would have still made the movie despite being deprived of the melodramatic ending. True, there would have been no Dharmashoka, but the rest of history would have remained unaltered.

Like Asoka, perhaps most humans with even a semi-fertile brain hear the "guilty" verdict often in the courtroom of our head. A student hears it when he cheats in class, the teacher when he answers incorrectly to camouflage his ignorance, the policeman as he accepts a bribe, and a politician as he reads a hollow speech. A "foreign-returned" condescending soul hears it when he complains of filth in his motherland. A writer when he sells plagiarized work, an auctioneer when he sells a fake, et al. I hear it for all the morally incorrect things that I do and the duties that I shirk off as "not mine". To hear that verdict in our little heads is not so much a rare human faculty as is the ability thereafter to walk the path of redemption.

The Asokan edicts evince a complete understanding of the magnitude of the emperor's own guilt (which in his case arose from the taking of innumerable lives) and a subsequent effort to redeem himself. They mostly evince the man's disgust of his own gory "success". Asoka's is a perpetual example to all present day corporate honchos and political heads (as well as to the rest of us with moral/social responsibilities) that standing at the apex does not absolve one of an immoral path traversed to reach there. There is glory not in ensconcing oneself on the mound of dead, but in the ability to accept ones guilt and do a volte-face in pursuit of being a better human.

Of travel and travail

2012-01-26T01:55:00.039-05:00

A train journey has always enthralled me with its kaleidoscopic experience. The leisurely moving landscapes, the golden wheat fields interspersed by greener ones; The more hurried string of coconut trees, the motley orchards, the blur of wild shrubs along the railway tracks, the occasional village urchin waving a tattered cloth, the metal rails of the adjacent track, the air garnished by the pungent aroma of diesel, and the distant hoot that heralds the passing of the giant serpent. Together they have left an indelible mark.

I have spent hours sticking my face close to the window grill into the abysmal darkness of the amavasya night or at the haloed aura of a full-moon one. The beauty of the clouds and the sun rays peeping through them (as witnessed from an aircraft window) although spectacular has never been able to replace this experience.

A lot of water has flown under the bridge since I made my last substantial journey in 2005, from Kolkata to Bangalore. The ticket was a paltry Rs 450 then. That it provided a berth in a 3-tier Sleeper Class coach and covered a distance of 2000 kms made the amount seem "paltry". Also, the 50% concession on the ticket price provided those invaluable alms to the hollow pocket of a student returning home for vacation. This pocket-money was invaluable for my sustenance of the journey just like a warm coat would have been to one of Napoleon's soldiers returning from Russia, .

A few things have changed since that time. An addition of Rs 58 to the fare, a couple of bed lamps embedded on the side walls beside each berth, and two 3-pin plug points for the convenience of passengers in the coup. The number of vendors selling puri-sabzi at Bhuvaneshwar station however has dwindled to almost nil. The plastic cups in which pineapple juice used to be sold at the Vijayawada Junction have halved in size, and doubled in price. Also, the juice tastes less of pineapple and more of the ubiquitous "Rail Neer" now. Lastly, the Indian Railway employees have reincarnated in their red black and white checkered uniforms shedding their erstwhile navy blue ones.

Other things have remained gladly the same. The distant hooting of the diesel engine, the breakneck speed and the shaking berths at the advent of the wee hours, the beeline of impatient travelers wishing to get down as the train approaches a station, and scampering to get back inside as it departs from one. The taste of coffee has thankfully remained true to its original self. So have the idli-vada and the dry coconut chutney that so many of my Bengali friends loathed. The latrines have "maintained" their standards and still require the passenger to know the right time during the journey to use them. I have traditionally used them only after the train departed from Vijaywada or Vishakhapatnam, strongly believing that these two are the only stations where the latrines are cleaned and the water tanks refilled.

I was making this trip with my wife. I have narrated many a story about my train journeys to her before, and this was my chance to have her experience the thrills and the perils of undertaking one. Therefore, one must pardon my demeanour at discovering the two pairs of eyes ogling in our direction as if to suggest the screening of a riveting movie.

The middle-aged man and the boy in his early twenties were sitting on the berth facing us. Now, I do not suffer from colour-bias, but the complexion of the two men suggested that they may have taken a fresh dip in a bucket of tar. This made their eyes and teeth seem outstandingly bright. At first, I felt a tad irritated by their constant smile, but soon dismissed it as an aberration caused by the contrast in the colour of the skin and the teeth. The man could be best described as a sooted version of Santosh Dutta (I almost waited with bated breath for him to pounce on a khukri and exclaim eta amaar!). The boy was thinner, more talkative and often used a Bengali dialect that I found difficulty in comprehending. He seemed an impatient sort and liked bossing around the older man. I suppressed a compelling urge to straighten him.

Time was whisking by. My wife and I were busy admiring the beauty of the farmlands as the train rushed through the wheat fields of northern Andhra Pradesh. Not being reared in an agrarian family and harbouring only a minimal knowledge about farming I was finding it difficult to answer my wife's queries about the type of crop, vegetables, reaping seasons et al. The boy heard her, sprang to his feet and with a spark in his eyes started explaining the types of crops to her. Soon we could distinguish the onion fields from the okra, and the tomato plantations from the chili. The man joined in and explained that the haystacks in the center of the fields were residue from machine-threshing of the strands of wheat. He lamented that in southern India they use machines to thresh wheat whereas in Bengal it is still done manually. Their knowledge impressed the ignorant middle-class in us and made them a little more tolerable.

As the train stopped at Vishakhapatnam for the change of engine, a sea of humanity filled the station. Shouts of "anda biryani", and "idli-vada" filled the air that was already saturated by the myriad sounds of children crying, mother's yelling and men bellowing. I joined the crowd and inhaled my share of the ether. My wife never left her seat. She was guarding our belongings like an Emperor penguin guards its chicks during the Antarctic winter. Long ago when we were in college she had once slept in a train and had woken up to find her bag missing. It is another story how she managed to retrieve it (after intense negotiation over phone) from the thief. But since then she has vowed not to abandon her belongings while in transit. As I stood alone looking for a pattern in the random movements of the passenger, out of the crowd came a dark finger and poked straight at my ribs! It was Santosh Dutta (my mind by then had already conferred him the name). I had apparently functioned as a human lighthouse and saved him from being lost in the crowd. On discovering me he had ensured that he would end up in the right coach when the train decided to leave the station.

When a man finds something he fears he may have lost, the release of angst sometimes makes him act funny. Such was the case with my friend. He was offering me tea and biscuit for no apparent reason. When I declined he asked about my whereabouts (in an effort to strike an amiable conversation). Not being a particularly suspicious man I gave him the details. I also told him that in case he wondered why my wife speaks broken Bengali, it is because she is not a Bengali by birth. Then I explained to him what "Konkani" means and where this section of humans dwell, because that is where my wife comes from. Although inquisitive, I found the man rather congenial.

We were back in the train. The night was approaching fast. The dim incandescent lamps illuminated the coup and one could see ones own countenance in the glass window. A few street lamps whisked by suggesting that the train was passing through a semi-urban area. After having a fairly sumptuous meal for dinner (the quality of which I found to have improved), my wife shifted to the middle berth to read something she was carrying for the journey. I was lying supine on the lower berth gazing at the ceiling fan. It said "Himalaya" at its center. I remembered the name. Another of the things that have not changed in Indian Railways. I noticed that the odd couple (Santosh Dutta and his stooge) were preparing to get down. The whites of their eyes were scanning in the dark to ensure that they did not leave any stray luggage behind.

As a passing query I asked my man, kothai jachhen aapnara? Anticipating a conversation he settled cross-legged on his berth and replied, Kaaatpadi Jaanction. The place rang a distant bell in my mind, but I could not comprehend why. Then he landed the blow directly in my solar plexus. It wasn't a physical one, but it hurt more. He said he makes this journey every month, with his stooge, who happens to be his nephew by relation. The reason; The boy suffers from blood cancer and requires blood transfusion every month. Hence, destination Vellore, hence Katpadi junction. He blurted out the reason of his travel in a matter-of-fact way, all the while flashing his teeth as if to make a mockery of any response I could muster. It was 11 pm. And the train would not reach Katpadi till 1 am at night. But, these seasoned pilgrims knew better than to lie down and close their eyes. They kept looking at each other in the dark, as I purged all my predicaments in the fire of their eyes. I recalled all the little worries that I have not been brave enough to bear with a smile. They were still smiling at me, and each time they did so my mind strained hard to maintain composure, to hold back that tear drop from a free fall. I looked out at the darkness. It was my only ally for the moment.

I stayed awake for the next two hours to bid them goodbye. As the train left Katpadi, I could see two shadows outside the window. Santosh Dutta was patiently standing. The young man was animatedly describing which way to go to his uncle. He exuded the same arrogance, the same irritation with the world that i had witnessed when I first say him. But this time, I bore no malice.

Much ado about happiness

2012-01-21T04:56:00.009-05:00

I was once given a farewell card by a friend. It said "Happiness is not a destination to reach, but a road to travel". On prima facie the proverb sounds correct, but, I have often wondered if it is true. If one is always happy (as in "a road to travel") will one value happiness anymore? Once it becomes part of the diurnal cycle will it not be akin to every other brand of emotion, banal and hackneyed? Also, what is so wrong about happiness being a destination? One can then look forward to it, and once there, savour it.

I have often believed that happiness is a state of mind. It is that state of ones' mind in which one wishes to stay a little while longer than usual. Years ago, I read in my physics lessons that an atom (or was it a particle) always desires to be in its lowest energy state. It stays "happy" in that state, and if altered, will eternally persevere to reach that state. It is like a constant "destination" that the atom tries to reach. Think about it. We are all like that atom persevering to be "happy". Only, man's definition of happiness keeps changing with time unlike that of an atom. Now, would you consider a path with constantly changing destinations a "road"? I do not know. Therein lies the intrigue of the word,"happy".

When I ponder about what I understand by "happy", they are the moments in life which I would like to volunteer to revisit, not forced to. The refreshing mango juice at the Vijayawada train station (enroute from Kolkata to Madras); The odd ride on a van-rickshaw from Digha to Talshari via the idyllic countryside; The first experience of the Colosseum-like atmosphere of Eden Gardens; The impromptu Goa trip in that tempo-traveler; The dip in the stream behind the college where buffaloes bathed are some of those random memories that I can instantly garner and label as "happy". As anomalous as they may seem to the idea of happiness, they are the ones that have etched fond memories in my subconscious. And fond memories have an odd way of lingering like the smell of mutton curry in your fingers long after you have come home from that Bengali wedding.They make me happy.

This definition of happiness has a certain predicament though. It can only be felt once the moment has passed! While I can be happy at this moment thinking about something pleasant that happened to me in the past, I have no way of being happy by virtue of something that is happening in the present. In essence i may be falling behind in the race for the pursuit of happiness. I sometimes think that perhaps my inability to exude an impulsive reaction hinders me from being instantly "happy" even when there is something conspicuously delightful. It is this lack of spontaniety that constrains me from proclaiming a "WOW" on seeing a decent photograph by an amateur photographer. It is again the reason for a stifled reaction on seeing a decent work of painting, eating a decently palatable dish, wearing a decent dress, or meeting a decent human.

I am almost never instantly "WOW"ed by any of the above. However, that does not mean that I never feel a superlative reaction. However, it is usually much later when something (or someone) WOW-worthy has been revisited by the mind several times and has passed the test of quality. You may say that I like to chew the cud. I am bovine in a sense that I like gazing all day at the meadows but cannot bring myself to exclaim "WOW" at the taste of grass.

Speaking about "WOW", how often does one really feel wowed, I wonder. If "WOWS" were meant for all things "decent" what reaction should one reserve for things that are truly astounding. Say, the Pieta, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the Parthenon, the Taj, the creme de la creme of mankind's achievement? The few wows in my life have been, the Jog (when I stood at its abyssmal depth), the Kanchenjunga (as i spotted it momentarily through a shroud of cloud), the Starry Night (comprising the brush strokes of a troubled genius), and the Konark temple (or what remains of it). Each of them has inevitably evoked a sense of how small I am in mind soul and skill. And that has made me exclaim, Wow !

I believe that as with all things "There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so"; So with happiness there is no rigid definition, but just a concept that one is free to mould by one's own rules. Since, the above paragraphs of incoherent rambling has brought me back to the starting line, I will conclude that happiness may not after all be a destination to reach. Whether it is a road to travel, I leave to the wise minds of the readers to construe. As for me, niether makes a difference as I have comprehensively proved that I do not understand either.

The Murder of the Dead

2012-01-07T02:12:00.017-05:00

There was once a man who worked all his life to make a dwelling out of his meager saving. He had a good wife, a good son (or perhaps two, or even more), and a good life. Then one day his wife decided to take leave of her self and his son(s) decided to jump out of the well into the ocean. Then one day the real-estate agents came by like Death Eaters, took the old man by his cot and put him in a rented apartment ("temporarily, off course", they said). They brought down the dwelling faster than the twin towers and erected in its place, a multi-storied cluster of flats. The old man spent the rest of his life in one of these hole-in-the-wall "flats", looking tremulously down from the 10th storey at the ground which he once so wished would belong to him.

Every time I fly over the skyline of Kolkata, this stereotypical story flashes by my eyes as i see the Lego-like multi-storied buildings viciously sprouting among old individual houses, those almost counting their days like hapless chickens in a butcher's shop. Having lived in a similar "multi-storied complex" for fifteen years in a place which supposedly belonged to a once-profitable-now-defunct cotton factory, I cannot wash my hands off this collective crime of our generation.

It is perhaps practical to be nonchalant about the whole saga and sanctimoniously proclaim that "old order giveth way to the new"; But, in the indifference we evince, are we not murdering the very dreams of which we were once a part? How many parents/grandparents do we know who build these individual "dwellings" not keeping their progenies in mind? Were we not part of their dreams? Then why do we so ruthlessly murder the dreams we were part of? The answer to that may be profitable to the way our generation is planning to lead their lives.

Look around, and you will see a generation that is smothering the dreams of its previous one while it harbours its dreams on the next. The same generation that is bulldozing the "dwellings" to make "flats" is expecting the next one to live happily with them in those flats. The irony is so stark that if you let the bygone generation speak they will come running out of their photo frames and say, "Don't do it son, don't repeat the mistake we made!"

That the past has to perish to make way for the present is the eternal truth. But does demolishing the past so ruthlessly and callously make us any better than any of the barbaric invaders of yore, who repeatedly ravaged India and stripped it off its myriad wealth and defaced its architectural beauties? Is the demolition of ones ancestral home any less than the defacing of the Sun temple at Konark, or the destruction of the Bamiyan Buddha?

As a riposte to the above thought, one can argue that the greatest conquerers (from the Romans to the Mughals) who qualify as creators of many global architectural masterpieces were those who were also destroyers of the history of the places they conquered. So, it may not be necessary for one to have respect for history or heritage to make their own. So why is it important to preserve an old man's "dwelling" after he is gone?

I believe that the reason the conquerers treaded so heavily over the places they travelled was that the history that they destroyed was not created by their forbears in the first place. It was someone else's legacy. Someone not related by blood to them. On the other hand the many dwellings that are bursting like popcorns to give way to a mushroom of multi-storied flats are initiated by a generation that is directly related by flesh and blood to the generation of the stereotypical old man. The terminator of the old man's pagoda is none other than the son who jumped out of the well into the ocean. A classic case of, Et tu Brute.. Then fall Caeser.

In a fragmenting world where a relation is more a stroke of fate and less a genetic strain one must take care to preserve ones roots. Else we run the risk of becoming beautiful orchids in a horticulture garden with no primary tree trunk to lean on. I remember my ancestral house that lies in ruins today. The most intriguing part of the house (that catered to a child's fantasy i.e.) was the garden behind it. As a young boy, I remember fighting a squadron of mosquitoes to visit it. The two coconut trees that marked the end of the property; The jackfruit tree whose base my grandmother protected with innumerous twigs and nettle bushes, the Gandharaj tree that precariously and ironically stood next to the sewerage tank; the papaya tree; the lemon trees; all stand testimony to my childhood. That I have fought many Ram-Ravana, Bhim-Duryodhan battles with bows and arrows made of coconut leaves and a "Goda" made of cheap non-recyclable plastic in this place is no less significant to my existence than my "educational degree" or my "work experience".

Sometimes a noble thought is as important as a noble action. I try to convince my argumentative self that I am different from the good son who leapt out of the well. The hypothesis though, remains to be proved.

..But I go on forever

2011-12-31T23:36:00.036-05:00

The Ganges has never failed to evoke a certain element of pathos in me ever since I was a little boy. Despite its monotony, it has never been a bore. On the contrary, it has evoked questions that often go unheeded as the conveyor of daily drudgery keeps rolling. These questions have ranged from naive ones like, how deep is it in the middle? to more philosophical ones as I have grown in age and thought.

My earliest memories of this aorta of northern India are from the long walks papa and I took from our dwelling in the quarters of a jute mill campus to the wooden jetty that overhung precariously over its muddy bank. I can see myself hop-and-skip down the behemoth wooden staircase of the British-era staff quarters on a Saturday afternoon for a jaunt to the jetty. En route to the jetty, one had to walk through a stretch of pebbled streets garnished with flower bushes on the sides to reach the periphery of the campus and enter the factory site.

In it glory days the less-abused Ganges provided an untrammeled mean of transportation. Raw material and finished goods were regularly transported between the mills and the outside market via the Ganges. The long wooden jetties standing on solid iron framework with a couple of cranes at its end provided the means for the jute bales to be loaded from the factory site in massive barges. These barges would then be driven by innocuous-looking yet powerful wooden steamers along the river to their destination. With time, the road network developed while the Ganges kept choking on the disposals that humanity had to offer to it. I presume that somewhere down the line the powers-that-be turned their faces away from the Ganges and looked to transport their wealth by road. Now, the crestfallen Ganges has thousands of defunct, dilapidated and treacherously-stable jetties pierced into its belly like an anaconda acupunctured by innumerable needles along its sides.

The jetty I visited as a child was in a slightly better condition. The walk through the jute factory to reach it was an exciting one. All along you could hear the deafening noise of the machinery. The jute fibers filled the air like snow flakes in a New York winter. These fibres though were harmful for children like me who suffered from asthma and had a tendency to breathe through their mouths. Along the path we would come across security guards, supervisors and factory workers. In old factories in Bengal, there is a custom (which i believe to be a vestige of the British era) of saluting if one comes across a manager and one happens to be a guard or a worker himself. I always waited for these gestures from the guards when I walked with papa. He usually reciprocated a salute with a modest nod; but, to a child's fantasy it fostered the feeling of a Simba walking alongside a Mufasa through the African safari.

As one approached the jetty, the concrete road gave way to the wooden planks. The planks creaked at the weight of a human feet. The smaller the feet the lesser the creak. I usually hopped with all my might to make the creak happen. As I reached the end, the two gargantuan cranes stood on either sides as sentinels warning me of the might and fury of the Ganges.

On its banks I saw the first bee-eater, making a lasso in the air; the first boatman swaying with his bamboo to make a perfect crescendo; the first carcass with a solitary crow riding on it; the first high tide that set a hapless boat to roller-coast over the water; and many more firsts that have since been washed away from memory.

I remember the night when we crossed the Ganges in a boat from Jagatdal to Chandernagore to see the Jagatdhatri puja. Against the cacophony and the luminosity of its bank ( which has been a characteristic of this place during this festival) the Ganges looked almost Styx-like in its darkness. Only the periodic splashing of the oar disturbed the calm. Years later, on a night that India won the Hero-Cup final at the Eden Gardens, I witnessed this calm being rudely awakened by the constant son et lumiere of "chocolate bombs" and "rockets" (surplus stockpiles from the previous Diwali, stashed away precisely for such occasions).

The Ganges has had a unique influence on my thoughts each time i have stood by it. I have felt fear on the full moon night in 1993 when its water came knocking at our door. That the Farakka Barrage had decided to open its sluice gates to save the villages upstream from being flooded was know to us. What was not known was how different the Ganges looks when it is 50 meters away from your house as opposed to when it has submerged three of the four steps that lead to your house. I remember staring at the brown water in the midst of the night as it toyed with the flower pots that had sat obediently on the steps very recently.

On another purnima, just after the entire community had drenched itself in a motley of colours, the river graciously allowed the colours to be washed off and sanity to prevail at her shores. At that moment it had been the perfect host graciously inviting humanity to enjoy its privilege. And at this moment, I had felt pure joy.

Years later, when I took my first flight out of Kolkata, my state of mind had been oscillating between emotions of apprehension, sorrow, and joy. Just as the flight was airborne, it did the customary tilt and I had a glimpse of the Ganges. From the height it looked no more its behemoth self. It looked rather like a sinewy mass of water negotiating its way through the metropolis. It also symbolized a part of me that I was leaving behind forever. Till then I had known it deep within, but it needed the evening sun to ricochet over the river into my eyes to see it.

Last year I visited her again. This time i went with ma and mashi to immerse Didima's mortal remains in her bosom. She accepted it with the grace with which she has accepted so many others before. I stood there for a while in the cold water, coming to terms with the inevitable. I tied yet another memory with the Ganges and came home.

This year I visited her again. To immerse something else in her bosom. It happened to be a paraphernalia of objects from my marriage last year. She accepted these too just like the year before. I stood there and wondered as to what evokes the gamut of emotions every time I stand by this perennial mass of floating water. I wonder whether there have there been others before who have felt the same. Then I realized that what I just did was a ritual that I blindly followed. Just like a million others before me. The first man (or woman) who conjured this ritual must have had a reason. He or she must have felt something seeing the Ganges that induced such a ritual. It is that something that I cannot explain. Nor do I wish to.

All I know is that the Ganges lets me realize how it feels to feel something. And to be able to feel i believe is a basic human faculty. I am glad it is perennially there and I am glad that I keep returning to it, notwithstanding the reason.

When Picasso is reduced to a typo !

2011-10-27T15:33:00.038-04:00

I write today as a person who reads considerably more than an average Indian my age (I am 29 for those eager to know). That this is where I stand, shamefully proud, with arms akimbo on the reader's scale is a disgrace to me and my generation. Yes, to those few eyebrows that I have been successful in raising (from the untrammeled attention on your Facebook page), Congratulations! You are welcome to enter the attic of a cynic who believes that not all is hunky dory in our corner of the world.

It is true that our generation today has access to some of the world's finest inventions... cars, flights, flatscreen LEDs, laptops, iphones pods pads et al. It is also true that we are making extensive use of these fine inventions. As Newton once said; We are standing on the shoulders of giants... But I somehow doubt that we are seeing more than the giants themselves. These inventions that we wear so proudly on ourselves like medals, are ironically, prizes that belong to the generation that precede ours. It is to them that the glory belongs. It is to us to ensure that we do not make a Frankenstein out of them. I fear that like overindulged parents who dote on their children till they make perfect monkeys out of them, our previous generation too racked their brains and brawn to make great inventions available to us. Sadly, their efforts, though noble may inadvertently be responsible for making monkeys out of us.

We now have the tools necessary to take civilization forward, but lack the very depth in human attributes like the knowledge of surrounding, the utilization of our abilities (sans gadgets), and the urge to remove the veil of obfuscation to see the truth that lies behind it. We are like a dog who has lost its sense of smell, a bat without its sense of sound, a hawk without vision, a lion without fangs. Simply using advanced technology does not power a generation to be more knowledgeable than a generation that did not have access to the same level of technology!

I find the balance of knowledge slightly skewed when an engineer (termed a "Techie" in contemporary media parlance) can operate an iphone4S with blindfolded dexterity and grieve over the soul of its so-called creator (ignoring several equally fertile brains other than Steve's that made the contraption possible), and simultaneously remain ignorant of the name Nikolai Tesla! Mind you.. the same Electrical Engineer who admires Steve Jobs' contribution to his field does not know the name of Nikolai Tesla, arguably one of the founding fathers of the same field! It is tantamount to calling oneself a Computer Engineer without ever coming across the name of Charles Babbage. It is like biting an apple not knowing that its a fruit!

In the days when there were no Single Lens Reflex digital cameras and very few analogue ones around, my father taught me the basics of photography with the help of a pencil, a piece of paper, and three optical terms; shutter speed, aperture and focal length. He also lectured about 'depth-of-field' and 'depth-of-focus', definitions too complicated for a 5 year old to grasp. Today, it is difficult to find a person without a digital SLR, in fact it is a blasphemy if you have traveled on-site and haven't bought yourself one! However, I wonder whether there are really more people in our generation than my dad's who know what 'SLR' stands for and are aware of it's basic operation (despite the millions slinging from as many necks). A generation has craved for what you hold today in your hands friends. If nothing, at least spend an hour on Wikipedia to read what it is. You will do poor Daguerre a favour.

A friend of mine likes playing PS3 (for those who are from the Dark Ages and do not know what it means; PlayStation3 is a video game console by SONY). Another of the commendable inventions to have been lavished on our generation. My friend is playing a series called Unchartered2 wherein his avatar is trekking through the snow-capped Himalayas, running through monasteries, and bouncing over pagodas in search of hidden treasure. The place is incidentally named Shangri-La by the game's designer. Gives me solace to know that at least the designer(s) read James Hilton's Lost Horizon. I find it hard to convince my friend that Shangri-La is a fictional place mentioned in that novel and to my knowledge it is there that this name was first used; and, it was not the designer of Unchartered2 who invented this place! You see, the perils of not reading, because it is uncool!

With so much on our plate, all we have to do is eat. But sometimes it is necessary to peep in the kitchen to figure how the food eventually made it to the plate (Sagar, a vegetarian friend of mine in college always made a survey of the kitchen of a restaurant to ensure that they did not make the daal makhani in the same pan where once they cooked a delicious murgh masala :)). Else, we run the risk of not only being dumb ourselves, but, more frighteningly, breed a generation that believes that money is produced in ATMs and water in vending machines.

Soon, the name Nero will just be known as a CD-ROM burning software, Magellan the name of a GPS company, Picasso will be reduced to a typo for Picasa, Edison will be best known as a desi-town in New Jersey, Agni a name of some kind of missile, Bose a music-system, and so on.

The pain of reading though mostly unrewarding monetarily and greatly time-consuming can at times take a human mind to the depth of understanding without which the mind just sees and hears and feels things without really registering what it saw, heard or felt. That is why my father can walk through Mendeleev's periodic table and talk through Hemingway and ponder over Chekov as I fidget in my mind if 'Au' stands for gold or silver.

The cerebral plunge

2011-09-05T23:57:00.021-04:00

One of the wonders of mother Nature is her ability to reduce ones quotidian worries to a ludicrous level when one is in her midst. I have felt my troubles being mocked at whenever I have stood under the night sky by the rock at the corner of the cricket field in Shimoga; especially the nights before the semester exams. The Big Dipper would stare down at me as if to ask, What is your problem, son? I have felt it moments before ducking under a head-high wave as a little boy on the shores of Puri, and as a grown lad on the shores of the Atlantic. The momentary experience of drowning has on each occasion allowed me to appreciate the next free breath. I have felt it while coming down the icy slope at breakneck speed, unsure if the wedge i formed with my ski blades would be enough to stop me in time. Today, I felt the same, gaping at the everlasting ribbons of white foam roaring down and disappearing into the mist beneath. The Niagara, has yet again convinced me of my nugatory existence in the larger scheme of things.

I sat by the spectacular site as the tiny ripples grew into waves and the waves systematically plunged to their death, and were reborn through the mist to start another journey. As I quietly stood, a thousand faces must have passed by; each a different hue, a different tongue, a different coiffure, a different living being, inconsequential in the canvas that my mind was staring at. I felt that if i jumped into the flowing mass of water right there, it would have made no difference to these moving faces except for a spectacle to stare at, maybe for a while. Which makes me ask myself; What is more important? To live a selfish existence whereby I can cater to all the desires that the flesh and mind is constantly subjected to, till the very end, chasing everything that can improve the livability of my life and thereby ensuring that I spend the entire span of my life just for myself; Or, to live a life that by example may influence other lives to deviate from the selfish existence, and in the process pick up a perpetual fight against human desires that constantly obfuscate an unselfish thought?

I tried but could not think of one human being who was known and revered just for having led a bon vivant for himself. Nothing else, but a good selfish life for himself. So, what is the intention of the millions who like me have come from a middle class existence, have duly become engineers, and are now one among the myriad faces gradually flowing towards the plunge. What mark are we going to leave mates? What will you and I be if the job, house, car, laptop, and other parasitic details were stripped off us and we were to stand stark naked under the Big Dipper which questioned, What good are you, son? What good is your life?

There is a little dwarf living in a decrepit dark room inside each of us. Let us call him anna hazare (Since an unknown entity can be better identified by a know entity. That is how the brain works). This guy wants to rid you of your selfish existence and make you fit to answer the Big Dipper's questions. But he stands no chance, for he is fighting Goliath. The Goliath in this case is not a biblical myth; it is real. It is the self obsessed you. It is you who finds a mascot in the outside world to fight corruption, but fails to listen to the dying dwarf, asking you to fight for a similar cause. Sadly his fight is not against a corrupt government or a dysfunctional establishment. It is against the frankenstein you created; yourselves.

The day I give more importance to the story about a persevering teacher in the rundown hinterlands of my country over the success story of a lecturer at MIT; the day a weekly donation follows my weekly paycheck; the day my writing influences other people to follow suit; the day i wake up convincing myself that an act of honesty isn't also an act of a simpleton; the day I can look myself in the mirror and convince the reflection that there is at least one other person apart from the two of us whom I could influence to help that poor dwarf win, will, also be the day when I can face the Big Dipper proudly, and say, yes i did good in life. And that is the day I shall not need a mascot, for I shall be my own mascot.

The most important questions in life are those that do not have answers. They keep you interested, till the end.

A state of mind

2011-08-18T02:02:00.002-04:00

As the turbulence of the mind
Burgeons in solitude
As the redolence of the past
Percolates the nostrils
I desire to see the bygone
But its lost in the mist
The urge to look forth
Is wrapped in fortune's fist.
I look with eyes open
But there is only darkness to direct
I feel with arms outstretched
But the shadows dance in zest
Then I hear the oriole singing
And I know that its just my mind ?

The night I dined with them.

2011-07-24T17:57:00.025-04:00

I was gormandizing the food on the dinner plate, oblivious of the ladies and the gentleman, patiently awaiting my audience. Most of my life I had taken them for granted; I saw no reason to mend my ways now. Besides, every time they had presented me with their affection,time, and effort, I have reciprocated by being well-mannered, obedient, and patient. So, our scores were even and there was no reason for more bartering, or so I had thought.

We were in a strange room. One could not definitively call it a dining room or a drawing room, or even a bedroom. Also, strange was the assortment of furniture of this room. True, I was sitting at the dining table. But the gentleman before me was sitting on a wooden frame easy-chair that had no symphony with the straight-back in which I sat. One of the ladies, a tiny one, sat at the far corner of a massive king-size bed. She was merrily knitting away from two woolen balls, the colours of which I could not distinguish. The other one, much larger than the little lady sat herself on a decrepit single-bed which could barely sustain her. I wished I could swap the two women to improve the geometric sanity of this room. Then there was a third one who sat far away in the darkest corner. She seemed oblivious of my presence. Even in the dark she was reading something through a thick black frame of spectacles. I had a feeling I had visited her before.

All the light in the room came from a single source. The glowing wick of an over-sized clumsy clay prodip that lay before me on the dining table. It seemed as if it's creator was a kindergarten kid who had been provided ample clay to play with.

A tad irritated as to why I was being subjected to such an interrogative atmosphere, I looked the gentleman in the eye and asked him "Is there something you want to ask me?". The hazel eyes glinted, and I could see the flickering flame of the lamp in them. He got up slowly, as if time had no value to him, walked up to my table, picked up the comb (till then I had no idea that a comb was lying there), and went back to his seat. Then he kept back-brushing his hair till I could see the regimental strands even from where I sat. This surely must be a drill to test my patience. I decided to play ball. Then, almost as I was starting to think that my question had got lost in the conundrum of this room, in came his reply, "Yes, why are you here?". Taken aback by the barefacedness of the question, and the paucity of an apt reply, my mouth stayed open for an inordinate amount of time.

The hilsa on the plate had been very palatable, the taste of it lingered at the tip of my tongue. However, the lips were going dry as my mouth stayed open. "I came to eat", i managed to say eventually. "Well then, eat well, dadubhai, and don't speak while you eat. The food might get stuck in your wind-pipe!". The retort was so definitive that for the next half hour, I kept eating what was on the plate. The luchi alur dom' the machher matha, the gaendal patar bata, et, al. Every time I ate something, one of the ladies would ask me how it was, and if I wanted more. Even if I did, I did not want to say so. I had a feeling this wasn't a "free lunch". Nothing in this world comes for free. Of that I was sure.

By now, my pupils had got attuned to the dancing flame, and could see things a little clearer. The little lady was smiling at me from the corner of the gargantuan bed. I wondered why she needed such a big bed. I was preparing myself to ask the next intelligent question that could avoid a riposte like the last one. The gentleman interrupted me, "It is time for me to go to bed", he said. Then got up from his easy-chair and walked silently to the massive bed. The little lady muttered something under her breadth that vaguely sounded like she disapproved of his abrupt disengagement from the ensuing conversation. Oblivious of the disapproval, the gentleman, now brought out an over-sized mosquito net out of nowhere, and fastidiously started hanging it around the bed. In no time, the netted cocoon was made ready. He crept in it, making sure to leave any lingering mosquito out of his den. Then he went to sleep, with the air of a man in complete authority even in slumber.

Strangely, the little lady was not complaining anymore. She was knitting away with the dexterity of a weaver bird. From where I sat, it looked like a red sweater with a yellow teddy bear on it. She held it up for me to see and asked,"How do you like it? It is for you !". The red sweater she held out at me would have been perfect for a three year old child. But at 29, I thought I was a little overgrown for it. I said, with an air of euphemistic pity that the youth reserves for the elderly, "It is very beautiful, didima; But, I think it is a little small for my size". The lady seemed hurt. She looked away and muttered, "But to me you will always remain a three year old toddling through the room".

Like a blinkered horse traversing a monotonous pathway, oblivious of the scenery around, the diurnal chores obfuscate the memories that accompany us all through life. They only rear in surrealistic moments like these; and when they do, they leave a gaping hole that I now felt inside me. I carefully took the sweater from her tender palms and held onto it.

I looked at the lady sitting in the small decrepit single-bed, anticipating her to be the next to say something. Instead, she just smiled at me through those benign eyes that were embedded between the chubby cheeks and a rotund forehead. A smile that demanded no reciprocation, attention, or conversation. A smile that emanated pure happiness. I remembered running through the corridor and up the steep stairs as a child to see that smile on mashidida's face. It was a distant moment that came before me, as real as the smile now was. My mouth opened to say something to her, but the moment had already passed and the words remained entrapped in the quagmire of my thoughts. The calmness in her face, and the constant heart-beat in my ear played together like a storm and it's eye. With bated breath I let the moment pass.

The elderly lady in the darkest corner of the room looked up from her newspaper. She voiced myriad concerns under a single breath. Some regarding my lack of diet, my slender physique, my thinning hairline et. al. My assurance did little to appease her that I was being well looked after. Walking upto her and touched her feet as has been customary from the old days i requested her permission to depart. She poked those slender finger through my thinning hair and in a voice strangely baritone for a woman she said "boro hao". Strange as the blessing may seem to an already 29 year old lad, I did not dispute the veracity of it. Today, I had learnt to remain silent and refrain from trying to measure the depths of unfathomable affection.

Eventually, i rose to beg my leave of the caucus. I picked up the comb that lay on the table. The red sweater wrapped tight around my arm. The smile from the adorable lady (still sitting cross-legged on her single-bed) to fill the gaping hole in me, and the blessing of "boro hao" from the one in the dark.

I turned around and kept walking as the morning sun broke through the blinds.

The Rendezvous

2011-07-20T00:03:00.030-04:00

As the river beneath meanders through the labyrinth of hillocks, my mind dodges through the pragmatics of life, trying to find the poetry of the past. For a person who has suffered from chronic reveries, an altitude of 30,000 feet, provides an opportune ambiance for the mind to play. The lingering oblivion never fails to raise the innumerable whats, whys, and whens that the earth fails to evince. As i fly over the dry mid-west of the North American sub-continent, memories rush by me like stray bullets. Some, like flies that do not stick long enough in ones clasped hands. Arduously, I try to ensnare a few of them.

A blur of lean teenage faces from a bygone era float before my eyes. The uncertain mustaches, the unkempt hair, the sporadic beards. The boisterous croaks proclaiming an unknown land to be their own. Those unselfish hours of doing nothing, but plotting against the harmless. Those innumerable bus trips to the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd stop (... and then there were none!). Those unending discussions about future (when none knew what it meant). The tea sessions that consumed more time than intended, and yielded nothing but the need for more such sessions. The ice-cream parlours, where ice-creams were cheap, and time, cheaper. The plethora of other eat-outs (Rajvans, Navaratna, Mathura, et.al,), where the gang could meet, and would not leave until the shutters came down. The projector stops and all is dark again, except for the constant hum of the Airbus.

Ten years ago, we were an unsophisticated bunch. Stealing mangoes, chasing thieves at midnight, provoking local drunkards to fights, climbing hill-tops infested by thieves, flooding hallways with buckets of water, drinking the worst of concoctions, smoking the best of stolen brands, and sending roommates to tuition classes at 2am in the night. Somewhere down the line, that ride in a turbulent whirlpool was bartered for a hammock by the lake. Today, i desired to fall off the hammock to meet that bunch of ruffians.

The memories do not flow like a cascade. They hit you in unplanned sporadic downpours. As I try to reconstruct my thoughts, a cacophony of feminine laughter interrupts me. It reminds me of a ring of boys surrounding two(or were there three ?) girls, who typically kept sending extended bouts of synchronous laugh-waves that would echo in every corner of the 50 acre campus. The bus stand, the library, the drawing hall, the AD (administrative) block, they all fell victim to the symphony of the sirens. In a place where an expression of emotion to the slightest excess actuated a reprimand from an authority (typically a couple of bike riding "brothers" who were the self proclaimed guardians of all feminine objects spotted in the campus), I think that laughter kept the group alive. Not to mention the fact that the guys were always apprehensive to crack a joke in the group for fear of igniting the laughter fit in these women. Ten years on, Seema and Divya still do the same when they meet. I wish for sanity's sake that they would stop, but for old time's sake, i wish they didn't.

The flight time is 8 hours. We have reached about mid-way. I look down at the barren fields of the mid-west, and the narrow rivulets cutting through them. The view is vastly different from the high-rise skyline of the east-coast. I wake up Divya to have her witness the change in the topography. Meanwhile, I try to stretch my legs and get some sleep. But there isn't enough space for them. So i slide them under the front seat. Some things don't change. I have never managed to fit my legs appropriately. In the hostel, I would slide them between the rods at the foot end of my bed frame to be able to sleep straight. For some though, the case of sleepless nights was less a matter of long legs and more a matter of wicked roommates. Rishikesh Kumar (Thakur) was that tormented soul; Vishal Mishra , Animesh Kumar and I being the infamous roommates.

That reminds me of an incident that occurred in 2002, when a young and dynamic Thakur decided to share room 219 with the incessantly active and cynosure-of-all-eyes Vishal Mishra, the perpetually inquisitive and eternally cribbing Animesh Kumar, and the somnolent plotter Saptarshi Moitra. Thakur had come to Shimoga from the hinterlands of Bihar. An extremely hard working, sincere, ambitious individual with a dream to learn from his surroundings. Nobody had warned the village lad that there would be little to learn from a wily UP-wallah, or a thakur-specific-news-seeking Jharkhandi, and never from a steeped-in-sarcasm Bengali.

This was our third semester at Shimoga, and our first one as roommates. Being CSE students, all three of my roommates were required to prepare a project report on any topic of their interest. I think it was a project to teach students to make future projects. I remember Ani preparing a report on aliens, specifically about the Roswell incident. I only remember it because one could often find him running around in excitement after reading something about the Roswell incident. Thakur would look up from his books, irritated by the commotion around. His smile indicating that such excitement could only be tolerated in case of a real alien landing, and even then, only marginally. Mishra had probably already downloaded a report from Kishee's internet cafe (I am making this educated guess just for the purpose of this article). In short, Mishra and Ani were not a competitive threat to Thakur's standing in the CSE Dept. Thakur had other monsters to fight in the battle outside our room.

On an ominous morning, Thakur had gone for the unlimited-idli-limited-vada breakfast at the mess. The other three being late risers often missed the breakfast. Thakur had left behind his prized possession, the evaluated project report in his cupboard. The newspaper for the day had arrived, and I, barely out of my late night slumber was scanning through its pages. My eyes fell upon an article which had something to do with a very reputed Indian professor at an American university being twice denied the Nobel Prize despite some extraordinarily pioneering work. Two things in that article struck my till-then-dormant brain. The name of the professor, and his photograph. Prof. Thakur (no offense to the great man) was looking out at me through a wave of dishevelled hair and an inordinately large pair of glasses. He looked angry and frustrated, just as the article stated, and more importantly, just as I wanted him to be!

Note: Today while I was penning this incident from my memory, i had a curious urge to look for that picture of Prof. Thakur. Long live the electronic age. I believe the picture below is the exact one that I had seen 9 years ago in the newspaper. Taking a look at it may improve the reader's understanding of the behaviour of the four actors in this ongoing play.

My first instinct was to share it with Ani and Mishra. Both broke into fits of laughter that was hard to control. I pitched in with the idea that this could be a perfect photo to be pasted on Thakur's project report. Now, I have been blamed time and again for being the "planner", and not the "enforcer". As a great man ones said, "The world is a stage, where every man must play his part". So, planner I was, and I played my part.

Ani was so excited by the idea of Prof. Thakur's photo on Thakur's report that he kept jumping around the room in his sky blue 3-quarter shorts. I think it was he who managed to scrounge a pair of scissors and some Feviquick. Vishal's bed was next to mine and our tables were attached to each other. Next to his bed was Thakur's cupboard. He opened the cupboard and brought out the report that Thakur so cherished. He muttered something that sounded like he predicted that this would blow the lid off of Thakur's patience. When you are 20, the fear of the unknown has a narcotic effect. We decided to go for it. Like three expert surgeons doing an open-heart surgery on a hapless patient, we carefully cut out Prof.Thakur from the newspaper and safely glued him to the cover of Thakur's report. Vishal kept the report back in the cupboard where it belonged. All done, we waited.

As a child I have always been very silent and patient. They both come naturally to me. I decided that all that was to be done now was to wait. The bug in Ani's pant apparently did not think so. He had to spread the news outside the room. Vishal followed. I vaguely remember warning Vishal not to leave the room. Once they went out of the room, I was convinced of the impending disaster. I went to sleep. like a dead fish.

I could hear roars of laughter from the next room. Sagar (another of us Thakur-poking demons) was laughing himself insane. So was Pandu. Only Pandu was quieter. I could not hear what he was saying. KK, Deepak, they were all there. Ani's voice was the clearest. He was incessantly explaining to them what we just did. Vishal was hovering in the corridor that connected our rooms. I presume he wanted to keep an eye on the events transpiring in both rooms, as well as keeping an eye on the far end of the corridor, to be able to warn Ani to shut his mouth at the slightest appearance of Thakur.

Sure enough, in a matter of minutes I heard Vishal's voice resounding through the corridor.. " Arre Thakur a gya hai bhai, Thakur a gya..". I imagined a smiling Thakur walking through the corridor, unaware of the crisis ahead. Assuming that something spicy was being discussed, and having an hour after breakfast dedicated to leisure, Thakur walked into room 220 for some gossip. It wasnt long before one topic moved to the other, and then suddenly i heard Pandu's voice mentioning something about project reports by CSE students. Now, why on earth would a Mechanical Engg. student be interested in a CSE project report? And then it was Sagar's turn. He said something like " Arre Thakur tera project report dikha na ?" I knew instantly that it was time to be a dead dead fish. Unaware of the plot, Thakur came hopping into our room, opened the cupboard, took out the report and hopped his way out to 220. I stayed still, waiting for Vesuvius to erupt.

What followed, was a blur. First there was laughter, more laughter. Then the laughter stopped. Then I felt someone stalk into our room, open the cupboard, shut it with a bang ! I knew Thakur was back in the room, humiliated and angry. Then i heard some quiet and slow foot-steps. I assumed it was Ani, moving around uneasily near the entrance of our room. Vishal was probably still standing outside, by now realizing well that it wasn't safe inside. I had a tremendous urge to see Thakur's red face and Ani' blue. But I was sure to burst into laughter if i opened my eyes. So i played dead. Ani muttered something that vaguely sounded like an apology. That was the spark that ignited Thakur. The molten lava came running down on us, devouring everyone in its path.

First in line were Ani and Vishal. 9 years on, I have forgotten the words that came out of Thakur's mouth. These were not expletives. They were painfully funny on one hand and painfully sad on the other. He said that perhaps we were people from "big cities" and from elevated societies where it was OK to ridicule someone's hard work; But, for him, a lad from the "gaon", this project report was a prize he wanted to give to his parents, a souvenir, a badge of accomplishment... in short it meant the world to him. Now, none of us had foreseen this coming. Most of us did not even think that the report was worth preserving. That it meant so much to Thakur took us by surprise. Ani, in his moment of confusion kept apologizing to Thakur, and let out a stifled giggle every now and then. This would stoke Thakur's anger even more and he would bring down his full oratory skills on Ani. Vishal was trying to calm Thakur with his casual "arre yaar yeh to bas mazaak thha.." statements. Suddenly, Ani realized that I was lying down on my bed, sleeping. He got on top of me, and kept screaming in his typically low pitched tone " Arre yeh sab Sapto ka plan thha.. useene yeh sab kia.. abhi kameena so rha hai !! ..". This somehow angered Thakur even more and he rushed out of the room. I got up from my longer-than-planned slumber and through expletives from Ani and Vishal, went to wash my face. It had been a nightmare indeed.

I found Thakur at the stairs. I do not remember what i said. I think together we succeeded in calming Thakur down. Ani however spent the next nine years trying to convince Thakur that it was I who had planned the whole thing. Even if that is true, without the perfect execution by Vishal Mishra and Animesh Kumar, the plan would have been doomed.

An era has passed since that day. I do not know if today's student find such incidents funny, or just silly. For us these provided the grist for friendship.

Today, Vishal still has that distinct crackle in his voice. He does not wear those spotted shorts any more. Niether does he stand on the bed with his legs apart before giving an important speech. But he still exudes the excitement that has always shamed me and made me feel unprepared for any occasion. I remembered the numerous parties where I have regularly failed to evince the excitement that he brings so naturally. The guy has the same propensity as before to bring the group together. I feel much of what is Sphinx today is because of what Vishal was in 2001. Without him we would have been islands of human beings floating all over the world, much like the rest.

Thakur remains the eternal source of entertainment. When we met, he did not fail us a bit. Through his discussions (ranging from pseudo-serious to serious topics), expressions, and actions, he reminded me of the good old Thakur. I therefore obliged him by being the good old me. Our pranks on him mainly ranged from mental torture to extreme mental torture that started at 12 in the night and went until 4 in the morning (you know, the usual Thakur-Sleeping-Time). All the while Thakur smiled and feigned as if he was sleeping, only to be given away by his expressions and body movements. Also Thakur does not get angry as quickly as he used to (or maybe i just didn't have enough time to test that.... maybe, Sagar's or Atul's presence could have had a catalytic effect).

Ani remains the same as he was in college. He drinks Bloody Mary, and vouches for its taste and forces others to drink the obnoxious concoction... he then lies flat on his face in 20 minutes and doses off while others stay awake obeying his initial plan of a night-out. Why do I see surprised faces ? We all knew Ani drinks, dint we? Oh, if you are surprised why he disliked drinking when you drunkards were lying around drunk in the hostel aisles, here is why, "You guys weren't sophisticated .. you guys used to drink like animals!" .. and that my friends is straight from the horse's mouth! That apart, the guy is still the same. A lot of information about and a lot of urge to do a lot of things. Still asks plenty of questions. Never got a straight answer from me throughout the trip, however serious the mode of questioning was. Sometimes I really feel bad at not giving him a straight answer... but, not really. I actually enjoy it !

As for me, i am still the sarcastic dog, who deep inside, yearns to meet his old friends. I realized while writing today that fond memories fade faster if not revisited. I suggest wherever you guys are, visit each other as often as you can and rehearse the old times. An oasis in the desert survives because it has the mirages to give company. However untrue the mirages be, they keep the oasis alive.

There...

2011-02-28T22:30:00.001-05:00

There is a brook in the midst of the wood
That wishes to be left alone

There is a salmon going up that brook
Wishing its journ was a swoon

There is a little boy standing by the sea
Who wishes to fish in the deep

There is an old man fishing in the deep
Weathering a storm to come back home

There is a hill, smothered by clouds
Wishing it could melt with the plains

There is a plain, freckled by humanity
Lying prostate and fathoming it's bane

There is a writer whose world is his attic
With only a mind to travel far

There is a pilot flying around the globe
With no time to see where he goes

There is an iota of hope someplace, everytime
It's just that we cannot see

There is joy in present, howsoever petty
It's just that we are too busy.

The Measure of a Man

2010-08-14T23:13:00.004-04:00

What is the yardstick to measure a man ? It is sadly amusing how the answer has changed with time. When I was in school, words like 'honesty', and 'integrity' sounded difficult yet achievable (even though they were only heard in moral science classes.. where a lot of other things were heard too. Sex education being one to top the class list !)

As time passed, these words became like vestigial organs. Present in the lexicon, but primarily unused, or used only as fillers, like the "like", "you know what" and the "kind of"s we come across everyday.

At some point they become like a tumor. You just want to get rid of them. You do not want to hear them anymore(from others and certainly not from your conscience) because they are so far-fetched in meaning that they are actually detrimental to your success. They stand in the path of your progress.

But then what happens to the yardstick you were lining up against ? Isn't the benchmark supposed to be a constant ? is that not basic science ? So, must it not be the same for measuring a man ?

In a life where we are getting so used to compromises, there aught to be a little corner reserved for Les Uncompromisables. Some things that are not sellable. Not at any cost. The yardstick, against which to measure oneself. I ought to be able to stand alone in front of the mirror and ask myself; Where do i stand as a human being ? And the answer which comes back must be from a constant uncompromising source within me which is not affected by the compromises i make. What good is a compass if it shows a different 'North' every time ? What good is a man if he measures himself by his own flawed standards ?

I haven't forgotten everything that school taught me. But I feel a strong urge to revisit them. With age we learn to become more reasonable. What we must also learn is that some things are best left unreasonable.

I am going back to rereading the Aesop's Fables, however stupid that might look !

A check-point on the Autobahn !

2010-06-05T10:30:00.006-04:00

In the pandemonium that we call 'progress', humans are perhaps losing the ability to discern the depth of things. We are becoming so obsessed with getting 'results' that we compromise the very process leading to it! Ever wondered why reading books is becoming a lost cult ? Perhaps because 400 pages of mental scanning has become too time-consuming for the modern brain. A 'yes', 'no' or just a 'tick' could fetch more credit than well explained cogent answers. Individual research heavily relies on instant 'googling' rather than 'reading' fundamental work. Most of the times Google directs one to a more 'popular' document rather than a more 'accurate' document. The deviation though not certain, is highly probable. Hence, inaccurate research(which is worse than no research). Wikipedia, which is the most common source of information (even for someone genuinely researching a topic) is vulnerable to malicious misinformation. Anyone can 'edit' any topic in wiki and 'save' the change, to instantly make that (mis)information available to the world.

As the human race cruises on the Autobahn of time, the Human mind could be making its own adjustments to cope with the paucity of the same. The part of the human mind which chewed on books , memorized mathematical tables, drew topographical maps, recited verses could be the next rudimentary tail. Soon, holding the pen could stop becoming an involuntary process. Typing with 10 finger could become one. The desire to see and hear loved ones could be replaced by a time set actuator in an audio-visual gadget which automatically connects to a similar device on the other end. In such a world where things are becoming increasingly ephemeral, i wonder, if the art-of-forgetting will become an evolving trait of the human brain?

Will childhood memories be cherished, since they would only remind us of what's obsolete. Will friendship matter, since the circles of friends would only be crazy Venn diagrams of social networking websites? Will parents matter, since they would have only taught us what's 'value'less in the present? Will teachers who taught us subjects matter, because those subjects could become instantly pre-historic; besides, the Internet could teach us more with its 'plethorapedias'?

All progress comes at a price. Some prices outweigh the progress itself. The Little Boy and the Fat Man stand testimony to that. The Bhopal Gas Tragedy, The Gulf Oil Spill are all casualties of driving on the Autobahn. Sometimes it is prudent to slow down, just a bit.

Albert Einstein once said (after World War-II)

" I know not with what weapons World War-III will be fought, but World War-IV will be fought with sticks and stones "

Change could very well be the only thing that is constant. However, a thing constantly changing has a very high probability of returning where it started. Beware of the planet of the apes !

To Mum, with Love

2010-04-27T19:29:00.007-04:00

I have never been ashamed of being a "mother's boy"; taken pride in what she instilled in me, and invariably turned to her in times of distress. I am a believer of roots, rather than religion. I prefer worshiping the womb, rather than a Goddess. I believe in the fundamental, rather than the ethereal.

Last night while i was watching a documentary on TV about an African elephant mother and her calf wandering the deserts of Kalahari, i remembered the Autumn of 2001.

I was still in my teens, headed towards an unknown land, of different language, culture and habits. None of which scared me more than leaving ma. I was glad she was sitting in front of me, as we looked out at the arid lands passing by, through the four iron bars of the train's window. It was the first of many eventful trips i have made with the Corromandel Express. Like packets bouncing through the routers in the Internet(I always like this analogy between Indian Railways and the Internet ), we bounced at Chennai, Bangalore and eventually reached Shimoga.

The train from Bangalore to Shimoga was diesel-operated; and those seven hours of 'soot-clad' wind on our face made us look like baboons by the time we set our foot on the hallowed lands of Shimoga. Shimoga, I feel is the Sicily of India, with "Dons" everywhere, present in all sizes, shapes, features and levels of eccentricity. Nonetheless, this was the beginning of a long cherished bond that I have shared with this place.

We lodged at Mathura Residency that night, and took an 'auto' next morning to JNNCE, my home for the next 4 years. This was 9 years ago, and Shimoga was still in the medieval ages. The city had two 'circles'(Gopi Circle, Mahavir Circle) and a main Bus stand. Between these, and the Engineering college there was Area 51(i.e. no man's land). I grew up in Calcutta, but somehow, never got steeped in the urban lifestyle. Surprisingly, I was feeling quite comfortable in this rural ambiance. We passed the 3rd, 2nd and 1st Stops (terminologies for the college bus travelers), the arid lands, the ladies' hostel (at that time i did not know this was this), the winding road through Navule (a name which always reminds me of the movie "The Godfather") and eventually stopped at the gates of the oasis, JNNCE.

There were three stalls with thatched roofs across the street. Each one of them was a food stall and was occupied by groups of ferocious looking human beings (who i presume were senior students). We got down at the college gate and slowly walked with ma towards the orientation hall.

In those days, heightwise i measured 6feet 2inches, weight-wise i read 64kgs, and look-wise i was extremely timid, shy and all the adjectives that are not associated with being chivalric, spartan or stoic. My mind though always remained calm and phlegmatic. We were late and therefore, had to stand outside the hall and listen to the lectures of a certain Mr. Girimaji who happened to be a member of the Board of Trustees of JNNCE. Ma complained of the heat outside and insisted that we go inside and find a place to sit. She always has this aggressive streak, which makes me feel uneasy, especially when i am amidst a plethora of unknown faces. She could afford to pick up a fight and leave in two days. I would have to survive with the consequences throughout the forthcoming semester. To make matters worse, Swarnadeep Da (I did not know him then) with someone else walked past where we stood, making a comment in Bengali about new chicken arriving in a chicken farm. While I was trying to focus my eyes on them (to make a visual note to stay away from them) we heard a massive blast reverberate across the hall. Apparently, right at the time when Mr.Girimaji was assuring the new students and their parents that their wards were perfectly safe in the hands of the college authorities, some senior student had set off a diwali bomb in one of the empty classes in the 2nd floor, overlooking the hall. We could hear panic-stricken voices in the hall. I pointed out to Ma that it was a prudent decision not to have entered the hall. Behind us there was a group of students laughing away. I made a mental note of each one of those faces. This was going to be a tough battle, or so i thought.

The next day we went to the warden's office. Here I met the first few of a long line of characters I was going to come across during my stay here. Rahul(Rajput), Prem, and Ara. Rahul and I moved to a room in the third floor of Sharavati Hostel. We placed our belongings in this small room and embarked on the journey of becoming an adult.

What ensued in the days to come for the next four years is the tale of a lifetime. But, this is not where it all gets penned. Ma and i sat quietly in the room. I think she felt the severing of the umbilical cord, for the second time. She never broke down, like a million other mothers I have seen (at the school auditorium, train station, airport, hostel gates etc). She made sure all my belongings were in order, made sure she reiterated the importance of studies (to my ever-wandering mind), brushed her palm over my head, and left.

For a long time I sat alone in that room. I looked out of the window. I have seen a lot of Shimoga in four years. A lot of good and a few bad memories are etched in my mind. But foremost of them is the image of the sun just before it drowned in the western horizon on the day ma left me alone. In her presence everything looked easy, In her absence every little belief became a struggle. I believe every mother feels the pain when it is time to let go of her fledgling, but she endures, knowing that it is inevitable. Only the fledgling does not know the enormity of the pain, because it is too occupied by the wonders the future beholds.

If I had not broken free from my nest, I would not have met the collage of characters whom i call friends; I would not have been part of those terrible adventures(misadventures); those crazy fights; those desperate night-outs; those humongous wastages of time (worrying about 'internals' and 'externals') that eventually made me what I am today. I do not regret any of it. The only regret I have is I stayed away from Ma, all the while.

The God of small things

2009-11-09T19:16:00.007-05:00

I have asked myself if I believe in God, many times, at different junctures in my life, and the answer has been a resounding NO! Yet, the question recurs; which mean the answer is not correct. Nor is it entirely wrong; why else would I end up with the same answer, every time?

I would love to ask someone who knows, or, someone who I think knows it now. I would love to ask her if she has met Him(or Her), or whether "God" is an 'It' with two horns and one bushy tail (I am certain she will chide me for being blasphemous); whether it flies, crawls, dances(like "bhooter raja"), likes eating fruits(an educated assumption from the innumerable occasions that I have seen her offering fruits to Him/Her/It, even though the entire household ended up devouring them), likes that string of marigold perpetually around the neck, the aroma of incense sticks... likes sitting cross-legged in photo frames...... and continue badgering her with such questions till she gets fed up with me and retaliates with her "he is just like his father" statement that has been the white flag so often.

I would love to tell her now, at 27, that I think I have the answer. I would love to tell her that even when I was younger, I knew the answer, but age has endorsed it ever more (even though that is not always true... people often become stupid with age). To me, she is the one (despite all her prejudices) whom I have accepted as god. And the fact that I have seen her in flesh and blood does not qualify her as the stereotypical God, which, raises enough doubts in my mind regarding her "God" status that will live till I met her again.

It is my belief that God is defined by the thing a person turns to when he has reached the bottom... the cul-de-sac. Socrates and Galileo had their own definitions (that transgressed the definitions of others, because they did not consider 'death' as their cul-de-sac). Others have had others. I have mine too. It is the memory of something that gives strength. And I have always got it from those long bony fingers(veins overlying them) stroking my head, and that perpetual sad look in those eyes, always ruminating why I am so lean and why I do not eat more (even though I have added 40 pounds more since that last tangible stroke over my head).

Thamma has travelled with me in that broken brass photo frame behind shards of glass. I have tried to bring her out of it, but she seems comfortably ensconced in it. I converse with her only when I have reached my "cul-de-sac", but she seems ever attentive to my problems. She leans a little to the right and puckers her brow to listen to me. She is hard of hearing in the right ear (which is why she presents her left one to you). I do not know why her image appears in my mind whenever i attempt to pray. Be it among the cacophony of believers in the temple of Dakshineshwar, or among the monks in the prayer hall of Belur Math, the single room of Sharavati hostel (inevitably on the mornings of the semester exams), or my apartment at the university, under myriad times, situations, circumstances, and reasons to pray, her image has appeared in almost a matter-of-fact way. It has comforted me every time from my predicaments so habitually that now i almost expect her when i close my eyes for a selfish prayer.

It has been almost 8 years since she passed away. It had taken me a harrowing journey of 2 days from my engineering college in Shimoga to Kolkata to attend her funeral. Many men make pilgrimages to holy shrines or mosques to mark their respect for the almighty. I consider this journey to have had the same effect on me. Traveling in a general compartment across 5 states may be a weekly ritual for many in a country like ours, but for me it had taken a little more than my usual patient self. The journey from Shimoga to Bangalore, and Bangalore to Chennai were two 6 hour warm up sessions bracing me up for the long haul. At Chennai Central I bought a general ticket to Kolkata (because they were the only once available at such short notice, and my mind had no intention of bribing the TTE for a sleeper berth on a journey like this). As the train arrived from the car-shed I stepped into the general coach of the Corromandel Express. It would be wrong if i said i "stepped" in, because i did not! I clambered in and was involuntarily shoved in by a stream of humanity. My reflex told me to place myself on the first visible piece of wood in the compartment. I did so. It was a side window seat and would have been a not-so-uncomfortable one had not the following ensued.

Within a very short time, there were people on all the seats. Moments later, there were people settling down on berths and the floor. Eventually, I found myself trapped in approximately the center of the compartment, length-wise. The people on the upper wooden berths were opening their shoes and placing them over the fan grills. Others were lying prostrate on the luggage racks that ran along the side length of the coach. The men on the floor (seemingly monks.. clad in safron) were making logical huddles to demarcate their groups. The two doors of the coach were not visible anymore from where i sat, and neither were the rest-rooms. I forgot to mention that the single seat which i had occupied was now shared by another boy. A bulk of the passengers seemed to have come to Chennai from the north eastern parts of India on some bi-weekly assignment(masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths ) and were mostly travelling without a valid ticket. I could safely assume that they wouldn't have needed one, as no TTE in his senses would have dared to enter this coach demanding to see travel tickets.

The train started, with the usual jolt. A couple of shoes fell from the fan grill down on a passenger's lap. Expletives shot across the compartment, like misfired missiles and ricocheted from every corner. I found someone yelling at me to remove a bag which was not mine. A vendor outside made his last attempt to sell bananas. Those were the only fruits worth buying. This was the compartment of the poor. Hence, no 'sonpapdi','poori sabzi','biryani' vendors bothered to peep through the windows.

I have traveled the Corromandel Express a dozen times and more; but this was the only time i traveled like a common man, with my true fellow country men, humbled by the sudden death of my grandmother, and brought to the realization of how privileged i have been all my life to get the luxuries which are beyond so many. I realized that the only one perturbed in this microcosm of humanity was me,alone. The others were either playing cards, or yelling at friends, singing, fanning themselves with not-so-clean 'gamchas', oblivious of what augured as a painful journey to me.

We left Chennai Central at 5pm in the evening and reached Howrah at 1pm the next day. In that single day, I learned more about my country than those classes at Don Bosco had ever knocked in me. I ate two full bananas throughout the journey, drank half a pepsi bottle, and went to the rest-room, once. In that sojourn to the rest-room (yes it seemed like a journey indeed) i hopped over people's head, kept putting my feet on the wooden edges of the seats (there was no empty floor space for me to set my feet) and finally had to release myself from outside the door of the rest-room (not to mention the reason being the filth inside). Yes, it seems a macabre sight, but then, i wasn't on a fun trip.

I spent the entire night looking at my own reflection on the glass window, and the fog made by the hot air from my nostrils. Thamma's memory kept me company. It egged me to sit still for another hour in that half-seat. It convinced me that this was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the pain she had gone through to bring up her children, and my parents have gone through to bring me up. I do not remember if i wept, or even if I wept whether it was for her loss or the pain in my buttock. But i remember that night as if it was yesterday.. just like you ought to remember a pilgrimage, for you will do it perhaps only once in your life, and for good reason.

The pangs of her loss are perpetual, as are her memories. I have tried to keep those memories close to myself, revisit them, refresh them, and try not to forget them. So that in the final analysis i can prove to myself that my love for her was no less than her affection for me.

37 Park Road, Barrackpore

2009-10-16T22:34:00.008-04:00

Backward is my favourite direction. Most of my life I have moved forward looking backward. I love the past. I revel in it. That is how and why i remember the 'insignificant' and have no qualms about it.

Modern School, 37 Park Road, Barrackpore.

This address is where i often find myself when i am lost. It is with this address that I learned to pen my first letters in Kindergarten, 22 years back. It also is the address of a school where I learned to be human. Everything else after that has been a passing shadow.

I remember the iron gate by which Naushad uncle stood. I cannot recollect the gates without him standing beside it; like Archangel Gabriel perpetually guarding the cherubs in heaven from the murk outside. I remember the two see-saws to the left which looked like the iron framework of a small boat which never reached its final stage. They had two wooden seats on either sides and readily reached unstable equilibrium if you had an over-sized kid on one end. Then came the rabbit cage, though the rabbits inside it never looked 'caged'. It was more of a stable establishment with the base made of red brick, caged on all four sides and the roof made of red tiles. The floor was covered in hay and a corner cordoned by a single brick lining to protect the baby bunnies from being trampled by the adults. Beside the cage stood an old jack-fruit tree whose foliage stood like a canopy over it and around, making the humid summer months bearable. So lively was this place that the leaves that fell from this gargantuan tree even had purpose in their death. Little boys and girls would pick the greener ones to feed the rabbits through the iron cage. These leaves were big (for the hands of a 5 year old) and they often had to be rolled to pass through the square gaps between the iron wires. But the kids and the rabbits on either sides made the transition possible. There were a couple of parrots too in a large cage in front of Nandalal's room (hanging from where I do not remember now). But they were certainly out of our reach. They were silent compared to other parrots that i have seen (probably flummoxed by the cacophony that the stream of children passing in front of them generated). Nandalal by the way was a short bald man, always wearing a navy blue apron (I think he cooked for the school staff) and his primary task was to hammer the iron tong to signal the start of a period or the end of one.

As one went down the alley, to the left was a row of no-walled classrooms (till you walked a couple of paces and reached the row of walled classrooms). I always liked the 'no-walled' ones. They bring back fresher memories. These classrooms had tiled tops through which water dripped from arbitrary places on a rainy day (making life more exciting for the children underneath). If you were lucky to have a seat on the side, you could make paper boats and see them sail through the water puddles till they got stuck in the mud. You also got to constantly adjust your desk and chair to avoid the rain. Adventure for a young mind and nuisance for an old which is why 'aunties' (teachers were called so at Modern School) always preferred the walled classrooms.

Walking further to the right stood the playground. During the school fete this ground looked more like an army barrack. Before the fete, army personnels would put up tents all around the ground with their canvas and pegs. These were to become stalls during the fete where an aunty along with her chosen illustrous students would set up games which visitors could play. As I was never the 'illustrous' kind, i was mostly spared the agony of standing with a smiling face at the stalls.

Modern is situated in the heart of the Barrackpore army cantonment, which is why the help of the army personnels could be availed. It is later in life that I realised that Barrackpore had a more important role to play in my country's history than being the location of my beloved school.

Every Thursday was a day for scouts and guides. We went to play to the nearby Mangal Pandey Park. There was a dome shaped structure in the park along whose walls were myriad inscriptions of common yet unknown names with heart signs and arrows through them. Many said Mangal Pandey was shot here and some said he was hung. I did not know him well. I did not know much about what he did and why he did except that he fought the British and they killed him. All i knew was when i stood inside this dome structure and looked up, it made my head spin, and when i shouted, it shouted back at me, and that scared me to the point of believing that Mangal Pandey must have definitely met his end at this place. The park was fun and we played cricket and kabaddi (it is possible we played other games too but sadly i don't remember anymore). I was good at both these games (i.e. if you can imagine a 5 year old playing 'good' cricket).

Modern is where I have had many 'firsts' of my life. My first class, my first homework, my first punishment, my first friends, my first teacher, my first mischief, et. al. .

Yes, my first failure too. I cannot smile back at it today without feeling a pang of what i do not know. But it lingers and wont go. Every year (of the 7 years i spent at Modern) was spent under the tutelage of wonderful human beings, my english teachers. Geeta aunty, and Joshi aunty are the ones who recur in my memory. Their faith in my aptitude for english would always be eclipsed by my failure to reciprocate. Yet they would not let go of me. Every year they took this child through painful rehearsals and made him stand on those unstable tables to narrate poems for the annual elocution contest. I have always loved english as a language but was never a keen speaker. My legs would start shaking from the time i stood in the participant's line and would only stop doing so after i finished my piece and came down from the stage (which as i mentioned was made by joining several tables and was often unstable depending on where you put your leg). Also, a strange vibrator in me seemed to turn on the moment i opened my mouth to say aloud my well-rehearsed speech. This gave an unwanted quiver to my voice which i presume reached the judge's ears eventually as 'noise'. My frail attempt to make my voice stable only resulted in making it less louder to the point where it became inaudible to the jury. I loved the poems and understood how they were meant to be narrated. I loved the words and i took care to do justice to each of them. All till the point when i actually had to narrate them in front of the rows of children sitting cross-legged on the mats strewn under the jack-fruit tree. The judges sat in their chairs behind the children. Alas... If only they had sat closer to the stage. In all those years I never ever got a prize. If there was an honorary award for screw-ups, I deserved it more than anyone, but sadly there were none. I do not remember the poems any more. What i do remember are those knocking knees, that unwanted vibrator in my vocal chord, the rush of blood in my ears and the constant pounding of my pulses. Getting down from that stage was the part i liked best. It meant the end of the agony. I have tried convincing myself that it is this agony that helps me remember those days so vividly. It is a loser's argument to justify failure. However, I revel in that sort of a thing often. It is inherent.

The memory of 37 Park Road, Barrackpore, are many and strewn apart in different corners of my mind. A cohesive tale of the years i spent there is perhaps impossible. Yet, today a fragment of it crossed my mind and i decided to etch it here. So long.

... towards light !

2009-09-18T19:19:00.006-04:00

"Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to light."

I agree with Milton on the 'hard' and the 'hell' part. I am not sure of the 'light' though.

May be the 'light' is always there; and, through our travel (or travail) we just learn to see it. May be it is the opening up of one's mind, broadening of one's gamut of knowledge, stretching one's endurance, that is epitomized as 'light' .

I thought I knew much of the world, through my books and parents, till I left home at 19; To the southern part of my own country, only to realize, how less I knew and ignorant I was of my own motherland. And I am not alone in this comic world of ignorance ! We all are part of it, basking in it.

I have met innumerable people from Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh and Kerala who like to coin the term 'North Indian' to the plethora of humanity ranging from Gujarat to Manipur(the concept of East or West is noexistent to these pople whose country was ruled by one 'East India Company' for a 100 years.). Some have even intelligently pondered whether Manipur is not the same as Manipal and whether Assam in not an independent country. In the 'North', people are absolutely aware of their country's demography (or so it seems). They do not make such embarassing miskates. They just call the people belonging to the Deccan as 'Madrasis'! Wonder what is the need for 28 states when two would suffice the need of the populace. 'Northis' and 'Madrasis'.

It is amazing how less we know about our own country, and open our big mouths in public when we should actually put our heads down is shame and better ourselves at putting the jigsaw puzzle of India together.

As we grow, we learn less, repeat our mistakes, to the point where they become second nature, and then we die with a massive burden of ignorance hidden deep inside, embarassed to admit that we have been carrying it for so long. Tragic, is it not?

In wish to see 'light'. I have decided to reduce the use of 'Ok' 'Definitely' 'Absolutely' s in my life. I think these words often mean the opposite and are bottlenecks to a man's understanding of a subject. Nothing we know can be absolutely definitely OK. Light never enters through the holes of ignorance. It is a difficult choice to make. At every step I must admit that I dont know, what is absolutely OK to the multitude, and endure the humiliation. It makes progress slow; but, what is progress if it is not in the right direction. I am going back to my roots, back to being stupid, back to my books, and tomorrow I will have the right answers. and that I hope will show me the 'light' and spare me an embarassing end.

An old friend

2009-08-30T09:44:00.015-04:00

I do not remember the first time I met him. Maybe i was 3, or a little younger. I think we were the same age. His hair was silvery, eyes brown, and he wore a stitch right behind his head, running through the entire length of his back. It could not be seen because he was unusually furry.

I liked him because he was always obedient. At home, I listened to ma and he listened to me. Every night we shared endless conversations under the blanket with half our heads popped out (ideally till the tip of the nose). He never complained when I slept off in the middle of a discussion. No matter how important it was. He always shared my blanket. In fact he never had anything that belonged to him. But, he never complained. He wasn't exactly that sort.

It was the winter of 86 (or was it 87) when we realized that Teddy wasn't growing at the same rate as I was. Ma bought pullovers for me but we could not find anything that fitted teddy. He had unusually short hands and feet and the tailor shops would not make a sweater of such size and shape. It wasn't good business. So, ma took matters in her hands and started stitching teddy the most beautiful sweater I have seen. It covered his legs, bum, torso et al and had a woolen strap come crisscross from his back, over his shoulders to be buttoned to the front. We both sat open mouthed beside ma as she sat on the corner of the bed magically weaving two woolen balls (blue and white) into this extraordinary shape that fitted teddy so well.

Teddy was family. All my friends were his too, and so were my relatives. Every conversation I had with them wasn't complete without a polite inquiry about him. Teddy never got bothered by the attention he got. In so many ways he was more matured than i was.

The only thing that bothered him was the asymmetry my friends were causing to his ears. My friends had an annoying habit of holding teddy by his right ear. Every time they did it, he would just furrow his brows and twitch his nose a little bit to express anguish. Why they would not respectfully hold his hand was beyond my comprehension. I brought this matter to ma and she measured his ears to confirm my worst fear. Teddy's right ear had grown significantly more than his left. The next day ma had a word with my friends. Her words always did wonders. They never held him by his ear again. But what was done could not be undone. Every night under the blanket I assured teddy that a small anomaly in ear size was nothing to worry about, but he looked sad even though he never complained. So, every night after papa had kissed us both goodnight and teddy had fallen fast asleep, I would softly pull his left ear to bring it up to size with his right. I cannot say it worked but at least i felt better.

Teddy never went to school. But he was always wiser than me. He never got a scolding from ma for doing the wrong things, writing the wrong spelling, staying out late in the playground, soiling clothes in the mud, or refusing to eat ruti torkari for breakfast. He took bath once a month when ma decided he had become dark enough, unlike me who had to get in the bath tub everyday no matter what.

I also must mention that he was no longer as furry as the first time when we met. Maybe, teddy was evolving or maybe it was a figment of my imagination.

It was one of those evenings in the summer months when we had long power cuts in our campus. Children would take the opportunity to play hide-n-seek. Teddy participated too. On that fateful night when the lights came back, i watches in horror....... one of teddy's eyes were missing. In the dark, inadvertently, one of those brown eyes had fallen off .. and as always teddy had not complained. With tears rolling down my cheek i frantically searched for the missing eye. My friends joined in too. Teddy sat in the corner , quietly observing us with his good eye.

At night, papa came from office and i went to him to break the news . Important updates regarding teddy, kutua, piggy, and hati had to be escalated to him. He listened to what happened and went into deep thought. He caressed teddy's head with his big hands. Ma was present too. She was searching for something in that red box which contained buttons, needles, thread rolls scissors et al. Quietly she made teddy sit on her lap, took out the brown eye with the scissor (the only eye that teddy now had) and stitched two big black coat buttons where teddy's eyes were. In a moment she gave him his eyes as i looked open-mouthed in wonder yet again .

Teddy told me that night how happy he was with his new eyes. I believed him because his eyes twinkled in the dark as he spoke and I saw joy in them.

As time went by, I toddled out of my childhood, tripped through the turbulence of adolescence, and fell into the busy world of manhood. And in that quagmire of a confused mind there remained no room for a teddy bear quietly sitting in the corner of the room, waiting for me to turn to him and resume those night long conversations. Those black eyes always monitored me. In time, they became my conscience. At 19, when I left home, teddy followed me.

No, he still sat there in the corner of that room in my house, but, ever so often he appeared in my thoughts, as if to remind me of myself. Sometimes i feel he is the symbol of innocence left in me. He reminds me ... that no matter what, i must be that same little boy who looked up to the sky and wondered when papa showed him the constellation on a starry night.

Then one day, he went. Yes, he just left. I was sitting in the veranda of our house in Sodepur when I remembered teddy. I sprang from my seat and started searching the house for him. The almira , the cupboards, the divan, the closet, everywhere. Ma joined me in the search, and when she could not find him, I knew i heard the death knell.

I have never believed teddy to be a soft toy and still hope that he is hiding somewhere in the house staring straight into the darkness, waiting for me to open the door and take him in my arms. Even while i write this, I know and teddy knows that the sole purpose of his existence was to preserve the innocence of a child in me. He has ensured that there will be a bell chiming in my subconscious whenever i go the wrong way.

Now that I have told you all about teddy, I must switch off the light, snuggle under the blanket and look into those clairvoyant eyes and resume my conversation.

A Time of my Life : Part 3

2009-07-05T20:16:00.011-04:00

With time, memory fades but memoirs remain. The exact reason for this post.

This was possibly the Summer of 2003.

JNNCE. An engineering college in the midst of nature, far from humanity and beside an agricultural college where fruits, sweet enough for the palate as well as the eye could be found in abundance.

Fruits-for-the-eye were spotted long back by young boys in our batch who fought their biological clocks to go for early morning jogs especially to that corner of our cricket ground where they could be spotted.

Deepak Verma was not one of them. He was all for fruits for the palate. Being the university champ in weight-lifting, he was the only 2nd year student who had the privilege of staying in the single-room Sharavati hostel usually meant for final year students. For obvious reasons Deepak never had to face 'ragging'. He was amazingly pious, vegetarian, and extremely strong... everything that I was not.

Sometimes he would descend from his high echelon and meet the devils purging in hell (Room 219 & 220 Tunga Hostel). On this night he brought with him a plan that would send a chill down the spines of hell itself.

The Plan: There was supposedly a mango orchard at the rear of the agriculture college ('AG college' as we called it) and Deepak wanted to loot it in the middle of the amavasya night. I wonder if mango isnt the true forbidden fruit because it succeeded in luring the saint to sin. Sagar, Pandu, KK, Vishal, Uncle, Thakur and I answered the call. We just needed something to do and the plan sounded chivalric enough to a young boy. Uncle by the way was christened so because of his shrill voice which sounded more like a dog being ass-whipped.. his actual name being Amit Kishore.

Now, this was the pre-google map era . We had no idea where in the midst of the 500 acre college was this Garden of Eden.We got hold of black (or near black) trousers and t-shirts to camouflage ourselves. I wore a deep blue track-suit which i used to wear to the gym. This was the time when I had barely started gymming primarily as a response to Deepak's taunts and encouragements. Each one of us had a massive travel bag. These bags had a strange life cycle. They would be filled with new clothes, and condiments at the beginning of every semester when we arrived from home and with garments soiled beyond recognition when we headed back home at the end of the semester. This was mid-sem, so they were lying supine in our closets unknowing of the misfortune waiting on them. To avoid suspicion from the prying eyes of our inquisitive hostel mates, we threw these bags out of our window. They now lay on the grass by the pond at the rear of our hostel.

It was around 11 in the night and the hostel gates used to be locked at 12.The theory behind it was to save the students from 'outside elements'. Given the fact that these students were a dangerous section of human race, my opinion was that the hostel gates were locked to keep the outside safe from them. The concept being similar to that of a zoo. Anyway, we trickled out in ones and twos without raising any alarms. If we came across 'Suresha' the usual excuse would be that we were going to 'Mamu's for milk, phone call, smoke or 'chikki' and that we 'd be back in 5 mins. No issues.

Now 11pm is evening by hostel standards. Our journey was scheduled for midnight. So the next stop was at Chandu's apartment in DVS. DVS was an archipelago of individual houses located just behind our college premises. The house owners rented them to students on the basis of 'goodwill'. If the hostel was a zoo.. DVS was the natural reserve for the preservation of wild animals. If you did not know anyone there, you would be ill-advised to venture there especially in the night. Chandu's was the only house we used to visit in DVS .. and with good reason.

Eight boys cladded in black, with rucksacks slung over their shoulders knocked on heaven's door... and archangel Gabriel answered. Chandu had prepared his extra-spicy Manipuri style chicken curry for us and we ate with a silence belying us. Deepak was the one who did the pep-talk while we ate. He pointed out that there could be night-guards at AG and in the event that any one of us got caught, the rest would not abandon him. Chances were high that there would be just a couple of guards. So, we stood a better chance to fight them if we stayed together than to abandon one of us. It was decided that if need be we would beat up the guard if he disrupted our escape attempt. The history books would note it down as the second battle in Indian history to be fought in a mango orchard after The battle of Plassey.

A suggestion was also made to wrap our heads with dark towels to become unrecognizable, but given the visibility of an amavasya night, it would prove to be more a hindrance to us than to the opponent. Hence, the suggestion was dropped.

At 1 in the night, we started. No maps, no compasses, no pole star... just a hunch and Verma's direction.. we headed south-west. Shimoga is a very green place, but during summer when rain is scarce the place can become very arid. This was summer and the farm lands through which we were traversing now were dry. Big chunks of earth had been ploughed and abandoned, waiting perhaps for the rain to return. All of us wore sports shoes, but occasionally would trip over each other and utter an obscenity. Through the barren land we walked. It was pitch dark. After a mile we found a rock which stood like a monster forcing its ugly head out of the parched earth. We rested on it. KK lit a cigarette. The red glow and the spiraling smoke looked like an ominous beacon. Deepak was not impressed. While the torch was doing its Olympic relay, we discussed our plan from here. Most of us were quietly listening as Deepak spoke. Sagar i think cracked some of his unique jokes to make Deepak a bit more angry. Uncle was the live wire. In his attempt to keep his unique voice down to a whisper, he was sounding funnier. We warned him that the orchard was a place to steal mangoes.. not to eat them. The devouring could be done once we were back in our den. All done we resumed our journey.

After about a mile more of trudging we reached the barbed wires. Beyond it was AG, dense in its foliage even in the summer months. about a 100 meters from the barbed wires was the banana plantation which ran for the next 300 meters. Then came a meandering road crossing which one would reach another fence of barbed wires. Beyond it lay the garden of Eden. The silence of the night was marred by the rustling of leaves from the yonder array of eucalyptus. They looked like dancing phantoms mocking the escapade of eight mortals. But, first, the barbed wires in a row of 3, the highest being about 6 feet.

The fence had concrete columns at a distance around which the wires were wrapped. We threw our bags to the other side. Deepak was the first one to cross the fence. the rest did it with a couple of bruises and torn trousers. Pandu was in front of me. Being about 20 kgs heavier than me, he needed a couple of attempts and an extra leverage of my modest strength in the right place to go to the other side. Finally, we had entered the promised land.

We moved in twos through the grassland till we reached the banana plantation. The only thing consistent was the sound of the heart beat between the ears. The tension was palpable. Every now and then, someone would spot a light seeping through the leaves. Was it a street lamp, a torch or an innocuous bulb hanging in an AG hostel room , we did not know. Occasionally a dog would bark ensuing a chain or myriad barks from myriad directions. At one point it looked like the place was guarded by the hounds of Baskerville. A thief's mind has to think of all possibilities and half of us were already voting for a plan to steal the bananas and leave the mangoes for later. Sadly, this wasn't the time for banana harvesting.

Deepak said, here on we'd have to crouch and move so that our heads did not bob above the long grass. We obeyed. It is easier to see an actor in a Prahaar or a Lakshya do the same. By the time we reached the meandering road we were half crawling and half swimming in the grass. I can still remember my back and calf muscles begging to let go. I had lost habit of doing sit-ups since my kindergarten days. But, the promised land lay just across the road and beyond another fence of wires. This time there was space beneath the lowest row of wire underneath which we could sneak in, one at a time.

Another small meeting, and the instructions were that a pair of us would take one tree and strip her bare of all her fruits (or till our bags were full... whichever happened first). These mangoes were big and hung at ground level, hence, there was no need to climb the trees. They were so heavy that one hand had to hold it and the other had to just tip the stem at an angle to pluck it off. Pulling the mango with brute force had two disadvantages. 1) a kind of syrup would spurt out from the plucking point. This syrup was dangerous for the eye and the skin on contact. 2) the plucking could make the whole branch ricochet and make enough noise to arouse suspicion. And there was going to be NO whispers in the orchard. Once the bags were full, each of us would return to the rendezvous point from where we were to quietly depart. The loot would be evaluated later in the hostel. Fool proof.

The orchard was surprisingly small. We could see the lights in the guard's room about a 100 meters away. But it was thick in foliage. The mangoes hung at about 5 feet from the ground. Even in the dark they looked paler than the leaves and were easily spotted. The problem was to be the dry leaves that covered the base of the trees. The lighter you trudged on them, the noisier they became. Deepak and i took the first tree to the left. I kept plucking the mangoes and he deposited them in my bag. Within minutes my bag was full. We changed parts and filled his bag. I used to weigh around 65-70 kgs in those days. An addition of another 30kg was significant. I could feel it. I was trying not to think of the miles we would have to travel till i could throw myself on my cot.

Then through that eerie calm came a shrill voice ... arre yeh aam to mast hai yaar !!! ... it was Uncle. Apparently, Uncle had broken the code and given in to his instincts. He was sitting on one of the high branches of his designated tree eating a mango and making obnoxious noise apart from his voice. I could feel Deepak turn red. We quietly went to his tree. I think his partner was Sagar (correct me guys if i am wrong) and he was constantly coaxing Uncle to come down. Deepak tried using some expletives and threats of abandoning Uncle in this wilderness if he did not obey. Uncle finally obliged. There was also an instance when we thought we say someone about 20 meters away and thought it was a security guard; only to realize later that it was one of our black-cats. And then the dog started barking. This was a consistent bark coming from not more than a hundred meters from us. We headed for the fence while it kept barking, and immediately realized than now, each of us had a 30kg baby on our back.

I cannot put in words how it feels to move with bent knees, piggy-backing your 30kg guilt. is it the burden of the weight or the sin .. i do not know... but we did it. most us did not care a damn if our heads were bobbing above the grass. We were just running with all our might till we reached the first fence where Pandu had slipped.

Men, learn to give our foot soldiers as much respect as you can because they deserve more. That 300 m dash gave me an inkling of how it feels to climb mountains with heavy ammunition (far heavier than a bag full of mangoes) to fight the unseen enemy with the singular motivation of fighting for ones motherland. NO mangoes and NO cots to enjoy when you reach the end. An enemy bullet if you are unlucky and respite if you are lucky. Salute them whenever you can and make every attempt whenever you cannot.

I do not remember much of our journey back to the hostel. Only that we waited for about a couple of hours at the rock where KK had lit the torch to mark the beginning of our venture. We lit a couple more to mark the end. Deepak would occasionally give a hand to one of us when we were tired and could not carry further. At all times he was carrying two bags. Finally, it was 5 in the morning and it was time to re-enter the hostel. We would have to wake up Suresha to open the hostel gates. The train from Bangalore used to reach Shimoga at around 5 am and the plausible explanation was that we had just returned from Bangalore. This practice was common among hostelites and not susceptible to interrogation. Our travel bags and attire made it sound believable. The fact that he saw none of us leave the previous night was just a lucky coincidence.

The loot remained in room 219 and 220 Tunga hostel for the next two months. Every night we would buy packets of milk from Maamu. Deepak had a plastic jug and a churner using which he diligently made pure mango milk shake for his bandits.. and his bandits drank till they could have no more. Every morning the dustbin would be full of mango seeds and skin and hostelites would wonder who got so rich to buy mangoes every day. We wondered too along with them and said we wished whoever they were would give us some to eat.

Coming from Kolkata I have had mangoes aplenty all my life. None tasted better than these. A lot of things in life leave a better taste with an iota of juvenile delinquency.... mangoes too. I returned home at the end of that semester with a bag full of garments soiled beyond recognition... but smelling fruity. As always... Ma did not complain.

PS: A couple of months later KK and I made another venture to that orchard. This time the season was over and we did not return with anything. However we did spend a whole night in that wilderness enjoying the pristine beauty of Mother Earth.. something which I had missed on my first trip.

The wood of our creation

2009-05-31T10:08:00.005-04:00

In the indiscernible woods, as you venture ahead
At the stroke of midnight, or apparently so

You stumble over mounds of logs with holes
Or may be they are femurs of long gone souls

You shudder because this isn't the beautiful woods
About which you read in your history books

You walk ahead but you go straight down
Through a rodent's tunnel underground

Oh! wait a minute, hold your breath
Here lay villagers, napalmed to death

You scamper back all muddy and brown
Scared of the history, that you just found

Above ground its just a beautiful night
You head south where there is a little light.

A step or two and there are people running at you
They call themselves tigers, and they hack and hew

This son et lumiere isnt just the right kind
So you head north , to divert your mind

You wonder what's wrong in your travel plan
This forest isn't as green as shown in your map

You are not sure where you are anymore
This is your african safari, but you missed the Ugandan lore

This was your journ of south-east-asia
Yet you didnt know whats on in Cambodia

You planned to hunt tigers in that small island
Only to find there was none left behind

You thought that smell came from a geyser nearby
But this is vietnam .. you smell napalm when she sighs

Enough of the forest you have seen for the day
Leave alone the desert .. she has plenty to say

As you traverse back, you realize this isnt night
We have messed up the skies as we have done with the land

You want to go back .. to your history book
And scream at her as she innocently looks

My friend, this is the wood of our creation
a testimony to man's regression

A thing of beauty is a joy forever

2009-05-14T23:25:00.007-04:00

'A thing of beauty is a joy forever'..... not a cogent sentence unless you categorically define 'beauty' and 'joy'.. which would in effect take away the very essence of these two words.

However, I have made an attempt to apply this line to my life and it fits like a missing block.

Photography for instance. I clicked my first shutter when shutters made more noise than a mini air-gun. Papa's camera weighed significant enough to alter my center-of-gravity and throw me into an unstable equilibrium. Of course, dad wound two full rounds of the leather strap to ensure his Zenith SLR did not hit the ground even if I did. I was 4 or 5. Dad set the aperture, shutter speed, focal length et al. He even set the frame from point to point. There were clear instructions to me to hold the breath, keep the hands steady, hit the shutter hard so it went all the way down .. and then stand where i was in attention till dad came and manually wound the film for the next shot. The first photograph i took was a blur.. it shows my parents' heads (the rest of their body could not make it inside the frame). In that blur you can see one smiling face and another frowning one looking directly towards the lens.

That particular photograph (i.e if you can call it so) cannot be called 'beautiful' by any stretch of imagination. However, every time in the past 20 years that I have looked at it, I have seen that smiling face and that concerned look. It is a beautiful medley of parental love and concern for their child. I have taken many photographs till date ... good, bad and ugly.. but there is that 'thing of beauty' in this one which has made it 'a joy forever'.

Books. I have read few books in my life belonging to myriad genres. At a very tender age ma and dad gave me one called The Charlie Brown Dictionary by Schulz. I walked a mile holding their hands through the Calcutta Book Fair with the single motivation of Benfish fish fries (they always used to put up a stall at the fair) and came back home with this book which was significantly bigger and heavier than any of the books my parents bought for themselves. A concrete reason for a child to feel happy and important. Oh and i had the fish fry too ! The last time i went home i was 25. I went through those now yellowing pages where Snoopy, Lucy, Woodstock and Charlie Brown taught me the basic words in the english language while they kept playing baseball , going from one escapade to the other. Baseball is still as alien to me as it was then, but the game has given me as much fun as it intends to. Charlie Brown has been a joy forever.

Apart from 'beauty' and 'joy' there is the 'thing' in that sentence.

Can the 'thing' which is a 'beauty' and thereby gives 'joy' be abstract ?

Can the 'thing' be intangible ? Something like say 'memories'

All i have been doing in this blog is to list out memories which are beautiful and are a reason for joy. Therefore in 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever' , the 'thing' may not be a thing.. it can be anything.

As life moves forward, I keep looking backwards. I guess at one point we all do that, but i keep doing it chronically and regularly. Sometimes i feel i fall in the extinct class. But hasent the salmon and the hilsa done that for years and survived still? So may be i will too.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever... as of now that 'thing' is a short nap... so long.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

2009-04-08T00:48:00.004-04:00

I was never blessed with an elephant's memory.... but my father was.... It always made me look stupid in front of him...

So, at an early age I decided enough was enough! There were books piled in every shelf of our house.. (if riches were to be measured in books .. we would be millionaires ). I took one that befitted my age and pored over it till it was over .. Now, with the story fresh in mind i went to him with my bloated ego....

The Agony and the Ecstasy.. Yes, there I was, Michelangelo, onwards to carve a David out of Carrara marble.

Papa's query: 'Do you remember Michelangelo's granma's name ?'.......... What ??!!

I just read 400 pages about the greatest sculptor in human history and the first thing dad asks me is this seemingly insignificant question.

Now, Ma always kept saying 'He's insane' .... this was one time i agreed with her.

But thats my father. Each time I have finished a book and gone to him.. I have been bamboozled by something he would say (That 'something' which he had read 30 years back) about the same book which I did not remember coming across. I kept having these utterly humiliating, and absolutely demoralizing conversations with dad, chronically, till I accepted them as part of my ill-fated life.

My bloated ego was now doing a google search on 'Michelangelo's grandmother' and trying to commit her name to memory to escape future humiliation. Only later did i realise how important a role she played in the life of Michelangelo.

Well, what we remember is what we want to remember in our subconscious..... Not what we are made to remember.

I remember feigning stomach aches to escape Tuesday's bengali class at Don Bosco (where you got a knock in the head and a remark in the diary for not being able to recite 10 lines of bengali poetry). I dont remember a single line of those poems which i so painfully memorized. I also remember having to take a barium test because the doctor (and my dad) thought i was suffering from appendicitis (or may be a stone in my gall bladder), ... ignoring the fact that this 'appendicitis' kept popping up every Tuesday morning !

It was a heavy price i paid to keep my diary clean and my cranial bone unscathed. One huge glass of white chalk paste(barium) poured down my throat. It took two days to come out. Talk about the agony and the ecstasy !

I remember....

I remember the first time I left home.. I was 19 .. I remember the first time I had curd rice, thinking it was 'paesh' .. I remember my first trip to Shimoga, all the while thinking this must be the train to Auschwitz.. I remember never getting a prize for 6 years of recitation in Modern School.. I remember cracking my head.... breaking my left arm.... fracturing my leg.. travelling 'general' for 2 days to attend Thamma's funeral....... I remember...... Yes, I remember, a lot of things that may have been agonizing .. but has always stayed close to my heart.. and therein lies the ecstasy.

How many times have we seen 'Dont worry be happy' clumsily written on a heavy vehicle's differential and ignored it as the ignorance of the illiterate?

The ecstasy is not a psychedelic drug (as many would have you believe).. it is just a state of mind. What is agony today might be ecstasy in hindsight.

There are two kinds of people who have reached this far in my article.. to the ones in agony, the key word is 'remember' ... to the ones in ecstasy.. thank you for reading something that doesnt make much sense to you in your present state of mind.. but will, when life shows you the other side... so the key word again is 'remember' .

To the rest who are hanging in limbo .. logoff .. you can come back later when you have fallen off the tight rope. Michelangelo's perennial agony may have very well been instrumental in giving the world David. Therein lies the dichotomy of the agony and the ecstasy.

Time to be Ecstatic !!!! Cheers !

A Time of my Life : Part 2

2009-04-01T16:12:00.001-04:00

This incident should have come before the last one. Somehow, it was lost in the cobwebs of my present. But, here it is.

This was Sem 1 at JNNCE. I had just moved to room 111 Tunga Hostel (yes, i had the unlucky Nelson on me since then :)

My roommates, Manish Chakravarty('borty' if you are a bong), Rishikesh Kumar (we called and still call him 'Thakur') and Priyadarshi (you ll get to know him as we progress).

Manish had stayed all around the country before landing here (his father being a senior man in the army), Thakur was from Muzaffarpur, and I was from Kolkata. Priyadarshi came from Dharwad and did not fit into the stereotype of a 'Northie'. Yes, thats what you were called in Shimoga if you came from above the deccan (from Gujarat to Tripura... its all North to them). A pleasant medley we were.

Priyadarshi used to go for Maths tuition (M1) to Dr. Shantarajappa's house at 6a.m every morning. The rest of the hostel came to Thakur....... Thakur being a Bihari had inherent maths skills running through his veins. We all respected that and reaped regular dividends.

The other things about Priyadarshi were,
1. he was always tensed regarding his studies(once he lit a torch inside his mosquitoe net and covered himself with a chaddar with a book inside ).
2. he went to any length to get silence in the room (which was impossible with Manish around)
3. he had an exceptional high baritone voice (that could scare people to death) which belied his lean structure, and
4. he always slept early (a fact left undisputed by other hostelites due to 3)

So, one fine night around 2am

Thakur was preparing to go to bed, Manish as usual was busy (doing something technical ) and I was reading a novel. Priyadarshi was sleeping, with the alarm set to 4.30am (remember, he had a class at 6). Manish got up to reach his wardrobe for something, and banged a couple of our side tables on the way( 111 was a really small room .. a dungeon more or less). This woke up Priyadarshi only so much so to ask 'Hey Sapto what's the time ?' .. I dutifully told him it was 2 and went back to my book.

And then the Devil struck in cognition.

I looked at Manish.. and I knew he was thinking the same. We slowly went to Thakur's bed. Woke him up. As usual Thakur thought we were conspiring against him. We managed to convince him that for a change our plan was targeted towards Priyadarshi. I went and slowly set Pri's timepiece to 4.15am. Thakur was so excited he could barely stop laughing. Somehow, he managed. We planned that it was best for him to sleep ... else he might give away our brilliant idea with flashing teeth. Manish used to be very health conscious then and was in pretty good shape. He said he would wake up at the stroke of the alarm and get ready as if to go out for an early morning jog... and I said it would not look surprising to read a novel late into the morning, so i would just stay up and take the responsibility of dutifully waking up Priyadarshi at 4.30 (i.e 2am actual time, remember).

No wonder, the time piece started screaming in 10 mins.. showing 4.30 to the dot. We had not reset Priyadarshi's biological clock, so he was just moaning and turning around. I could see Thakur vibrating under his blanket. The ass just could not stop laughing. Manish was peeping his head out of his quilt every other second. I kept calling Priyadarshi to wake up but to no avail. He just kept moaning... Now, i got up, changed the clock hand to 4.45am and started shaking Priyadarshi.... 'It's late man, get up .. you are going to miss your class !!" .. sure as hell he sprang out of his bed, looked at the clock.. shouted a few expletives and ran to the washroom with his brush. Mission successful..... or at least it seemed so.

Manish got up and he also went to brush (just to make things more normal for Priyadarshi).. i could hear Priyadarshi asking him 'Hey man whats wrong .. why are you up so early ?' (Priyadarshi had this loud way of saying 'Hey man' which resounded through the corridor).. this again sent Thakur vibrating under his chaddar. Anyway, i went back to my book, thinking, when to break the truth to Priyadarshi. I knew he would be angry but then he would laugh too.

Manish came back and put his shorts on and his shoes.. and i think he did a couple of free hand exercises too and commented something on the advantages of early morning exercise and jog.. slightly louder so Priyadarshi could hear.

But Priyadarshi was so focused on getting ready, he really did not care. Only once he asked.. 'Hey Sapto.. you read that novel all night or what ?' ... I said ya it just got interesting as the night progressed.. so I want to finish it :)

Then something happened.. he took out his wristwatch from the cupboard and looked at it... 'Oh s*** man this watch is not working properly' ... and with that he changed his trusted wristwatch's timing from 2.30am to 5am (as per the time piece on his table)...... Manish and I looked at each other with our jaws hanging out like teller machines.... and then it happened again... Thakur started vibrating. This time Priyadarshi saw him. He said .. 'Hey man this guy is laughing in sleep !' ... we needed no further ideas..... I said 'yes i think he has that problem, yesterday he was talking in sleep too'.... under the blanket , Thakur was so stunned to hear this blatant lie, that he stopped shaking.

All dressed up and ready, Priyadarshi took his cycle and went off towards the hostel gate ..onwards to Dr Shantaraja s house.

Now, this was first year. For security reasons our hostel remained locked. It opened only at around 5am and Suresha was the Hostel boy who did it everyday. He lived by the first room to the left and was a great guy. Priyadarshi used to wake him around this time everyday 'coz he had to go to his class... Suresh never complained.. for one, he was a great guy, and two, I told you about Priyadarshi's voice.... right?

I swear to God, we thought this was the end.... because Suresha's watch must be showing the right time.. it was 2.30am.. a good couple hours before daylight. The moment Priyadarshi left the room, we switched off the lights and waited with bated breath. Knowing he was certain to come back in a minute and raise hell. In my mind I was preparing my apology speech.

Priyadarshi knocked at Suresha's room and eventually he must have got up. We heard two voices from the other end of the corridor. It was in Kannada, one was trying to convince the other of something and the other was just blasting away. Eventually we heard the hostel collapsible gate open.. close ... and then there was silence .

in the dark .. three pairs of eyes looked at each other...

Instantly, we ran out of our room and started shouting Priyadarshi's name. We went to the gate and kept shouting.. till Suresha came out ... instinctively we asked him 'Why did you let him go ?? It's 2.30 in the night !!' .... He replied..'That's what i was telling him, but this guy wont listen. He showed me his watch and said it was 5am and if I didn't let him go he would complain to the principal that I made him miss his tuition !.. So, i let him go'

This was doomsday. The road which Priyadarshi used to take went straight through the heart of the antisocial world, it was the land of the Mohans, Narasimhas and the Dattatreyas (all legends in their own rights), a place called Navule where dead corpses came afloat in the swamps in the morning. People who have been there will know that I am not exaggerating. It was a 30 min ride to Dr. Shantaraja's house and this guy was on a cycle... with his watch, wallet and everything. We were not even thinking what was going to happen if he survived the ride and rang the bell of Dr. Shantaraja's house !

The three of us sat quietly on the stairs of our hostel. Everyone was sleeping.. we could only hear the humming of the water cooler. It was the longest morning of my life, waiting for Priyadarshi.. praying every moment that he reaches us safe.. realizing full well that I was actually praying for my butt.

We waited for around 2 hours. Thinking at times to tell everyone and go all out searching for him.

..and then... he came.. the thin man with a toothbrush mustache.. angry as a wild boar..... not at us .. but Dr Shantaraja !!! Suresha opened the gates (poor him) and in came Priyadarshi with his cycle.. targeting his acrimony at Dr Shantaraja ... "What's this man .. he should inform if he is not taking the class .. I waited for one hour and nobody came .... I thought of knocking at his door but no other student was there, so I came back ... bla bla bla"......... we were thanking our stars for giving him the good sense not to knock.

... and then it struck him " Hey man .. what are you guys doing here ... why are you three roaming around here at this time?? "

The answer we gave him is not so important for you to know.

What is important is we got him back. We also managed to click a photo .. the background shows the hostel gate and the darkness outside (it still wasn't sunrise)... The 3 culprits and the victim .

Oh .. it's not over yet !

We somehow convinced him that after he left, I slept (Thakur was already sleeping).. and Manish discovered that his timepiece had been rigged .. and we suspected that it was Kakati who had come to our room and done it while we were unaware. (Pinakjit Kakati lived across our room and had a reputation for mischief... so we pinned him ... and Priyadarshi completely believed it.). The first thing we know in the morning, Priyadarshi shouting like he does at Kakati ... and Kakati just could not make anything out of it. He was completely flabbergasted! I think we too joined in the assault.

Gradually, we let everyone know the truth.. but I think Priyadarshi came to know the truth about 2 or 3 years later.

Believe me, it was a night to remember.. or should i say morning :)

So much for Priyadarshi's 'Northie' friends .. enough reason to start a hostel war .....but not him .. he is as good a friend i had :)

A Dream- To have and have not

2009-03-16T17:29:00.000-04:00

We have all been through elementary school .. haven't we ? ( without that you wouldn't have reached this page )

Well, why i ask is because i want to know what you answered when that sweet lady (a cane-wielding lady .. in some cases) called out your name and said,

____ , What do you want to become when you grow up ?

I had too many smart kids in my class who knew they were going to be doctors and engineers (No senators or lawyers ... this was in India you see !) from the day they dropped out of their mother's womb.

I said i wanted to be a doctor. I liked the blue scooter Doctor Uncle used to ride.. and he smelled of merchurochrome, and, he was always there when i was in trouble. Enough reason for a role model to a 4 year old.

Thus, I was christened a completely normal obedient child with a perfect goal.

Well, that was as close to being a doctor I ever got.

Coming back to the question; What do you want to become when you grow up ?
Deep inside, don't we all want to be just Ourselves ? Isn't that all we aspire for ? I know there are some people who probably will only realize this after looking up from their graves .. but I am not writing for them.

Ma used to say 'Education is the manifestation of potential qualities inherent in a child' . This is the line she made me write when i was in class 4 trying to write an essay on the importance of education (I am proud i still remember it... probably because the statement was incomprehensible to me at that age, so, i memorized it ). I don't know if she had read it somewhere (By the way she often says such things which make prefect sense to me).. but its so true !! We get educated to be able to become ourselves.. sadly, in that process, so often , we lose ourselves.

Eons ago when a Guru stood on the porch and asked his pupil the same question, he did not intend to hear the word 'doctor' or 'engineer'. He was trying to manifest the potential in his pupil.

Understanding this simple truth has stood me in good stead over the years.

No matter what, You must pave the path for yourself. A path already traversed, albeit safe is not worth walking. It will lead you to someplace where another man wanted to go.. Not you.

I write this as a tribute to Ma for all that she has taught me. Am glad she showed me the right way.. Stupid as i am, i would certainly have lost my way without her.

"Long is the way and hard.. That out of hell leads up to Light"
John Milton- Paradise Lost

The Gull

2009-01-27T14:37:00.000-05:00

The gull looks into the crimson dusk,
With outstretched wings he motions
To permit the distant Sun to drown,
Into the bosom of the ocean.

Content with pride, accomplishment in stride;
Making tridents on the servile sand,
He picks a twig, firm in his beak
And waves to the skies like a wand.

Like a monarch he strolls, on the sands of time
With élan he glides yonder
As swift as the wind, as strong as the sea
With wings outstretched asunder.

This banal land, is most stale
Like Ulysses he wishes to sail,
To see what lies beyond the Sun
To see from where comes gale

Off he sets, for eternity
With ambition on fluttery plumes
Notwithstanding life's limitations,
Notwithstanding doom.

Cleaving through the nebulous mist
Searing through the skeptic waves
In search of the truth, that has made mockery
Of the mighty and the brave.

Through endless days, and abysmal nights
He races with his own reflection
Using stratagems and guile to get the better
Yet none delivering fruition

In search of the Promised Land he sails
Where bliss is commonplace;
Where ambition retires, where happiness plays
Where time must pause to exhale.

What mortal has won the race
When the Elements participate ?
Yet on weakening wings and a mighty heart
The gull marches straight.

The sea seems nearer, and the rival closer
As if to discuss a truce;
Like Caesar betrayed by one of his own
He splashes on the surface devoid of ruth.

Rising up yet again!
Like a phoenix refusing the end;
He looks ahead to see the land
Which eons before he left.

That banal land that was most stale
From where he had set sail
Where like a monarch he had once strolled
Where all ambitions must fail.

To the bosom of that land, the gull sails
Wounded ,defeated and pale
Not in search of the sun or the gale
But for solace that's stale.

Those lieutenant wings can pull no long
Those plumes can toil no more
The mighty gull plummets one last time
Setting his eyes on the shore.

For an eternity; there's silence around;
Till his eyes open
To see the twig that was once a wand
To see the tridents on the sand

With broken wings, outstretched;
On quivering toes he stands;
Those eyes that once had fire in them
Are calm, they understand;
Prostrate on the sand, he falls
Embracing his motherland.

Saptarshi

A Time of my Life: Part 1

2009-01-15T18:33:00.001-05:00

Time to make this blog look less morbid.

This is one of those incidents i have always wanted to write down somewhere ... not to be lost in time, but to be made timeless. The characters are original, their names unchanged and there is nothing coincidental. In time, these people may become famous and be embarrassed at reading this post and even threaten to sue me for blasphemy. Nonetheless i will take the risk.

It was one of those weeks in 2002 when we had just come back from Kolkata to our hostel in Shimoga (Yes, there is such a place on earth !), Karnataka, after a semester break. Everyone had their bags filled with something from home, but mostly that resource would run out during the 2 day train journey. Some wise men however hid their treasures in the darkest corners of their bags.

GB (Girish Binani.... though the abbreviation has stood stoically for a lot of other names over a torturous span of 4 years) was one such wise man. He always brought home-made 'parathas' and sweets to be shared with us for the train journey, but, this time things were different. Unconfirmed reports had it that his bhabi (his elder brother had recently got married) had sent with him a huge cache of dry fruits cashews and almonds. GB, being much thinner than he is today, understandably had plans to consume this stuff over a period of the ensuing semester and hoped to put on some much needed weight. Over a span of two days GB kept a hawk eye on his luggage.

Needless to say, there were miscreants around. Let me introduce you to some of them.

Sujo(a)y Banerejee. He did not like the 'o' his parents gave, so decided on changing it to 'a'. GB suspected him the most; But if you ask me, Sujoy really wasnt the reason he should have been worried. In every team there is a scapegoat. Sujoy was ours.

Sutanu Mandal. Now we are treading into dangerous territory. One of those benevolent-looking-slow-starting dangerous unstoppable monsters. Like a fission reaction, it was not a big deal to get him going but to contain him.

Pratik Gupta (Mota). Neither benevolent-looking nor slow-starting .. but decetpively quiet and more dangerous.

Varun Vashisht. One of the few trusted confidants of GB. Always ready to help with inside info about him.

Soumya (.. thats not a girl as many of you from the deccan would suspect.... In Bengali his name is spelt 'shoummo'). An inert member of the group who would lay supine all his way through the most intense fights and the most docile times around him.

Saptarshi Moitra. That's me. Many would have you believe that I am not as innocent as I am. But the most important point is that GB believes (or at least he believed in 2002) me to be innocent.

Somehow GB made it to the hostel where his treasure lay ensconced in a locked cupboard. he used to stay with Varun, Soumya and Sujoy. Dont ask me how Sujoy and GB managed to coexist. GB must have had sleepless nights protecting his treasure from white fangs.. so, one day he decided to become philanthropic.

I used to visit Tunga 105 (GB's room) quite often. On this fine afternoon, after having lunch at the gourmet George's i went to 105. (Co)incidentally i was joined by Sutanu and Mota (also Kaushik whom i forgot to mention in the gang). Everyone coaxed GB to share with us his treasure; but, he refused. Then someone (I think Sujoy) asked GB to at least give a share of his treasure to me (my reputation being higher than the rest). The wise man thought for a while and then acceded to the demand. And then it all happened.

I still remember the scene vividly and probably will for many years to come. GB took his cupboard key from under his pillow and threw it towards me.. the idea being only to authorize me to have a share of his treasure and give the keys back to him. Like a circuit-breaker the key bunch landed safely in my hand ... and immediately the hostel lights went off... This was sheer serendipity for us.... and bad luck for GB.

I can remember myself opening the cupboard in the dark and immediately feeling numerous hands groping in the darkness. The big fat ones which would block all of GB s 'dubbas' was Mota's. From the typical odour emanating from behind my shoulders I figured that Sutanu was behind me deperately tryin his luck too. Kaushik, Varun .. they were all there.

GB in his moment of desperation went for the match-box. Dont ask me why. Probably he wanted to see the carnage... just hearing wasnt enough. I can remember GB jumping from bed to bed tryin to light a match and Sujoy following close, dutifully blowing each one off . Something like the Tom& Jerry chase. So engrossed was GB with this 'let-there-be-light' thing that he ran out of the room in the dark corridor in search of a torch. This was a fatal mistake. Sujoy simply latched the door from inside. In the darkness we could hear GB yell from outside. Torchlight could be spotted from the ventilator above the door, meaning GB was now back with a torch.. but locked out in the corridor.

And then there was Light.

Mota's mouth was on the verge of exploding, and so were his pockets. Sutanu grinned at me and a couple of cashew nut fell off from his overstuffed mouth. Kaushik never talked much.. even now he was keeping his mouth closed. Sujoy was so happy to have screwed Gb that he had forgotten about the loot. Now he was begging Mota and the others for his share. I still had GB's keys in my hand. We decided to open the door and let GB in.

I dont recall what exactly happened after that, perhaps, because we were laughing our brains out and I think this story propagated through the other corridors of Tunga, and soon GB had visitors like Vishal Sagar Mayank and KK from the other wings.

When I read 'Five Point Someone' by Chetan Bhagat I often wondered if we had more fun and more stories to tell about our college days. May be we never cared to pen them down and with time, those sweet memories faded, or were replaced with life's pragmatism. Nonetheless, here's my try to keep them alive.

Yes I will survive !

2009-01-04T16:57:00.000-05:00

Yes, this is why I had decided to start the blog. To leave the footmarks of my life.

I am going through the toughest phase of my life (till date) and I think it needs to be documented, lest I forget what I went through when the times are good. More than 2 years back I took a decision I ll never regret. I came to the US to do my MS. It was a dream I wanted to live.. and i lived it through the thick and thin. There was only one little problem. I chose to graduate in the middle of the worst global recession of the century. Some timing ! I spend days and nights applying for positions online.. several times to the same positions, never getting a reply. I keep calling people for help only to end up empathizing with their predicaments.

This is January 2009 and there are only two kinds of people living in the US. Ones who have jobs ... and others who dont. The ones with jobs are scared. They can feel the impending guillotine hanging over their head. Entire teams are getting fired, many re-organized, some retained, only till the next meeting. They are even scared to mourn the layoffs for there are high chances the next pink slip may have their names on it. The common talk is to go back to India where things are not 'this bad'.. like all common talks nobody is serious about this one.

Then there is this other kind of people.. they dont have jobs .. so they dont worry about layoffs! They dont belong to teams .. so they dont worry about reorgs. They dont get pay slips.. so why worry about pink slips.. they have only one small worry .... Survival ! I belong to this multitude.

Have you ever dreamt of falling in a dark abysmal well? I have.. nowadays its so recurring i actually enjoy the ride. The only problem is that I am dragging quite a few people with me who really dont need this excitement.

These are times which may be chronicled in history lessons and there'll be dark facts peeping out of books for future generations to see. people will say in a matter-of-fact way .. 'yes those were bad times' without knowing how it really was. I'll know.. and i will remember how it was.. and i will look up from that book and take a deep breath and say .. Yes I survived !

The Mumbai carnage:The only thing we must fear is Terror itself !

2008-12-09T09:34:00.001-05:00

Two facts hurt most. Leave alone the intelligence failure and back-dated weapons which I presume had a lot to do in this case.

One... those 9 hours !!! And the attack wasnt in any remote village in MP. It was at places which have been notified as terror targets since years. I wonder why they spared the BSE ? The home ministry simply doesnt get it ! During the Kargil war they took 4hours to convey critical information from the Indian Air Force to the Indian Army. Shows their indifference and incompetence.

Second... and this almost left all educated Indians feel stupid ! Manmohan Singh's speech ! What was he trying to do ?? read the country's epitaph ? It did not even sound sad .. it sounded pathetic.

Forgetful as we are .. I feel our media must play a big role in making this country a terror-aware state. Stop the fucking saas-bahu shows and at least for an hour a day when the viewing is max.. do a terrorist- politician show to make the country aware of what we are up against and who we are voting to protect ourselves. TOI had terror on its front page during the siege. Since last four days its only what Pakistan is saying about terror and what Kasav is eating and shitting. who wants to know that ? the point is what are We doing ? We have gone back to our daily lives after seeing a horror movie .. thats the truth. And why blame Pakistan ? when militancy is rife in every state in India! what are we doing to counter terrorism within? look at the Bangladesh India border! Who needs the Wagah border to enter India? Take a flight from Lahore to Dacca.. and then drive en route to the border .. tip the BSF and get in to India !!! Bengal Bihar UP and Orissa are going to be (if not already) the terror hub of the future. These states are filled with antisocial elements who wont need a sermon to turn 'jihad'i.. they just need an AK47.

Let the 3 forces do their job .. I am sure they know more about handling Pakistan(I dont care if its their Govt or the ISI) than we do. As for citizens like us .. let all of us be aware.. keep our eyes open. spread the word to the pan/bidi shops and the auto wallahs and the taxi wallahs we meet. spread it among colleagues .. among everyone. Let us be alert .. let us be suspicious ... and this is nothing new. Israel has survived since 1948 with this strategy.. their civilians are the eyes and ears of their administration.. even their intelligence. No one knows the actual number working for Mossad, what makes it deadly is the fact that they use their citizens across the world as their intelligence network. let each of us be the eyes and ears of the ATS. Let us have a terror-alert number to report any suspicious movements.. any activity which is out of the ordinary to the police .. to the local media.. let this country of ours live in terror.. Yes let them know we are terrified.. but we are not afraid.. We are mad.. let there be method in that madness.

let us do nothing heroic.. but the little that we can .. let no fisherman see a rubber boat coming his way and believe that its occupants are students returning from a sea trip. This is not the time to be naive ..despite what Mr. PM says. there will be rumors and false alarms .. but at least that will keep our police forces on their toes.. morover it will keep us on our toes. Together, let us say F*** YOU! That unfortunately is the tune of modern India.. a cruder version of the 'mile sur mera tumhara'

Good, or not so good !

2008-11-22T13:32:00.000-05:00

I am lying in bed on a stale Saturday morning with my eyes fixed at the ceiling, feeling strange. Last night I watched 'Unforgiven'. The protagonist in the movie went back to his old ways one last time, for good, or so the director would have us believe. I thought there wasn't anything dramatic in it; just the case of 'once a crook always a crook'. However, its difficult to choose who's good when the choices thrown at you are a hoard of prostitutes, a corrupt sheriff, and a ruthless killer. Makes the prostitutes look like angels and the pimp a saint. I thought the underlying point of the movie was the murk between good and evil. One can be a renegade or a patriot, depending on where you stand to judge.

The other movie I saw last week was a Hitchcock classic where two men meet on a train with one of them suggesting they eliminate a problem person in each others' life. He calls it 'murder swapping' where each man would not feel guilty, because he is murdering a stranger. How morbid ! How psychotic! Yet as the story unfolds, the audience is almost led to believe that it is not only a cunning idea but also very plausible and positively brilliant. In the end I almost wished them success for the sake of a happy ending to the movie... Bollywood style ! But then, a master like Hitchcock can make you believe anything.

That brings us to a moot point. Is it important to inculcate 'good' in a human being (early in life) or is it paramount to be able to teach him to dwell more in the 'murk' so that one can keep a balance between good and bad (later in life)?

Man typically spends the first quarter of his life learning the ways of being righteous, following the tenets of virtue and the doctrines laid down by society's pedagogues. The next quarter is spent in doubt. It is spent in questioning all that the first quarter taught. Ironically, it is society that lobs these grenades of doubts at him. Those who did not take the first quarter seriously will survive with minor bruises and lacerations. Those who took it seriously would lose the proverbial 'arm and a leg'. I wonder what the third and fourth (if there is any) quarter is like. Does it yield an answer or is the conundrum something we must take to our grave? Why do we teach our children something we doubt ourselves and are sure will only hinder their survival in this brutal battlefield? Why not be a Hitchcock and show them the dark side early in life to tell them that 'there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so'?

Good movies are made by great men who present their life's lesson on screen. Maybe there's something to learn from them.

The Start

2008-11-15T18:18:00.000-05:00

November 15th 2008 and I have eventually set my foot down to start a blog. The reason I started is because I feel I am the best person to whom I can express myself; and what better place than a blog to do that! There is no particular topic to write about; I guess thats a very hopeful start. I know what I dont want to write though. I dont want to write about who I am, what I am, how I became so, and what I intend to become. I will consciously try not to be egotistic, though thats the crux of human nature. This space is going to be a vent for expectations, frustrations, hope, despair, joy, sorrow and the myriads of emotions that all mortals are heir to. It is going to be my companion, my alter ego. With time this space will fill up. For the moment I am just cherishing the emptiness of it and the prospect of making it the playground of my emotions.

Lets celebrate solitude till then !
Cheers