tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77926430006863410812024-03-13T17:41:06.187+05:30Useful GarbageAll that got a second chance.Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-56191847325962460552009-10-03T02:48:00.013+05:302010-11-25T20:36:55.445+05:30Education<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Isn’t is shameful that I, Siddharth Tyebji, son of a Muslim father and a Hindu Bengali mother, neither can speak Urdu nor Bengali?</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal">- Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi</p></blockquote><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Though it’s hard to define the primary goal of education, the result of education should ideally lead to an enlightenment of the student towards the world outside, to provide him with a better understanding of things within him and without, so that he could use those skills in their betterment in some way or the other.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">What shouldn’t it be? Most importantly, education should not solely be a means to livelihood, it should not only be the process one has to undergo to earn a living in this world, it should not only mean the passing of an exam or the stamp of a degree.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, it has become to mean exactly that. The idea of a holistic education meant to broaden the mind is almost non-existent today. We live in an era of ‘specialisation’, and it, by definition, demands a narrowing down of interests, a sort of isolation. Where the proliferation of choice is seen as the biggest positive development, it is not a surprise that the belief has percolated to the field of education as well. Education is the ice-cream parlour, the subjects are the various flavours on display. Take the one you like. No one’s better than the other. The vendor has no suggestions to make.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">School</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Take, for example, the schools under the Central Board for Secondary Education (CBSE). As early as Standard IX, students are required to select their ‘Second Language’ (it is named so as studying English is, of course, mandatory). The options available in my school were Sanskrit, Hindi, French and German. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">While Sanskrit might look like a welcome inclusion in this list, anyone who has been at school knows that the picture isn’t so beautiful when it comes to its application. There are a very few students who take Sanskrit out of natural interest. Instead, most of the people who do are the ones who want to have it easy in their 10th Standard Board Exams. The fact that Sanskrit is a ‘scoring’ subject in which not too much hard work is necessary to get you a 95 out of 100 is known to all. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">This has perverted the whole intention behind imparting knowledge about one of India’s ancient languages. A historically rich and beautiful form of communication has been reduced to becoming a way of acquiring numbers on a sheet of paper. A subject that can potentially open up one’s mind to a universe of knowledge is being mugged up mechanically by students, just as they had done for the multiplication tables in preparatory school.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">On top of that, the options given to them are French and German. Now, for a child who has been familiar with phrases such as ‘the big, mean world’ and the ‘cut-throat competition’ outside, it is fairly easy to guess what language he or she will choose. In the new globalised India, where one might be involved in workforces constantly in interaction with foreign clients, a little knowledge of French or German is seen as an added ‘asset’. For the urban middle class India today, Sanskrit and elements such as that are part of the old India, the India gone by, and empowered by the chance at financial success and a superior quality of life 1991 has provided them, they are firm in their rejection for everything old. As if we there was actually a demarcation like such, where the old died and the new was born. But in their minds, it is clear.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I would like to iterate here that I have nothing against the teaching of foreign languages. The more appropriate way would to give students an option between Hindi and Sanskrit (and the local language of the place, if different from Hindi) and in addition, provide an optional Third Language option which facilitates the leaning of French, German and the like. The obvious argument to this would be that it’ll further increase the already immense workload the average school-goer suffers from. The obvious reply to this would be that perhaps languages are the only definable entity by which we stay connected to our culture, to the past. To subvert the study of the same for the sake of more ‘scientific’ education can be disastrous. In short, the study of history and culture, or in other words, what connects us to the past is of prime importance. The marginalisation of this defeats the very aim of education.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The underlying belief behind the existing state of affairs, though it might not be stated explicitly, is that education’s primary responsibility is to make products out of human beings. The phrase ‘duniya ke liye tayyar karna’ has taken a wholly absolute meaning today. Children have become raw materials, who are then processed with education, after which they are let out into the big, wide world as finished products. The system of examination prevalent today only furthers the extent and impact of the above style of thinking. We rely primarily on memory-based questioning which encourages students to stack up as much as they can within a period of time, just to vomit it all out on the day of the examination. There is very little emphasis given to imaginative or divergent learning, or to anything that falls beyond the scope of the textbooks.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">All this is a result of a society which demands only concrete results. What you know and what you feel is immaterial to them. What matters is only the final number on your grade sheet. This is also a society that doesn’t permit failures. The emotional ostracisation that one has to undergo in case of the same is enormous. The numerous cases of suicides by students unsatisfied with their 10th and 12th grades are a big example of that. If that is not a cause of worry for us today, and if it doesn’t lead to radical change, it’s hard to say what will. The recent measures taken by the government to make the 10th board exams optional is a long-awaited step in the right direction.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note</span>: As I was writing this part of the piece, Human Resource Development Minister Kapil Sibal also came up with a proposal making the teaching of Hindi compulsory across all schools in the country. This, however, is ridiculous as imposing Hindi on a Tamilian is as unjust as imposing Tamil on someone from the Hindi belt. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;">Universities</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Albeit, it is heartening to see Kapil Sibal eager to implement the suggestions made by the committee headed by the 82-year old Prof. Yash Pal (a full copy of the report can be found <a href="http://www.hindu.com/nic/yashpalcommitteereport.pdf">here</a>). This report on higher education in India spells out the problems it is suffering from and also suggests policies and concrete steps the government should take to overcome the same.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">As Mr. Sibal puts it, higher education today has become ‘compartmentalised’. That is not only to say that streams operate independently of each other, but also that research and education, which need to go hand in hand in order to produce quality teachers, are also seen as separate entities. Quoting the report:</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>It should be necessary for all research bodies to connect with universities in their vicinity and create teaching opportunities for their researchers and for all universities to be teaching and research universities.</blockquote><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">While the report acknowledges the importance of imparting knowledge about a varied set of disciplines at least at the undergraduate level, it adds that there already are some current universities that offer such opportunities. For example, there are some engineering colleges today which offer courses on subjects such as history and philosophy. But even at those centres, they are very rarely taken seriously by the students. The report’s suggestion to counter this shortcoming:</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote>One way of improving the quality of teaching of these additional disciplines and stimulating students’ interest is to allow students for whom a subject is additional to study along with those for whom the same subject is primary. For instance, a mathematics student should study and undergo evaluation in philosophy as an optional subject along with students for whom philosophy constitutes the primary subject.</blockquote><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The whole idea behind the report is to make education more inclusive by way of integration, be it in terms of disciplines such as science and humanities or fields such research and education itself. Should only a part of the suggestions mentioned in the report be implemented, it will lead to a significant positive change in the way education is perceived today.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The currently fashionable idea of ‘specialisation’ has taken a totally different form when it comes to universities. While schools, through electives, deprive the child of essential basic knowledge, universities, which are the last step for a student before starting on a job, work in near complete isolation with each other. The many engineering, management and medical colleges around the country have been lacking in this regard, and this does not exclude the much-aspired-for IITs and IIMs. An student who has taken admission into an engineering college is delivered education pertinent to his field of specialisation only; there are but very few colleges in India which encourage the study of subjects beyond its principal scope, depriving the student of exposure to innumerable possibilities where different fields of study interact and co-produce, leading to over-all, all-inclusive development. Development – this is one aspect of education very conveniently forgotten today. The Constitution is unclear about its regard for education as an agent of transformation or change. This spirit is lost when education starts to be seen as something that only ‘adds value’. The proliferation of private educational institutes offering higher education is a prime example of such change in view. Most of these institutions are nothing but money-minting ventures which take no responsibility for what their duty is towards the society at large. Rather than looking at the multi-national firms which recruit people from such places and the fat pay packages they give as criteria for judgement, universities should be judged by how much they have done to reduce disparities such as gender, class and caste.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-42244635186845783632009-07-27T04:13:00.017+05:302009-07-27T16:02:12.716+05:30Boring Road<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He stepped down from the large autorickshaw, and his feet landed straight into a puddle. The autorickshaws running in Patna were different, not like the ones he hired in Delhi, with exclusive usage for the duration of the journey. He had had to share this one with around ten co-passengers, not to mention two others hanging precariously at the back. The rains had arrived and the air was humid. Amir’s shirt, soaked half with rain and half with sweat, still carried the smell of strangers. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He had been dropped at Hadtali Mod. Around him, the traffic went on with its usual business, cars honking and crawling past, the incessant rain just adding to the confusion. Sublime chaos, at three in the afternoon. The old temple on his right, the hoarding for Amrapali restaurant on the left, images from the past past. Still the same, this place, except for the new red lights which did not work.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The house wasn’t far from here. About a kilometre and a half. But it was still drizzling, and Amir called out a rickshaw-wala. Reluctantly (as afternoons were meant for siestas), the man agreed to take him to his destination. ‘Only 20 rupees’, is what the man asked in return for his sleep, and Amir found it hard to deny him that.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Puku, the old housemaid recognised him at once, and came almost running to the gate, mumbling something beneath her breath. She was visibly happy to see Amir, and perhaps, as Amir thought, couldn’t think of the right words to greet him with after all these years.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘How are you, Puku mausi?’, said Amir, not knowing how else to start. Having opened the gate, she now reached down for his feet. He dismissed her with a couple of embarrassed utterings. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Is Nani at home?’, he now asked her. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Where else will she be? She’s here only....come come’, Puku replied, and signalled him to follow her.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The room, silent, orderly, unchanged. On the bed lay his Nani, his grandmother’s sister, sleeping, with her head turned away from the door. The fan went about its work slowly, as if it too had given in to the inviting afternoon. On a table alongside the bed – tablets, small bottles of medicine, a water flask and a glass, and an empty cup of tea. The table was the only new entrant since he had been here last, almost nine years ago; even the little sofa set and the paintings on the wall had remained as they were before. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Nani...nani’, Amir pronounced in a low voice, touching her feet gently. She turned to look, and for an unreal second or two, kept gazing at him.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Amir....amir...arey such a long time!’, she cried, and reached out for his face, covering it with both her hands. She looked at him closely now, and Amir wondered whether there was already a hint of moisture in her eyes. As a child, he’d always wondered how grandmothers could cry almost at will, or to put it more mildly - how easy tears were to them. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Nani, how are you?’, said Amir, caressing her hands and then taking them into his own. He looked at her hands, the wrinkles jutting out like cracks in a famine-struck land. Her nails, like his grandmother’s, curled completely in a perfect semi-circle. He had never seen a more abnormal pair of hands, and never a pair that was so beautiful. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘How will I be, beta?’, is all she said in reply, and then asked, ‘How are you here?’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘One of my friends is getting married. I was in town...so I thought I’ll meet you’, said Amir, and they exchanged a smile.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">She called out for Puku now, in a volume so low that it could only have been meant for Amir. He relayed the call, and Puku came, hunching, eager. She was asked to get another cup of tea, and she walked away, nodding.<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘What can I do, beta? It’s only these four walls for me now. Even to go to the toilet, I have to call Puku. Poor woman, she’s still here after all this....’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The rain had resumed full service. Amir sipped on the tea, nodding slowly from time to time. The saucer now had a small ring of brown in the centre, tea which had fallen down from the cup, and he watched this circle form and un-form as he picked up or placed down the cup. Everything was so slow, relaxed; he wished he could lie down on the bed too, in this peace broken only by his grandmother’s voice, and the soft tip-tip of the rain outside.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Time has come to a standstill for me. Days pass and I don’t even remember what date it is...I read sometimes, but even that is difficult to do for long when you are always lying down, no? Everything is so monotonous but what can one do?’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Why don’t you change things around in this room, Nani? A little change here might help...why don’t you replace these old paintings for one?’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">She only smiled at Amir, said nothing. The smile made him feel uncomfortable, he wondered whether he had hurt her in some way, and lowered his eyes. There was silence for a minute or two. How distant they had grown, thought Amir, in their own worlds now, separated by time, space, memory. And still, everything on the outside had remained the same, the gate outside the house, the room with its old structure intact, the two beautiful hands, the semi-circular nails, her voice.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘I’m so happy to see you. At this age, what else do we have to live for? Not just me, but anyone. To see you again after so many years, to hear your voice, that’s enough. Otherwise, what is there to look forward to? Just two lonely women living out their respective lives. ’</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">On his way out, Puku had handed him one of his grandmother’s umbrellas. When he refused saying that he wouldn’t need it, she thrust it into his hand, adding that it was of no use to the house anyway. It was still raining, in fact more heavily than before. But Amir had decided to walk to the Mod, and he ambled along slowly. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Half-way, he paused to look at the scene around him. The rain had cast a white shadow over everything. So much so, that it seemed to him that even the early evening traffic chaos looked beautiful. A stupid, dangerous thought, he then reminded himself, shook his head, and walked on.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-7004988317441542242009-06-04T15:05:00.009+05:302009-06-05T12:47:25.542+05:30The Death of Familiarity<blockquote>“Why don’t we ever learn that all changes of place are for the worse? It’s not love for the place; it’s the familiarity, like old winter clothes.”</blockquote><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> - <span style="font-style: italic;">English, August</span><br />Upamanyu Chatterjee<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />How does he start?<br /><br />It was like being in the presence of an old lover, there was familiarity but also the knowledge that he didn’t belong here anymore, that <span style="font-style: italic;">it</span> belonged or was going to belong to someone else very soon. Yet, everything was there as he had left it, books and papers strewn on the table, the almirah wide open with some leftover clothes, some leftover books and CDs. Even the graffiti on the wall, and the little Mao Zedong mask, hanging rather precariously.<br /><br />He had only a few hours to himself. His last few hours as the owner of this hostel room, one that he had inhabited for four long years, his territory. He had to check if anything worth of value was still left to be taken away, throw out the remaining garbage and pass on the room possession to the supervisor.<br /><br />The place almost felt eerie, naked and abandoned. To think that not so long back, this place had been full with conversation, laughter, Floyd and Morrison, was unimaginable. He felt heavy with feeling, something that was hard to explain, even to himself.<br /><br />How does he start?<br /><br />He looked into his drawer. It was quite a melange, from everything like newspaper contacts to received <span style="font-style: italic;">rakhis</span> on display. There were also a broken nail-cutter, some shampoo pouches , fee receipts as old as four years and keys for which he had now lost the locks.<br /><br />He picked up the <span style="font-style: italic;">rakhis</span>; they could not be thrown away like that. The shampoo pouches – they could still be used. And what about the newspaper contacts? Couldn’t they be of use later?<br /><br />Suddenly, he felt tired, physically and mentally. He closed the drawer and lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Was it possible for him to take away everything? Was it even desirable? Was it correct wanting to create an exact replica of this room, with its drawers, racks and closets, wherever he was headed next? Is it right to carry memory as baggage and not leave behind things knowing that they didn’t belong to you anymore, and indeed weren’t even needed?<br /><br />With some effort, he got up again and headed for the almirah. It had been wide open for the last couple of years, in the exact position as it was now, owing to his lethargy and near aversion to cleanliness. There were cobwebs and dust all around, and retrieving things felt like digging up stuff from debris. There was not much to take really; the few t-shirts, socks and handkerchiefs littered weren’t fit for public consumption anymore, and he let them remain where they were. There were a few assorted CDs too, perhaps the only thing worth taking away, and he pulled them up.<br /><br />He felt rather exhausted. There was dust on his hands and his whole body was soaked in sweat. Why, he thought to himself. What’s all this for?<br /><br />It was over. Whatever remained would be thrown away. He walked to the door and looked at the room one last time. He tried to sum everything up – the room and him, but his thoughts failed him, or his intelligence did. Irritated, he switched off the power, walked out and locked the room.<br /><br />Ready to walk away, all of a sudden, he felt the urge to see the place once more, now for the last, last time. He opened the door again, switched on the lights and had another look. Unanticipated, a wild surge of emotion ran through him.<br /><br />Why, why does he even have to leave this place? Why can’t he live here forever? Why do we ever move away? Why do we ever leave our homes?<br /><br />He felt angry, repulsed – whether by himself or the room, it was hard for him to say. He walked out finally, locked the door and walked away, without looking back, with as much confidence as he could possibly fake.</div>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-2353659921815115572009-05-23T08:35:00.002+05:302009-05-23T08:37:58.071+05:30MirrorHe looks into the mirror and asks - '<span style="font-weight: bold;">Do you wish to become a monster?</span>'<br /><br />The mirror pauses for a moment and then says - '<span style="font-weight: bold;">No, I'd rather remain a human being.</span>'Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-72298717891657152562009-04-04T20:07:00.006+05:302009-04-04T20:17:17.737+05:30Ignorance, Kundera<div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote>I imagine the feelings of two people meeting again after many years. In the past they spent some time together, and therefore they think they are linked by the same experience, the same recollections. The same recollections? That's where the misunderstanding starts: they don't have the same recollections; each of them retains two or three small scenes from the past, but each has his own; their recollections are not similar; they don't intersect; and even in terms of quantity they are not comparable: one person remembers the other more than he is remembered; first because memory capacity varies among individuals, but also because they don't hold the same importance for each other.</blockquote></div>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-45015120082416325392009-03-31T04:39:00.006+05:302009-03-31T04:57:16.929+05:30Words<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">You will read the words on a cloudy August morning.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The smells of rain of the night gone by would slowly reach your nostrils. You would wake up, reluctantly, and the first thing you’d see would be drops falling down from the tin roof outside your window. The drizzle falling on the roof itself would make soft, pleasing sounds, and for some time, you will lie there, just listening. You will pull the blanket up to your neck, and contemplate going to sleep again. In a while, you will get up and look out of the window you had left half-open last night. The sky would be an all-white, and the air would be filled with a strange drowsy innocence.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The words, wrapped in paper, would lie on your desk, unattended, almost washed with the rain that had managed its way in through the window. You would pick them up, tear open the envelope. Some of the letters would have lost shape and form, smudged.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Yes, you will read those words on such a cloudy August morning.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And maybe then, if never else, they would make sense.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-72210641404386211912009-03-18T02:23:00.006+05:302009-03-18T19:31:16.595+05:30Dark Man IV<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The near-darkness to which the brown curtains subjected the room was making Amir almost feel drowsy. The heavy thick piece of cloth had something resembling flowers stitched on it. He ran his hand on the contours, absentmindedly, not knowing how really to spend time. It was a holiday, and an afternoon, and with Papa asleep and Maa busy with chores, there wasn’t much to keep himself busy at.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The eyes were slowly giving way now. He was almost half-asleep.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Just then, the door bell rang. Far from being irritated to be disturbed when just about to doze off, Amir felt rather excited. Activity was activity. And on an afternoon with nothing to do, even to open the door for the maid or the <span style="font-style: italic;">dhobi</span> was an event, an occurrence that gave the passing time some shape, some meaning. So before his mother could even call out to him to answer the bell, he was almost there, ready to finally let some sunlight in.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Through the netted door, Amir saw a man, dark, spectacled, slightly bending forward with a beaming smile on his face. Even he, as little as he was, could see that the smile was fake, forced and rather shaky, that of a man eager to please. On his shoulder, he carried a <span style="font-style: italic;">thaila</span>, and in his hand was what looked like a box wrapped in plastic. Before he could ask the man anything, he himself spoke.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Bete, mummy ghar pe hain?</span>’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Haan hain….kya kaam hai?</span>’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Unko jaa ke bulao…</span>’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He had ignored Amir’s little query. Children have to get used to their little queries being ignored.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He gave the man a momentary stare and then rushed inside. Maa was in her bedroom, recording expenses in her diary, the one household task she seemed to enjoy most. Looking at Amir entering the room now, she gave her writing hand a pause.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kya hua? Kaun hai?</span>’, she asked.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Again, before Amir could speak, a question had been thrown at him.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Koi aadmi hai. Bola ‘mummy’ ko bulao</span>’, replied Amir, then eager to provide some extra useful information, ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Lagta hai kuchh bechne aaya hai…</span>’ </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Bolo woh ghar mein nahi hain.</span>’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Lekin hum bol chuke hain ki who ghar mein hain</span>’, Amir lied.<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">His mother looked up from her diary now. For a moment or two, she looked at Amir, wondering whether she should get angry at him, and then decided against it. Instead, she clicked her tongue, threw the diary on the bed and stormed out of the room.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kya hai?</span>’, she shouted at the man outside. She stood in the dining room, in the darkness. The man couldn’t sight her, and as he hadn’t really seen her coming, he took a little while to reply.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Didi zaraa idhar aake dekh to lijiye…AquaGuard Zero-B sab bhool jayiyega!</span>’, he finally did, holding something he had just taken out of the box.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Nahi chahiye!</span>’ is all she said in reply and then stormed back into the bedroom. The man kept pleading behind her, begging her to give the machine just one single look, offering her the world’s cleanest water, and even free installation of the contraption in the household kitchen.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Amir looked at the man closely from behind the netted door. He appeared exhausted, if anything. Mentally and physically. Sweat poured down from his forehead, pure transparent drops of crystal, like the clean water he promised. The flat was on the 3rd floor. God knows how many such he had visited this afternoon, Amir thought, and how many steps he had had to climb, only to be snubbed at the doorway. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">After this latest unsuccessful attempt, the man prepared to pack up and leave. When just about to turn back, he looked at the door and saw the kid gazing at him.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Bete…ek glass paani pila doge?</span>’, he asked in a low tone.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Haan, ek minute rukiye…</span>’, replied Amir, without even a moment’s hesitation and ran to the kitchen. He didn’t need his mother’s permission. You never deny a thirsty man water if he has asked for some, he remembered having been told by his elders many a time. Surely, Maa doesn’t need to be bothered for this. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He filled a glass with water and walked back to the door. Silently, trying not to attract his mother's attention, he kept the glass down, unlatched the netted door (something that required both his hands), lifted the glass and placed it into the man’s extended hand. He did it all almost like a ritual and it gave him an immense sense of satisfaction. Why, his little mind wasn’t quite disposed to fathom yet.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The man drank the entire glass and gave it back to Amir, saying ‘Thank You’. He himself replied with a neat ‘Welcome’ and closed the door again. He then watched the man pick up his <span style="font-style: italic;">thaila</span> and walk down the stairs, to ring the bell for another potential customer, to sell the world’s cleanest water.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-25941832671961833372009-02-27T14:33:00.007+05:302009-02-28T02:01:24.726+05:30Talking Contradictions<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />On a summer afternoon in the capital, the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Young Urban Indian</span> happened to be in the company of the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Young Jhola Krantikari</span>, at perhaps the only place this could actually happen.<br /><br />On a DTC bus. Their destinations are same, and for a change, they have taken the same path too.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Excerpts from an unlikely conversation:</span><br /><br />-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Do you think we’re shining?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: We?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Indians. India.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Well…that’s a good question. On the face of it, we are, aren’t we? In the space of the last sixty years or so, we’ve improved on a lot of our shortcomings. The economy is doing a lot better and is continually on the way up, we have the resources to make ourselves stronger internally and the defence to give ourselves protection from external elements. India, which was yesterday a minnow Asian country, is today all set to become a global powerhouse. In that sense, I would say that we aren’t really shining yet, but are on the right path to do exactly that very soon.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Stronger internally? The whole country is in deep strife, my friend! There are so many of it parts, be it Kashmir, the North-East or so many others, which want secession, dissatisfied with the power at the centre as well as the state. Ah, and not to mention the menace being caused by the Tamils in the south and the Naxalites in Andhra. You call it strength?<br /><br />Our defence which you refer to so handsomely also has been proved to be inadequate on many an occasion now. In the last few years, almost every big city here has been the target of Islamic extremism. Delhi, Jaipur, Ahmedabad, Bombay. You call this security?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: You are right in what you say, no doubt. There is a lot going wrong, yes, but there’s a lot going right too. Is any country in the world today free from the threat of terrorism? America isn’t, Britain isn’t. Does that mean that they don’t have it in them to protect themselves properly? Somehow, people like you never seem to look at the positive side of things. Tell me, has India ever been as conspicuous on the global stage as it is now? Leave that aside. Let’s talk about our oldest of all problems. Education. Hasn’t something like the literacy rate risen to almost 3/4ths and is on the way up?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: You talk of education and give me literacy as an example.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Well, ok, even if you talk about education in the strictest sense, we boast of some of the best schools and universities around the world today. The IIT’s and IIM’s are only examples. As Indians today, we have the power to take our own decisions, to study with, succeed and beat the best in the world. Is that not true?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Ha! I find your optimism infinitely amusing, I must say. Are you aware that 70% of India still lives in the villages and a greater part of that chunk feels lucky if they complete high school, leave alone ‘competing with the best in the world’.<br /><br />And yes, by the way, the education you people are receiving, the one which helps you beat the best in the world, isn’t that beautiful a thing, either.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: What do you mean?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: What sort of education is it? What sort of lifestyle is it encouraging? What are the IIT’s and IIM’s, which you speak so highly of, producing? At the end of the day, they all are money-making machines - they take you in as raw material, brainwash and modify you according to their paradigms, stamp their brand name on your foreheads and then let you out in the open to mint money. The primary aim of education, in my view, is to instill in the students the sense of social responsibility. Where is it to be found in today’s urban youth?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: That is just not true. Many of the people I know have made use of whatever skills they have acquired to serve the society in the way best suited to them.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Yes, they are a few. But how many? Or rather, what percentage does possess this sense of social belonging?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Well, you can’t have everyone thinking along those lines. Is it necessary for everyone to see himself and society that way?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: I’m not sure whether it’s practically possible but that should at least be the constant effort of education. At present, the people who engage themselves in such activities do so from the weight of their own conscience. At present, the education system does nothing to instill that feeling from the very beginning in every citizen.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Instill? That’s a strong word, you know. Wouldn’t that be akin to brainwashing – children being told how to think towards the world from day one?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Maybe, but it would surely help.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Well, I’m sorry but here, I disagree. The basic aim of education, according to me, is to provide the individual with choice, to give him the opportunity to decide for his own self. Tell me, aren’t engineers, doctors, lawyers, designers servants of society in their own right?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: They are. Very much so. I don’t mean to say everyone has to become a selfless social activist, but that everyone has to give something back, eventually.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Well, these people do, don’t they?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Yes, they do. But look at the IIT’s and IIM’s that you just mentioned - the most popularly sought-after institutions in our country, the ones which produce the so-called ‘cream’. Would I be wrong to say that a majority of those who come out of these institutions live a life of social oblivion, perpetually filling their already overflowing pockets, living their executive life with a wife and two children, totally unconcerned with how they could be more helpful? What do they produce at the end of the day – laptops and cell phones? Who uses them? The elite. So you have it here. The elite making products for the elite, in turn making themselves even more elitist! No accountability to the people who are below them, none at all.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: That is what I’m saying. You’re too judgemental. Why can’t you just let them be? That’s the life they choose. What’s wrong what it? And besides, many of the ‘cell phone and laptop’ producing men are students of science, of technology. They are the agents of industrialization. Wasn’t that the ultimate dream of our first prime minister? It is their job to work in its cause. How are they to blame?<br /><br />And tell me, isn’t science and technology hugely responsible for what we are today? Look at it broadly, look at what it has given us. Without these men you demean, would it be possible to realize all the innumerous possibilities of energy we have today, would it be possible to stay connected with this ever-so-small globalised world that we inhabit, would it be possible to reach out to the remote parts of this huge country that we live in?<br /><br />Science and Technology are two of the most uncomplicated things on this planet, in the sense that they are unencumbered by opinion, irrationality or politics. They don’t have any scope for such entities. They are truly free and so are their practitioners. If mankind is to progress, they alone provide the right path.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Well put. But would you be saying that Science and Technology for its own sake is good?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: It has to be, yes. It cannot be fettered. As a corollary to the point I just made, to inhibit their growth is to inhibit the progress of mankind itself.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: It is precisely this kind of capitalist thinking that’s eating away the whole of civilization today, not just our country. Anything working for its own sake is doomed. If human progress is indeed our aim, everything has to work so as to help us attain this goal better.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: But it is! Can’t you see?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: I can. But who are the ones progressing? It is the elitist again. These cell phones and laptops you make in the name of Science and Technology – whom does it benefit? Not the 27-odd percent that still lives below the poverty line. Instead of using your acquired skills to help them get up, you help the ones who are already so better-off. You further increase the ever-growing disparity, in a country where the top ten percent earns ten times more than the bottom ten percent. You breed discontent. You inspire rebellions. And then when they fight back, like the Naxalites did, you call them terrorists.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Heh. What else would you call men who engage in the indiscriminate killing of women and children? God’s angels?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Well yes, their methods have been quite disturbing in the past few years and it’s not that I necessarily have sympathy for them, but what I’m saying is that we need to understand the reasons which inspire such outrage. The more you ignore the common man, the more he’ll make his presence felt, and sometimes in the most violent ways.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: So what do you suggest? We stop all technological research?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: No. Don’t stop it. But make it work in a direction where it takes everyone along with it. Make technology help the illiterate get education, provide the poor with the latest health-care facilities, give the economically backward ways in which they can pull themselves out of the rut.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: Sure, why not? But then, all other forms of technological research are useless? Is it?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Yes, without a doubt. You tell me what all wonders industrialization has provided us with. For a moment, think about the damage it has done too. The ‘progress’ it has brought about – has it made us any happier than we were earlier? Is your Happiness Quotient better than your grandfather’s? Not that such things are measurable, but they are surely quantifiable.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: You aren’t implying that just because humans would remain in the same state of mind irrespective of the luxuries that are at their disposal, we should stop wanting to achieve higher standards of living, are you?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Why not? If it ain’t broke, why change it? It is change for the sake of change that I protest.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: That’s just stupid. The way you propose wouldn’t see any human development at all. It is the curious in us that drives us to innovate and invent. If we humans just sit around and don’t attempt to see ourselves getting better, it would kill us for sure. Practically, it’s impossible. To stifle the curious in us is to negate the sheer essence of the human spirit, and this, if anything, would inspire unprecedented rebellions. Of an even graver nature than the ones we today have.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YJK</span>: Maybe. But if you think about it, this is the only way we can survive.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">YUI</span>: We shall see.<br /><br />YJK: So we shall.<br /><br />-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />They had arrived. And as they now bid goodbye to each other, they knew that they would meet again for many such conversations.<br /><br />Conversations. Clashes. Collaborations?</div>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-35313152225620386562009-02-04T13:16:00.002+05:302009-02-04T13:23:23.321+05:30Talking Shadows<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">She looked at his silhouette in the moonlight, the black curve of his Adam’s apple against the dark blue of the sky behind, the way those two almost blended when he moved a little. They both were drunk; on the terrace where they stood, came the sounds of the living room below. The others were not quite done yet, and sudden shrieks and shouts could be heard from time to time, breaking the silence of the cold December air.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Do you know how difficult it is? Do you know how hard it is for me to just let it all slip, to forget it all and move on…’, he seemed to be saying, the frustration seeping into his voice.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Hmmm’, she replied, and there were another few moments of quiet. She wanted him to stop speaking, she wanted them to sit together like this and look at the sky together, everything drunk and hazy. But she didn’t have the courage or the heart to tell him so. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">So she listened.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘I called her a million times last month….and on the phone, everything is alright….when we meet with everyone around, everything is alright….but a moment alone, and nothing is alright anymore….I’m sick of it!’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The vodka was making him speak more, and louder. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘I…I…’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The sound of breaking glass broke his dialogue in the middle. For a moment, everything was silent again; and then, the shrieks and laughs came with even greater intensity. He started to move towards the staircase.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Where are you going?’, she asked.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Down. God knows what’s happening there!’, he said, glancing down.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘It’s OK. They probably dropped the bottle or something’, she replied, and then, pointing towards where he had been sitting, said, ‘Sit.’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">That’s all the invitation he needed. He didn’t want to go really. Sit and don’t talk, was what she had wanted to say. But the words didn’t come out.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Am I talking too loud?’, he asked nervously, in an unnecessarily low volume.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Na. Its OK. But don’t talk so much.’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">She had finally mustered the strength to say it, half scared that it might hurt him, or worse – put him off.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘No….no…let me talk…please’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And then he started again. In the limited light the moon provided, she couldn’t see his face, and so, she imagined. She imagined his cheek bones getting stretched in anguish, the nerves on his forehead coming out, the anger making his nose twitch. He looked majestic, like an actor on stage delivering his ultimate performance.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And it was only his silhouette talking.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Are we machines or something? No, tell me. That you press a button and wow, it’s all gone? What am I supposed to do? The effort has to come from both sides. This way, nothing will happen. And its killing me….totally…do you….do you understand what I’m saying?’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Yes…yes I do!’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">This time, the anguish was in her voice, not his. It made him look up.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And in the near darkness of this cold winter night, their eyes met for the first time.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-85796632593867078752009-01-27T19:49:00.005+05:302009-01-28T02:20:51.369+05:30The Wrong in Being Correct<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Let me take the liberty of making a distinction here, a dividing line between the ways in which we react to situations, between the decisions we might make. The reader will forgive me in my choice of words for the same, if they don’t appear to be completely dichotomous to him/her.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">There are two ways of responding to a given situation. One is the <span style="font-weight: bold;">right</span> thing to do – the easy, obvious way out, the way which appeals straight to common sense, and one which doesn’t take too much mental effort. The other is the <span style="font-weight: bold;">correct</span> thing to do – this is the more difficult path; one which doesn’t come naturally but with some deliberation, one which requires an amount of sustained courage and sacrifice, and one which might also amount to self-deception in certain cases, albeit superior in moral terms.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">If one goes by the above definition, then India and Indians have always (well, almost) opted for the correct option, rather than the one which is right.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Had the revolutionary movements caught on and had Gandhi not returned from South Africa as he did, we would have ousted the British by force anyway. Post the partition of Bengal and then Jallianwala, the British had themselves put a time limit on their stay in this country. India wanted to be free and Gandhi or no Gandhi, it would be so. Whether sooner or later is a matter of speculation. But the revolutionaries never found enough ground to make a serious impact here. The common Indian did the <span style="font-style: italic;">correct</span> thing – of resorting to peaceful methods of protest, of <span style="font-style: italic;">hartals</span> and fasts instead of murders or assassinations or guerilla fights. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">During the partition of the country and the birth of Pakistan, we had an option (maybe unlikely, but an option nonetheless) of declaring ourselves a Hindu state, to say that Pakistan has been created specifically for the Muslims, let India be only for the Hindus. But we didn’t. We did the <span style="font-style: italic;">correct</span> thing – of declaring ourselves secular; India, which since time immemorial has kept as its own and assimilated numerous cultures and identities shall not divide itself on the basis of religion.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Post independence, when the Cold War was gaining momentum, we had the choice of pledging our loyalty to the Soviets - our close friends and a country for which our then Prime Minister had a soft corner. But we didn’t. When everyone in the world was taking sides, wondering what the less harmful option was, we joined hands with certain other countries to form the Non-Aligned Movement. Again, we did the<span style="font-style: italic;"> correct</span>, honourable thing. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">The correct thing</span>. That has almost always been India’s choice. Needless to say, this choice has been fraught with much struggle and sacrifice, but it has also given us something to be proud of, of making us believe that we are indeed special. We are proud of the fact that our independence struggle was a lot less bloody than others around the world. We are proud of the fact that we are secular, that it doesn’t matter here whether one is Hindu, Muslim or Christian. We are proud that we have a mixed economy, that we are not slaves to any other nation, that we are truly sovereign.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">None of the above decisions or any other has hurt us more than our choice to proclaim ourselves secular. These years have seen the Hindu majority clash with every single sizeable minority; the extent of the Hindu-Muslim clash need not be elaborated upon, then we had the Sikhs massacred in ’84, and now, the historically harmonious relationship between the Hindus and the Christians has received a serious battering post the anti-Christian violence in Karnataka and Orissa. Time and again after independence, India has had to pay the price for doing the correct thing. It has had to bear the consequences of upholding its ethical values. And to its credit, never has it deterred from its belief in the principle of secularism and how essential it is for a nation such as this.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But more than sixty years on, there seems to be no end or even the possibility of an end to the issue of religion. The past few years have seen unprecedented attacks on civilians by religious fundamentalists. And it’s not only the Muslims; Malegaon has come as a blow to several self-righteous Hindus as well. But more disturbing than the actual violence has been the people’s reaction to it. Suddenly, it seems that our unshakeable faith in people of all faiths has been replaced by a visible tentativeness. Hindu socialites appear on television acting all pally with their Muslim friends, as if that alone is the proof of their belief in the concept of secularism. Simultaneously, Muslim leaders and elite are being told that it is their responsibility to keep the sentiments of <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> community in check and stars like Shah Rukh Khan and Salman Khan appear on news channels speaking on Islam and terrorism, reiterating again and again how one doesn’t stand for the other, as if they were expected or required to do so.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Are we really secular as we think we are? If yes, then what indeed does one mean by being secular? Does just having friends of different religions qualify? Or sharing your bus seat with a Muslim? Or having your food with him? Yes, perhaps, if these above actions are done with zero mental effort or thought, then we are genuinely secular. But do we? Do we not feel uncomfortable when passing through a Muslim-dominated area in the city? Do we still not discourage our Hindu son or daughter from having a Muslim spouse? In other words, do we not treat the Muslims as our paying guests – ‘We’ve given you space here, consider this as your own home, but do maintain a certain distance from us, please.’?</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">At times, the pretence or self-deception being indulged in by the average Indian comes shamelessly to the fore. Take, for example, the film <span style="font-style: italic;">Chak De! India</span>. A story of a Muslim hockey player who is branded a <span style="font-style: italic;">gaddar</span> or traitor just because he misses a crucial penalty kick. He then goes on to coach the women’s Hockey team to World Cup glory. Thus, he proves his loyalty in the most spectacular way and all is forgiven. What people fail to notice and what’s rather unsettling is the fact that he <span style="font-style: italic;">does</span> have to prove that he is loyal to his motherland, that he is not a Pakistani in his heart. Would the same treatment be given to a Hindu if he happened to make the same mistake? I doubt it. But the predominantly Hindu audience sees nothing wrong. I wonder how the intelligent Muslim would have taken this implicit insult.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">If this is indeed the case, if we are not genuinely secular, then we can be sure that there will be no end to communal hatred and violence here. What has been going on for more than sixty years now might just go on till eternity. It is all very well doing the correct thing, but it is also very important to be authentic about it, to believe it inside. Otherwise, all of one’s actions add up to a detailed, elaborate charade, and when practiced on such a large scale, it can prove to be the country’s nemesis. For once, we need to rethink and ascertain the responsibilities that come along with being <span style="font-style: italic;">correct</span> rather than <span style="font-style: italic;">right</span>.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-50496995592457550502008-12-01T11:56:00.004+05:302008-12-01T12:21:35.463+05:30Angrez Chale Gaye II<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A thought</span>: If we Indians happened to be white in skin colour, like the <span style="font-style: italic;">firangs</span>, and if someone saw one of us walking down the street, would he be able to guess our nationality? Would he be able to tell whether we are Indian, or American or European? Probably not. And why? Because today, where everything from clothing to behaviour is being homogenized, where everyone talks the same language, wears the same clothes, similar to everyone else even in mannerisms, it’s only our skin colour that establishes our uniqueness.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Because we are the urban Indians. And like the Americans living on the other side of the globe, we talk in English and think in English, wear t-shirts and jeans when casual and suits and ties when formal, have coffee rather than tea. All whitewashed. If one thinks about it, food preferences are perhaps the only thing that have still not changed; although we love burgers and pizzas and pastas, most would maintain that rice and <span style="font-style: italic;">dal</span> is what is best for everyday consumption.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">It is fascinating to see the gradual shift in Indian lifestyle in the years after independence. The British Raj insured that Indians would never again be comfortable with their own identity; the five-cubit-tall sahib would forever hold a psychological edge over the third-world, backward Indian. Even before the British left us, this inferiority complex had settled itself in the Indian psyche. To emulate the foreigner in everything he did, to talk, dress and behave like him, indeed to <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> him, has always been the Indian’s ulterior, if not declared, goal. Of course, this phenomenon, this aspiration to become someone else is not just restricted to our country, but to many others which have been subjected to colonial rule.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But curiously, this desire to ‘be’ English has faded away gradually. To be replaced by an affinity for everything American. And the sort of maniacal attachment the young urban Indians have for it is rather interesting, when not annoying. One look around and it’s easy to recognize how much American preferences have permeated into our own lives. The introduction and subsequent success of fast food joints, the coming up of brands like Levi Strauss and Dockers, the market for American films (or rather, ‘movies’, which are always, by some unwritten law, better than the material we produce here), the stupendous speed at which coffee joints have opened (and tea centres have disappeared), the inception of words like ‘stuff’ and ‘bucks’ in everyday conversation, our carelessness in spelling ‘colour’ as ‘color’ and ‘centre’ as ‘center’ etc etc. The Indian obsession for education in the ‘States’ tops it all. American college t-shirts are so popular and common now that the last time I visited Sarojni Nagar in Delhi, I even saw a roadside shop selling fake cheap red sweatshirts with ‘UCLA’ printed on them.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Of course, for most parts, this inclination towards American attitudes is but natural. What Big Mac does, the Toms, Dicks and Harrys do it too. The Americans are, after all (and I borrow a phrase rather famous in diplomatic circles), ‘the shaper of global sentiment’. But even if you leave this very human tendency aside, they deserve most of what they have managed to do. American universities <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> some of the best in the world, Levi Strauss <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> the last word in casual wear, McDonalds <span style="font-style: italic;">does</span> deserve its status for the sheer quality of the food it has to offer. And till the day Indian brands come up with the same standards, the above are bound to stay on top.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But sometimes, it all becomes too much to take. They can’t be the world’s best in every single darn thing they do, can they? Sometimes, if not quite often, this phenomenon becomes rather nauseating to assimilate. Sometimes, if not quite often, one is bound to feel that that our little tendency here is only an inch short of blind aping. Sometimes, if not quite often, one is sure to think that if this continues to be the case, the Indian in us will slowly fade away, making us what an American Macaulay would love to see us as – Indians only by birth, but Americans in behaviour, lifestyle and education. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Of course, one might ask – Is that a problem we need to address? For me, it is. And yes, there are some solutions too that come to my mind. But leave all that for some other post, at some later date. </p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-81466639173725974392008-11-20T12:54:00.009+05:302008-11-20T13:58:32.637+05:30The Booker, eh?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SSUS3EMi4PI/AAAAAAAAAHk/h6n5zL3LVzM/s1600-h/340x.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 163px; height: 265px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SSUS3EMi4PI/AAAAAAAAAHk/h6n5zL3LVzM/s320/340x.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270639676135497970" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Chetan Bhagat must wonder why any of his novels – Five Point Someone and the other two, whatever their name was - haven’t won the Booker yet. For if a heavily clichéd take on modern Indian civilization by a first-time amateurish writer can bag the prize, surely Mr. Bhagat deserves it too. His efforts if not purely authentic, were at least not cynical or judgemental in any way. At least, they made for good time pass.</div><div> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Aravind Adiga’s <span style="font-style: italic;">The White Tiger</span> leaves you with no such hope. The plot itself is one that’s bound to make you roll your eyes. The protagonist, a sweet-seller-turned-driver, son of a rickshaw puller, recounts the story of his rise to entrepreneurial success to none less than the Chinese Premier, letting him see and making him familiar with the face of the ‘true’ India in the process. Sounds quite exciting, doesn’t it? Yes, that’s the bait.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">What follows is one cliché piled upon another. Almost every page in this book contains some witty remark by the author; you haven’t yet got over the last fantastic conclusive comment when you encounter the next. Very early in the novel, the narrator, Balram (the protagonist himself) divides India into two parts – Light and Darkness. According to him (and this theory takes some gulping down), all the places in the country which lie on the banks of the Ganges (called the ‘black river’ by him) fall in the Darkness. All other places fall in the Light. The Darkness, as its name unmistakably suggests, is an area of utter desolation, where rich and oppressive landlords rule over the poor working class, where no one is ever pleased with his life and hopes to, someday, move to the big cities of Delhi or Bombay i.e. the Light. This ambitious demarcation is not just mentioned cursorily; it is repeated throughout the novel; for example, a fellow member of the working class from Bihar is described as ‘belonging to the Darkness’.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Firstly, what the author fails to realize is that the area he has called the ‘Darkness’, which includes states like U.P., Bihar and Bengal have produced some of the greatest minds of the country. For decades before and after independence, this area has often been the centre of Indian thought. To call it by this preposterous title is nothing but a travesty. Secondly, they might not be in the fittest condition at present, but not all is dark there really. Yes, many people in most of these parts do aspire to move to the bigger cities in search for a better life, but that is only because of the pressures of globalization, the advantages of which haven’t yet reached them in its entirety. Nevertheless, like everywhere else, most of the people do manage to live a content life, and not everyone is as close to destitution and total dissatisfaction as Adiga paints them to be. In his world, every man in these parts is a bitter man, frustrated yet subdued by an overbearing social system, where nothing happens except daughter-in-laws being killed for dowry or husbands being milked for money, treated worse than animals by their wives.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Everything reminds you of some early 90’s melodramatic extravaganza. The villains are the politicians and the landlords, conspiring to keep the poor beneath their feet, adept at murder, rape, bribe-taking and all other possible crimes. When the rich appear, they do like over-savvy maniacs, who are obsessed with wearing designer clothes, going to the malls every second day, who love sending SMSs to their friends in the U.S.A. Generalization upon generalization, so much that it makes you wonder whether all the talk about India’s multi-faceted personality, its diversity, its dynamics is but a myth, whether in reality everything here can be painted in the twin shades of black and white.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But unlike the films, the poor are not really good people either – deeply wounded by being treated like animals, they themselves have become animal-like – excessively bitter, revengeful and ready to play along. They curse the rich behind their backs, leave no chance of pinching money from them, even conspire to murder them. In Adiga’s world, everyone is a negative character, with no scope for human dignity, pity or kindness. You have it in writing here. India is a living hell and all its inhabitants are monsters.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Every great novel, however morose or melancholic, treats its characters and the world around with compassion. Be it Rushdie’s Bombay, Naipaul’s Trinidad or Bellow’s Chicago, even the worst of men in these great cities are portrayed as human beings capable of thought and feeling. And even when the world around is in tatters, there is always the glimmer of hope, the anticipation that things can be set right, that life, however ghastly it may seem at the moment, is better than death. This is where Adiga fails completely. In this novel, which is in the form of a letter, the protagonist finds nothing remotely good about the country to say to the Chinese Premier, nothing that could point towards a possible solution, of a way out of the mess he has taken so much pain to elaborate on.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Adiga gets the Booker. And perhaps it is not that surprising that he did. For to the ignorant foreigner eager to know about India, this book can be very easily assimilated. It doesn’t even attempt to get into the complexities of the new India, the whys and hows, and the foreigner, who has never seen the ‘Light’ or the ‘Darkness’ with his own eyes will take the author’s word for it. A friend told me that <span style="font-style: italic;">Sea of Poppies</span> by Amitav Ghosh is believed to be selling more copies in India than this more recent award-winning novel. And that too is not surprising. For the Indians of the ‘true’ India know better.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-51441075129245378362008-10-31T13:41:00.009+05:302008-10-31T14:08:45.773+05:30Perfect Imperfections<div> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Bombay is a mad city, and that is probably why, despite its thousand troubles and limitations, it is very easy to fall in love with it, to lose yourself in the madness, become one with it. And perhaps, that is also why someone who’s spent even a little amount of time there finds it so hard to leave it, feeling incapacitated everywhere else. The city, through its imperfections, sucks you in. And if it doesn’t drive you insane, it’ll fascinate you like very few other places ever will.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">For example</span>:</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><ul><li><div style="text-align: justify;">Refer to the last post, third segment. There was a snake sighted in the locality I was staying in, and rather than actively taking measures to look for it and possibly save lives, the apartment management just put up a hardly noticeable notice on the walls, saying that if anyone did spot it, he or she was to contact the watchman, who would <span style="font-style: italic;">then</span> see where the snake <span style="font-style: italic;">moves</span>. I doubt if any more sightings of the snake or even casualties would have made a difference to the urgency shown.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, remarkably co-incident with the snake sighting, the front door of my cousin’s flat broke, leaving a small gaping hole at the bottom. When I asked him whether we should get it repaired lest the snake sneaked in at night, he just shrugged and changed the subject.<br /></div></li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><ul style="text-align: justify;"><li>Given that the city was devastated by blasts very recently, on my way to Colaba by the local train, I expected to be frisked all over. Nothing of the sort happened.<br /><br />I could have been carrying a live bomb. It was Diwali night. On this day of celebration, the city was one man’s will away from being blown to pieces. Yet again.<br /></li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><ul style="text-align: justify;"><li>During a three-day stay, I came across two instances of people lighting crackers on the road, that too in full, evening, Diwali traffic. In the latter case, the man was setting fire to <span style="font-style: italic;">chakris</span> and throwing them on the main road, while auto-rickshaws, cars and buses turned and swayed and evaded them without complaint, as if it was all a harmless video game where nothing really valuable was at stake.<br /><br />The man kept laughing all along, his joy multiplied manifold when the cracker flinging sparks in all directions made another man on a bicycle almost lose his balance. He kept laughing even when a rocket launched by him boomeranged onto his own chest, before he frantically pushed it away to avoid harm.<br /></li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Whichever way one would like to put it, this kind of indifference to adversity, or the confidence of the people in their ability to handle it, is baffling. But that’s how most things in Bombay are. In a city where the cost of <span style="font-style: italic;">living</span> is very high, the cost of <span style="font-style: italic;">life</span>, on the other hand, is very low.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-46910626158421475752008-10-23T03:08:00.016+05:302008-10-27T02:54:54.808+05:30Midnight Halt<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SP-tJEEf5EI/AAAAAAAAAGk/itQxELOiVaM/s1600-h/wood-fire-AJHD.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 293px; height: 184px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SP-tJEEf5EI/AAAAAAAAAGk/itQxELOiVaM/s320/wood-fire-AJHD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260113261015065666" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div>It was barely three hours since the bus had stopped last, and now, the driver seemed to want another break, parking it alongside a roadside <span style="font-style: italic;">dhaba</span>. As the breaks finally squeaked and the thing came to a decisive halt, everyone in the bus let out a collective, exasperated sigh.<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Amir wasn’t too pleased either. He wanted to get home as early as possible, the short span of the holidays making every hour of journey seem that wee bit longer. The bus was scheduled to reach Delhi by seven in the morning, but going by the way it was taking breaks, that seemed only to be in theory. Suddenly irritated and feeling half-tough, he got up from his seat, wanting to know what the trouble was now.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He got out of the bus and called out for the driver. There was a group of huge, moustached men standing just a little distance away, and one of them replied – ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Main hoon. Ke baat se?</span>’. That was enough to dispel all the toughness inside him, and feeling calm again, Amir went back to his seat.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">A couple of minutes later, the same man entered and declared that as there was some problem with the engine, they were going to have a half-hour halt, and everyone was free to make himself comfortable at the <span style="font-style: italic;">dhaba</span>. Not knowing what to do, Amir decided that perhaps having a cup of tea wasn’t that bad an idea. There was still a long way to go, a little outing away from the almost claustrophobic bus was probably better for the senses, and for his bums as well.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The <span style="font-style: italic;">dhaba</span> looked nothing special. It was like any other <span style="font-style: italic;">dhaba</span> – one floor, walls whitewashed in a horrible shade of blue, a few wooden and plastic chairs around, and a couple of <span style="font-style: italic;">khats</span> kept outside. One solitary tube light glowed on the outside, and this was where the customers sat. The lights on the inside were switched off, probably because there were not many people eating, the hour being close to twelve in the night. Amir looked for the place’s name, and there it was, just above the light – <span style="font-style: italic;">E-quality Dhaba</span>. They all might be the same when it comes to how they look, but they sure are creative when it comes to naming themselves, thought Amir, and seated himself on an idle wooden chair.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t long before the aroma of hot, freshly-prepared <span style="font-style: italic;">aloo paranthas</span> reached him, and though he wasn’t hungry at all, Amir ordered a plate along with the mandatory cup of tea. The boy taking the order listened to him keenly, and after asking him twice whether he was sure he needed nothing else, disappeared inside into the darkness.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">It was a full-moon night. Back in college, with the hectic schedule, and the noise around everywhere one went, it was almost impossible to have such an opportunity, to sit alone in the dark, amidst strangers and admire the moon in its entirety. This was a novelty, and it was hard to decide how overly nice it felt.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He got up to look at the open fields behind the <span style="font-style: italic;">dhaba</span>. Nothing much was visible, but courtesy the moon, Amir could at least see that the vast emptiness extended far into the darkness. He saw the outlines of the boundaries that differentiated one tiller’s land from another, and also a small, dilapidated, light-coloured house a few hundred metres away. These small structures seemed to be very common in the countryside, and he had seen many such wherever he had gone - Punjab, U.P., Bihar, Rajasthan. Even as a child, he had always tried to guess what purpose they served, or whether they served any specific purpose at all. And as before, he stopped midway in thought now, wondering whether he was getting fascinated with something totally commonplace, whether his fascination with those little houses was only the city-dweller’s fascination with the village.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The boy, meanwhile, had got the <span style="font-style: italic;">paranthas</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">chai</span>. He called out, shouting ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Bhaiya!</span>’, and Amir signalled him to get the things near where he stood, a little more away from the crowd. There was less light there, but more peace. Having seated himself finally, he started with the <span style="font-style: italic;">paranthas</span>. Quite unexpectedly, they were perfect, warm, polished with butter and almost bursting with potato. The tea, on the other hand, was a little less sweet by his taste. He felt like calling out to the boy for some sugar, but then decided against it.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Everything about the place felt good – the food, the ambience, the faint sound of petty talk coming from the table in the distance. Everything was peaceful, and that’s why he had wanted to go home – to get some quiet time, away from the daily set routine of college, away from assignments and deadlines. Maybe, thought Amir, he didn’t even want to go home, just some place away, and this little spot here, somewhere in the wilderness, seemed just like what he had wanted. It was perfect here, to be sitting under the open sky, in this place he hadn’t visited before and would never visit again, having food and tea, while endless, open fields provided the backdrop, illuminated, but only slightly, by the moon above.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Fifteen minutes later, someone declared that the bus was ready to leave. Amir walked over to it, reluctantly, hating the prospect of the night’s journey even more now.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-35134989670496400902008-10-13T21:36:00.007+05:302008-10-14T22:21:52.349+05:30Loss<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Amir woke up today morning to find his Self missing. The realization came to him quite suddenly; he first felt the void in his head, then he sensed it going down his neck, his spine and then travel to every single part of his body. It wasn’t something ordinary that happened every other day. That much was pretty clear. For the void, rather than giving him a feeling of space, made him feel strangely heavy. A vacant heaviness or a heavy vacant-ness - both meaning the same.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He got up from the bed and the void travelled with him. He didn’t know what to do with it, or even what to do at all. On an ordinary day, he would have brushed his teeth, prepared for himself a cup of tea, and then sat down on the balcony with the morning newspaper. But all this seemed senseless at that moment. Inconsequential. Not that these tasks had overwhelming significance in his everyday life anyway, but the futility of it all struck him to the core today.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Therefore, leaving everything, he went and lay down on his bed.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Where could it have gone? Suddenly, without warning. He had felt quite alright last night, nothing had happened to make him uncomfortable. They had had a drink session at Ari’s place, and after hours of dancing and singing, he had returned home in the late hours of the morning, exhausted and happy. Where had the feeling gone? It was replaced by this weird dullness, this inexplicable sensation of loss.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Looking at the parking lot overlooking his house, where a bunch of car-washers were getting on with their job, Amir tried to think of a possible solution. What could he do to make the situation better? Where to look for the darn thing?<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Where would he find his own <span style="font-style: italic;">Self</span>?</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t just a thing, not his wallet or the lighter. It was <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span>. He couldn’t just jump out and try to look for it beneath the bed sheets, or check whether it had, by mistake, slipped underneath the bed, or remove the junk off his study table, thinking that maybe that was what hid it. He could not even tell anyone about it, simply because no one would believe him. They would laugh it off, blaming it on the hangover. This was something so huge, something so personal, that he couldn’t even hope to regain it by talking it over with a friend, or by holding a loved one’s hand, or by looking into someone else’s eyes. This was, and he knew it already, much beyond that.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">With much mental effort, he walked over to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Suddenly, his own face seemed alien to him, the eyebrows, the curve of his cheeks, the mouth, the chin – everything seemed new and cold, as if it belonged to a different person. Who was he, Amir found himself asking. Was he living inside another person? Did this assortment of organs even belong to him? He looked at his hands, his legs, and he felt he wasn’t even real, just playing a character in some video game, using someone else’s body, who controlled everything but had no claim to ownership.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The feeling of emptiness, the loss of Self, was overbearing. He couldn’t stand it and found his legs shaking rather alarmingly. Somehow, he pulled his body, which felt now like a rented piece, to the bedroom. He lay down on the bed again, staring at the ceiling, contemplating sleep. Maybe that would freshen up his memory a bit. In any case, Amir simply didn’t know what else to do with himself.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">----------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">What he also didn’t know was that the realization that had dawned upon him today was the end result of something that had been going on for many years now. He had lost his Self long ago, misplaced it somewhere and hadn’t even given a damn at the time. Time had passed, and though sometimes he did feel lonely and vacant, such moments were pretty short-lived, overcome by spells of prolonged activity, or lost in the laughter and nonsense of everyday conversation. All this while, he had never felt a desperate need to question himself, to look within and see how he had changed and was changing. The Self had left him a long time ago, just that its realization, which had remained hidden from him until this day, had finally made its presence felt.</p><p style="text-align: justify; font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal">And Amir didn’t know what to do.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-71956510868218403132008-09-23T12:37:00.003+05:302008-09-23T14:17:26.189+05:30Pack-up Man<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">My name, you ask? What do you want my name for? That hardly holds any significance. If anything, let me tell you what I am and how I look. I’m middle-aged, around forty years of age (no one in my family remembers the exact date of my birth), with a slight paunch, drooping shoulders, and a head that’s getting bald with every passing day. I am dark, around five feet nine inches tall, and keep a beard which has gone completely white with time, at odds with the hair on my head, which is still more black than white. People, intrigued by this peculiar contrast, ask me whether I dye my hair, to which I can think of no reply.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">My family has been a family of farmers; since generations, we have known no other means of livelihood. But now the times have changed. With big landlords eager to get hold of as much land as possible, ready to pay amounts which are too hard to refuse for people like us who never know what tomorrow would bring, its very rare for a man with meagre land holdings to get enough to pass his days. He has to look for a new job, that too in a place where they are hard to come by.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I got a job in one of the many multiplexes that have come up in this little town over the last few years. My task, as they told me, was to maintain cleanliness in and around the place. I am not the only one assigned this responsibility, there are a few others who work with me, and together we clean the floors of the porch, the lobby, and also the toilets, once in the morning at nine, and then in the evening at four. The building is huge, with two floors, there’s a lot of ground to be covered, and it turns out to be a tiring task, especially because we rid the floors of dust with a broom first, and then polish it by wiping it with phenyl and water. To make it shine. As the manager, our boss, likes it. We also, along with the above, hold the responsibility of cleaning the halls between shows, empty coke glasses, food packages and popcorn strewed here and there. But that doesn’t take much time.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">As the oldest among the workers, and the one who looks most reliable, I have also been given an additional piece of work. On weekends, in the evening, just outside the entrance to the halls, they have a music show. A bunch of youngsters, all of whom look like they have just got out of their beds, come together and sing noisy, mostly English songs. My job is to assemble the equipment before the shows starts and dissemble it after it ends – the stand on which they keep the keyboard, the drum set, the huge black speakers, the microphones. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">It isn’t something that takes too much effort, just fifteen minutes before and after. But what’s exhausting about the task is the wait, to stand there and wait for the show to get over, to hope that the song they are playing will be their last for the evening. When the rains are around, I can’t even leave the place for a moment, lest it starts pouring suddenly and the equipment needs to be replaced to safety. The manager thinks me responsible, and I’m too eager not to lose his confidence. So, I sit in a corner and wait. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I sit there and look around, the players - working away at their instruments, looking absorbed and lost in the music, smoking cigarettes without break, one after the other, the crowd – people eating at the cafeteria just behind, more youngsters, some standing and some sitting on the floor, listening to the music, many of them constantly smoking as well, and then there are, of course, the people who are here to watch a film, who just pass by, some pausing to listen to the music for a while.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The variety of people that can be seen near the place is quite remarkable, there are all kinds – boys and girls dressed for their evening out, company executives just back from office, uncles and aunties who wonder what the fuss is all about, and very old men and women, who don’t give the band as much as a glance. Yet, they are all together there, who have come to this multiplex for some form of enjoyment or the other.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Somewhere between ten and ten thirty, the band stops playing. I, in anticipation, go into the crowd and stand there much before that, hoping that they would wind up soon. This is the most difficult part of the waiting, it’s late and I am desperate to get back home. I can see a few eyes turning towards me, giving me a cursory glance, wondering whether I too was there for the music, and I’m conscious of the fact that here, where almost everyone is dressed to kill, having a good time, I look odd, a man who doesn’t belong, maybe even a blot on the landscape. But it hardly bothers me.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">When it’s all over, and the whole place seems immersed in sudden, complete silence once more, I pick up everything from the stage and put it inside the store room. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">My work for the day is over, and I leave on my bicycle, for my home in a village just a few kilometres away.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">This is what I do. Clean. Assemble. Dissemble.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-4118838706250836262008-09-11T20:15:00.007+05:302008-09-12T13:35:36.840+05:30Bridge Chalein?<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 0);">All the characters and events in this piece are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.</span><br /><br />From the flashlights of the motorcycle, it was pretty clear to all of them that what stood ahead, just about fifty metres away was nothing but a police jeep.<br /><br />Their little plan had all it takes to get into the deepest possible shit. It was past one in the night, they, Abbas, Muahid and Tayseer were on someone else’s bike, in a relatively unknown city, without anywhere specific to go, but sure in their minds that they had to go somewhere. After all, they were happy. That’s the least they could do. <span style="font-style: italic;">Go somewhere</span>.<br /><br />So, having taken a packet of wafers and two Thums Ups for their little picnic from one of the very few places that were open so late, they decided to go to the famous bridge, a broken one, about two to three kilometres into the wilderness. On their way there, the talk was of murders, encounters and cover-ups, and many other possibilities their lives could meet at the bridge, depending on which they might accidentally meet there, the police or some scoundrels. None of them suspected that weren’t after all building castles in the air. The first sight of the jeep was just the preamble for what was to follow.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Abey koi hai wahaan pe…truck ya jeep…</span>’, said Tayseer, as if this was a fact that needed mentioning.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Jeep hi hai…police ki hai kya?</span>’, added Abbas, fearing the worst.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Haan police ki hi hai…</span>’, replied Muahid, and after letting the realization sink in, ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Waapis chalna hai kya?</span>’<br /><br />This was a crucial question, the sort which one would rather like to pose than answer. There was a brief silence, not more than a few seconds, as the question needed to be answered quickly, the three of them getting closer to the jeep with every passing moment.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Abey chalte hain….faltu mein panga na ho jaaye</span>’, Tayseer, chicken heart, finally uttered. This was all the other two chicken hearts needed, and without wasting further time, Muahid, who was driving, took a U-turn and headed back.<br /><br />The danger dealt with, the three breathed easy again. Ripples of nervous laughter were complemented by remarks such as ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Bach gaye yaar!</span>’, ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kya kismet hai!</span>’ and ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Ab kahaan jaaye!</span>’. But this hadn’t gone on for long, before Abbas interjected.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Abey waise problem kya hai?...na humare paas daru hai, na kuchh aur…bas 3 dost hai, chips aur cold-drink peene aaye hai…unko isse kya problem ho sakti hai?</span>’<br /><br />This was another good question, again one which was really difficult to answer. It is hard to say what transpired next, but within moments, chicken hearts turned into brave hearts, the bike headed back towards the jeep, all three infused suddenly with a new-found confidence in the innocence of their little outing.<br /><br />They parked the bike just a little beyond the jeep, and though it was pitch dark, each searched for the others’ eyes, for a mirror to their apprehensions, waiting for someone to break the uneasy silence. It was broken, but it wasn’t they who had spoken.<br /><br />From the back of the jeep, came out a moving a torch, and a voice beckoning them. None of them were really taken aback, they were expecting it, almost waiting for it.<br /><br />As they approached the back of the jeep, it turned out that there were no less than four policeman present at the spot, three at the back with one asleep, and one in the front, who as they would later discover, was their boss. One of the two awake sub-ordinates, whom we would hereafter refer to as Good Cop, was the first to speak.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kahaan se aaye ho tum log? Kya kar rahe ho yahaan?</span>’<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kuchh nahi uncle…woh aise hi…</span>’, replied Abbas, leaving Tayseer a little surprised as to how quickly he had moved on to buttering the policeman, calling him ‘uncle’.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Raat ko dhai baje tum yahaan aise hi aaye the! Woh kya hai haath mein?</span>’, Good Cop retorted, his tone a bit harsher this time, pointing to the chips and soft drinks in our hands.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kuchh nahi uncle…woh chips hai….aur…</span>’, Tayseer replied, thinking at the same time whether ‘sir’ would have sounded better.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Bas yahi laaye ho?....</span>’, Bad Cop finally spoke up, sounding rather disappointed. He sounded drunk, and excited, this little incident perhaps being the only diversion in his otherwise long and uneventful night vigil. ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Yahin khade raho.</span>’, said the Good Cop now, and both of them walked towards the motorcycle.<br /><br />What they were looking for was liquor, and had it been found, it would have been the perfect excuse to have the youngsters jailed for the night and extract some nice cash out of them in the morning. But as they found nothing, even after an elaborate search, they returned silently, almost not knowing what to do now.<br /><br />Having won a point in their favour, Abbas, Muahid and Tayseer now started to ask the cops for forgiveness, saying that they would never come here again, that they were just a bunch of stupid, innocent teenagers wanting a good time, that they had absolutely no idea that a small picnic on a deserted piece of land in the wilderness at two in the morning wasn’t the safest thing to do.<br /><br />When they had no more excuses left, all three fell silent and there was a rather uncomfortable silence for a second or two. Bad Cop now took over the proceedings.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Thane le chalo sabko! Saale chutiye…subah tak inko wahi rakhna hai…tab samajh mein aayega inke…jab newspaper mein photo niklegi na….</span>’, and then, as if struck with a sudden amazing idea, ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">woh India Today walo ko bulaon….haan wahi jo poore din idhar udhar ghoomte rehte hain</span>’<br /><br />Good Cop had gone on staring at the hapless three all this time, while they looked ready to shit in their pants. They started on their pleadings again, to which Good Cop said he understood but they had to talk to their boss once before anything could be done.<br /><br />The boss sat in the front seat. He was asleep, probably on two or three bottles of desi liquor. When Good Cop explained the situation to him, he suddenly got up on his seat, as if awakened by a call of duty and scowled at the three.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Band karo inko!...madarchod kya karne aaye the yahaan?...bhodsi ke!</span>’, and then as if exhausted by this sudden surge of activity, he dropped back into sleep again.<br /><br />Bad Cop, now encouraged once more, added that the three must be thieves, as only thieves come out at such hours. To this unbeatable piece of logic, none of the three had an answer.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kahaan ke rehne walo ho tum log?</span>’, he now asked.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Dilli ke, sir</span>’, Tayseer replied.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kabhi dilli mein 8 baje ke baad nikalte ho?</span>’<br /><br />Another stupid taunt. Tayseer wanted to laugh at the policeman, but kept quiet, knowing that this wasn’t what he was looking for.<br /><br />Ten or fifteen minutes passed in this fashion. The three of them kept pleading, calling the policemen ‘sir’ and ‘uncle’ alternately, the Bad Cop pouring taunts and threats, one after one. Good Cop now started to talk calmly to the three. He explained how there was a suicide by some Maharashtrian youngster in this area just a few days ago, and how much trouble they had to endure for it, and how unsuitable this place was, therefore, for a midnight picnic.<br /><br />Slowly and steadily, as Good Cop talked to the three, they started to feel that there was still a way out of this, that there could be a negotiation. And no doubt, Good Cop finally offered to let them go, only if they pay the fine for their little adventure.<br /><br />Tayseer didn’t even have his wallet with him, Muahid had all of forty or fifty rupees, and Abbas a few hundred. They informed Good Cop of this fact straight on his face; he was disappointed, but did well to maintain his composure.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Kitne hain tumhare paas?</span>’, he asked, getting down to the bottom of it all.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Mere paas to kuchh bhi nahi</span>’, Tayseer apologetically replied, ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Iske paas 40-50 honge</span>’, looking at Muahid, ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">aur tumhare paas?</span>’, turning to Abbas.<br /><br />Abbas dig into his purse and said ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">300…350…</span>.’<br /><br />Muahid, who wasn’t really keen on paying the policeman more than a hundred in any case, who even in such dire circumstances was keen to hold on to his money, now reproached Abbas by hitting him on the arm. Good Cop noticed that, and when Muahid tried to speak again, he asked him to shut up and learn some <span style="font-style: italic;">tameez</span> first.<br /><br />Tayseer now did all the talking, intentionally sounding soft, trying to make Good Cop feel that he could start crying any moment. Good Cop finally gave in, showering elderly advice on the three, telling them again and again how difficult the job of a policeman was, how they had to cover up so much, how the world would break into pieces if they didn’t do their thing. He sounded like a depressed Atlas, on whose shoulder all the burden of the world rested.<br /><br />Having exhausted (or bored) himself ultimately, he asked Muahid to fetch the motorcycle, and continued talking to the other two.<br /><br />‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Ye ladka theek nahi hai…chutiya kahin ka!...poori tarah bigad chuka hai yeh</span>’, said he for Muahid, perhaps remembering the earlier fine negotiation, and then for no apparent reason, added, looking at Abbas – ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Tum bhi aadhe bigad chuke ho…</span>’. Abbas might have wanted to ask him why, but stayed shut for good.<br /><br />The three got on to the motorcycle, and after saying ‘Dhanyavad’ and ‘Shukriya’ about 5-10 times, sped off. Their little adventure was over, they had come out unscathed, without even parting with a single rupee (the three had repeatedly informed Good Cop that they were '<span style="font-style: italic;">student log</span>' and could therefore <span style="font-style: italic;">may kindly please</span> be exempted from the fine), and though their nerves hadn’t quite calmed yet, they laughed loudly, maybe at themselves, maybe at each other, maybe at the hour just gone by.<br /><br />Then, Muahid, the courageous asked – ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Ab kahaan chalna hai?</span>’</div>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-30480877786097457522008-08-24T02:02:00.003+05:302009-03-31T04:55:51.050+05:30Thamah<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">What would you do if you suddenly found your house on fire one night? What if everything you had of value, everything you priced more than your own life, whatever you were prepared to give it for, whatever you loved and adored was suddenly ablaze, you denied even one last look at it because of the cruel, enormous fire that’s around?</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">One. You could jump from your bed, run around frantic, or look for the nearest source of water, or shout out for your neighbours, or dial 101, or try to find a piece of cloth to douse your dearest belongings with. Or something else.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Two. You could sit on your bed calmly, or maybe replace yourself to safety, and then, without panicking, without losing yourself, watch all that was yours burn in front of your eyes, watch it happening, accept it, come to terms with it, do nothing.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, when the world around you is on fire, preserving your peace of mind and not losing yourself in the whole trick is the best you can do. And in the longer run, perhaps that alone matters more than anything else ever will.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-36771134670263800342008-08-21T13:03:00.003+05:302008-08-21T13:13:08.568+05:30Angrez Chale Gaye...<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">On my way to Delhi a few days ago, while I waited to get my boarding pass at the airline counter, it was rather hard not to observe and not be amused by the man just ahead of me in the queue. He seemed like one around forty years of age, clean shaven, wearing an impeccable suit and tie, looking all prim and proper like all these senior company executives do. He was talking to the girl at the counter. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘I would like an aisle seat. Just see if one’s available’, he declared to her, his voice and tone heavy and commanding, which took the girl by surprise a little.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Just a moment, Sir. I’ll just check if one is’, she replied quickly, getting on the keyboard.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Yeah. If you don’t have that, give me a window seat. But not one in the middle in any case’, out came the second declaration, by which time the lady was jumping frantically on the keys.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Her hurried behaviour seemed rather odd at first; she would be used to hearing a hundred such requests in a day. But what was special about this one was that it wasn’t really a request, it was a declaration, almost an order. It wasn’t its nature but the tone with which it was delivered was what took her aback that little bit. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The man was an executive, a confident, self-assured executive, who knew where he stood, who knew what the pomp and exuding self-belief in his deliverance of the English language meant and signified, that it would impress and rattle the young, naïve-looking female airline employee, and that it would definitely be enough to get him the best seat possible. He knew everything, at the back of his mind at least, if not entirely consciously. He never as much looked at her in the eye, looking hither and thither all throughout. That was part of the game, the performance.</p> <div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">A few moments later, in the flight, having got an undesired middle seat for myself, I started with the novel I was wisely carrying. On my right, by the window, was a middle-aged, mustached man with a rather healthy paunch. One look at his face suggested that he was either very upset or very angry with something. He kept looking at the air-hostesses that passed by, shifting nervously in his seat throughout, as if not sure what posture would look most respectable, and would also be most comfortable at the same time.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Now, it happened that by the time they reached our row for serving dinner, all the non-vegetarian meals they had were finished. In crisp, air-hostessque English, one of the girls explained to him that as they had run short of the non-vegetarian meals, to take the vegetarian one was the only option he had. At this, the man’s already unpleasant expression turned even more so. He looked offended, as if being subjected to a gross injustice. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Non-veg nahi hai aapke paas? Yeh kaise ho sakta hai?’, he barked at her, more of an outburst than a question.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Sorry Sir. Lekin kuchh problem ho gayi hai. Galti se vegetarian khana zyada aa gaya, aur non-veg kam.’</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">This apology was all he needed. He didn’t really abhor vegetarian food, after all. Now sated, he murmured something incoherently, to which the girl didn’t reply and handed him the food plate quietly.</p> <div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">After she had left, he laughed and murmured something more to me. I couldn’t get anything of what it was, and only nodded slightly in return, thinking it would be enough to quieten him down. It was. Having embarrassed the hostess as he intended to, and visibly pleased with <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> performance, he now started with the food in front.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He had surely needed this little tantrum, without which his feeling of dislocation would only have been accentuated. To have this brief argument with the hostess, and that too in the language <span style="font-style: italic;">he</span> was most comfortable in, was his way of getting level with the people around him, all of whom, as he must have noticed, were looking much more ‘sophisticated’ then he, and therefore superior in his eyes.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The English language is, as they say, the best thing the British ever gave us, and in that, I would agree with them. But on occasions (which, by the way, are not rare), it acts as a sheer monstrosity. One that cannot just be ignored.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-78240630503324448862008-07-31T13:55:00.007+05:302008-07-31T14:09:06.904+05:30Veil<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SJF4hTZl09I/AAAAAAAAAGI/Rh_B576h6Tk/s1600-h/2343121486_9ec5c1b615.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 255px;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SJF4hTZl09I/AAAAAAAAAGI/Rh_B576h6Tk/s320/2343121486_9ec5c1b615.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5229093155892483026" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;">Shehanshahon ke shenhanshah</span>, the emperor of emperors, Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar looks down at the blisters on his feet. He has walked miles on stone and dust, in the heat of the midday sun, like a mere commoner, to this little town called Sikri, just to seek the blessing of Shaikh Salim Chisti, the revered saint.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">What his heart aches for is an heir to his throne; he is till now, childless. The Sufi saint did indeed bless him, predicting the birth of not one, not two but three sons, three possible heirs to the glory of the great Mughals.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">What Akbar, childless and almost broken, doesn’t know is that the son he has asked for, the son who’ll ultimately be born, proving right Chisti’s prophecy, the son whom he’ll name Salim in honour of the great saint, will grow to be an obnoxiously rebellious offspring, and when the time came, will plot his own father’s overthrow, breaking his heart in two. Forever.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Today, Akbar knows nothing of that. For he is lost in the moment, in the promise that these blisters will not be for nothing. He is hopeful, believing, content.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-74332741067070087732008-07-23T01:18:00.003+05:302009-04-04T20:12:25.286+05:30Slowness<div style="text-align: justify;"><blockquote>There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting.<br /><br />A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.<br /><br />Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himeself from a thing still too close to him in time.<br /><br />The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.</blockquote></div><br />Milan Kundera. Slowness.Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-85342927205842995952008-07-10T02:20:00.009+05:302008-10-27T02:55:03.264+05:30Tea & The Sky<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SHUlz5Z9SLI/AAAAAAAAAFI/f6zBlF3ClGM/s1600-h/2519685991_2f0b869e31.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SHUlz5Z9SLI/AAAAAAAAAFI/f6zBlF3ClGM/s320/2519685991_2f0b869e31.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221120916519209138" border="0" /></a> <div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Dear Mani,</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Though there is no point in writing letters anymore, I just didn’t know what to do with the irrepressible temptation to do so tonight. It’s been quite a dull day, all throughout the clouds have stayed overhead, the rain teasing, without any wind. The sort of day that passes without making you realize that it has. The sort of day you love and hate for the same reason. And strangely, because I don’t know why, the desire to talk to you on such days becomes practically irresistible, even if it’s only one way, only like this. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, on such days, when I lie on the bed in the afternoon, watching the white of the ceiling above, the blankness gives way to images and memories. Images in the form of memory. Memory in the form of images. And almost always, on such days, they are of you, and one other thing.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I see the both of us, like an approaching stranger would, sitting at the chai wala near the government school, the same which gave the tea in long, over-sized cups, more suitable for beer, which always made you feel that you were only being given half of what you paid for. Do you remember? </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Maybe you don’t. It’s been a long time anyway. But regardless, the image of us at that joint remains fresh in my mind, and comes again and again on such slow, uneventful afternoons. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Why, I don’t know. I’m not sure why I even remember it so vividly. Does it bring me comfort? Pain? Ache? I have no answer. Maybe it is the feeling of timelessness we felt in our meetings there that fascinates me, the joint but unspoken feel of being suspended in time, as if the moment before and the moment after didn’t exist, as if the world was restricted to the few square metres of the shop, as if the world beyond was only a fantasy of our minds, as if anything we did before and after didn’t matter, as if this was what we were born to do, to sip tea beneath an empty sky and talk about anything outside the realm of consequence. How limitless and ecstatic would it be if our lives got frozen there, beside the chai wala, with the cups of tea in our hands, all the innumerable possibilities of our lives reduced to a beautiful, complete zero!</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Consequence, consequence. How powerful and dangerous can that be! Yes, maybe it was the absence of this in our meetings and conversations that still make me remember it. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Do you remember? Maybe you don’t. It’s been a long time anyway. The shop doesn’t stand there anymore. The school authorities had it removed on the grounds that many students used it to bunk classes and have a smoke. But it is there in my mind, exactly as it was then - unscathed. As it will always be, as it will always come, on such days, which, in their stillness and completeness are quaintly similar to it,</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Good Bye,<br />Manu.<br /></p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-60348172779555198412008-07-01T01:20:00.011+05:302008-10-27T02:55:05.880+05:30Chai Ho Jaaye!<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">‘Tara, chhat se kapda utha!’</i>, shouted his grandmother, in a tone so filled with alarm that it would have sounded more appropriate if the entire house was on fire. And without waiting for any confirmation from the maid, leaving the brinjal she was slicing in the kitchen unsliced, she ran frantically to the balcony to do the needful there.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The monsoons had arrived, and to little Amir, it seemed that it rained nowhere in the world as it rained in Patna. A moment before, it seemed like a perfect, idle, hot, summer afternoon, and now, all of a sudden, all hell had broken loose. The unlatched doors banged against the walls ferociously, the clouds roared, all tree tops pointed horizontally to one direction, as if showing a stranger the way to his destination. It was perfect, sublime chaos, turning the impeccable tranquility of the entire household to over-frenzied activity in a jiffy. As Amir saw, everyone in the house was running, everyone had suddenly sprung to action. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">He ran to the terrace and stopped at the door, looking at the maid who was busy picking up as many clothes as she could in one go and depositing them at the nearest dry place. No one could have been more efficient right now; she did it as if her whole life depended on it. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">‘Kuchh kapda tum bhi utha lo. Khade ho ke dekh rahe ho!’</i>, she shouted above the rain when she saw him.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">‘Rehne do na. Kya jaata hai? Bheeg jayega to kya hoga?’</i>, he replied, teasing her. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">‘Kya hoga! Agar tumhari Nanima ne humko baad mein daanta to? Tum bachane aayoge?’</i></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">‘Kyun nahi?’</i>, Amir said, smiling his most mischievous smile. Leaving Tara behind, he now walked back into the house to see what the rest were up to.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">His grandmother had returned from the balcony, satisfied and exhausted, and sat at the dining table, just below the ceiling fan. The look on her face was almost triumphant, as if she had just diffused a time bomb only a couple of seconds before it was supposed to go off.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">‘Kitne jaldi aaya baarish. Bhaagte nahi to sab kapda bheeg jaata!’</i>, she said when she saw Amir, explaining the supreme importance of the task, waiting for someone to commend her for her effort. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">‘Hmmm’, Amir replied and went to the kitchen to fetch her some water. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The maid returned, the clothes replaced to safety. All was still once more, the household relaxed, only the sound of rain falling outside to be heard. His grandfather, who had carried on reading the newspaper quietly all this while, unperturbed by the abrupt bout of activity the world inside and outside had been in, also came in and sat down on the divan.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">‘Chai ho jaaye!’</i>, he cried, as always, as if the moment called for a celebration of sorts. In a way, it did, thought Amir. The rain always called for celebration, even in Patna, where there was never any scarcity of it. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Tea was brought, and as little Amir wasn’t allowed to have it yet, he sipped quietly on his Bournvita. The coming of the rains was almost a ritual, everything happened the same way every time – the runs to the terrace and balcony, the subsequent tea session, the small talk. Watching everyone have this unplanned chat, with the sound of the rain in the background, Amir felt strangely happy.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-35362468092622067502008-06-28T00:18:00.019+05:302008-06-28T01:34:20.872+05:30Suit & Tie<p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The malls. A showroom. A mirror.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I look into it, trying to judge whether the dark black trousers suit me, whether they produce awkward creases, whether the sleeves of the shirt I have on are too long, whether the shiny, black shoes I intend to buy would go well with the entire outfit. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I’m tense, a little irritated and very tired. And in between all the noise around and inside me at that moment, I stop and it occurs to me that this is the way it has always been. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And will be.</p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SGU-eyCISKI/AAAAAAAAAC8/6Wt0aFO0fdM/s1600-h/Men_s_Suit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 245px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_R9gVczRjgLU/SGU-eyCISKI/AAAAAAAAAC8/6Wt0aFO0fdM/s320/Men_s_Suit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216644441926289570" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"></p> <span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><div style="text-align: center; color: rgb(0, 51, 51);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Where's the face, you ask?</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" > Oh never mind, that hardly matters!</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Your life is lost in this perpetual charade of trying to look like someone else, so much so that sometimes, you get scared of just being yourself. Trying to look like the well-dressed schoolboy when you are only a kid, being told to wear T-shirts more often when <span style="font-style: italic;">kurtas</span> suit you fine, and now – trying to look like a prim-and-proper executive when you are at least a good one year away from actually being one. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">And they do in the name of discipline. Even if one agrees to dress codes in schools and institutions, to ask someone to appear in suit and tie for an interview is totally preposterous. For once in the institution, the powers that be have the right to dictate how they want you to appear, and as a member, it is only correct that you follow the rules. But to do so when you are only applying for admission into the same is something that I don’t understand. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Isn’t it true that they are conducting the interview just to know you better, what you are and of what use you can be to their company? If the answer is yes, won’t it be more helpful for them and easier for you if you appear as you really are, be it unshaven, dirty or haggard? Doesn’t it harm the ‘selection’ process if everyone appears as if in uniform, with the same fake ‘confident’ smile, giving the same prototype ‘smart’ answers? Won’t it make things simpler for everyone involved if they decide to see each person in his own mould, his individuality shining through, and isn’t that what they are actually here for? </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The whole exercise, as it stands, is a sham. It is, and excuse me if the phrase sounds a bit exaggerated to you, a perfect example of identity assassination. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">But oh well, if you think I’m going to have my own way in this and play the harbinger of change, you can’t be further from the truth. The companies arrive in ten days time and you can be sure to find me all nicely dressed up in suit and tie, wearing the ‘confident’ smile, giving the ‘smart’ answers.</p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792643000686341081.post-27711867023856760122008-06-14T19:03:00.002+05:302008-07-24T12:50:47.502+05:30I<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" ><a href="http://sleepingtablets.blogspot.com/2008/06/clichs-of-conceit.html">Marvin</a>, IC tagged me again. And though he didn’t expect me to complete this one, I found it quite interesting to do so. Ah, how I love these tags! Not the substitute for the real good stuff I should be coming up with, but who cares. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I am</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > for whom the bell tolls. At least, that’s what I like to believe.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I think</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > alarmingly more than one should think. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I know</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > a lot many sad PJs. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I want</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > roses in my garden when I do have one to call my own.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I have</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > something really special in me. What it is exactly, that I’m still trying to ascertain. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I wish </span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I had<b> </b>ideas to write on and not just be completing such tags for time pass.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I hate</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > the man without a purpose. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I miss</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > my old grandparents’ house where I used to spend my summer vacations as a kid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I smell</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > good most of the time. People can’t normally tell even when I haven’t bathed for a week.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I crave</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > for the simple rice and dal meal I used to have at home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I search </span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >myself in everyone I see, and eventually end up disappointed every time. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I wonder</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > if God exists, and if yes, whether he has a conscience.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I love</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > my grandmother. She is the strongest and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I care</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > a lot for my brother and sister. But I can never tell them that. I hope it shows.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I ache</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > for rain all year, only to have it for a little time. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I am not</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > many things that people think I am.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I believe</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > in the principle ‘Live and help live’.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I dance</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > only when I’m feeling silly. And only when I’m alone.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I sing</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > quite well, but not many, like my mother, agree with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I cry</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > “Pushpa, I hate tears. They are nothing but saline water.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I don’t always </span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >mean to be rude but often am. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span></span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I write</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > pulp fiction.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I win</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > in almost all that I attempt. Because I often only attempt things in which I know I’ll win. And I know it’s wrong to be that way. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I lose</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > my ‘usually dependable reasoning powers when I’m romantically trapped’.<span style=""> </span></span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I always </span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >end up confused. (Had to copy Marvin on this one)<b> </b></span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style=""> </span></span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I listen</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > to Dire Straits when happy, The Doors when sad and Floyd when just myself.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I can usually be found </span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >on the bed, idling away effortlessly…na…effortFULLY.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I am happy</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > when watching a Satyajit Ray movie. </span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I imagine</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > myself as something incredibly grandiose in the distant future. Not that I’m going to tell you. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" >I tag</span></b><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:10;" > <a href="http://dropsfromsolaris.blogspot.com/">Calvin</a> and <a href="http://paper-jezuz.blogspot.com/">Jezuz</a> yet again, though they haven’t still completed the last one I sent them.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 150%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Piperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16083454333494549203noreply@blogger.com0