Its been a while since this blog has seen some action....!!!!
Well...pardonez moi for the lack of new concoction......!!!!
The apologies done with...this is a draft that I composed maybe a month back. It was renegated to the long list of drafts adorning my blogger dashboard...!!! I just discovered it now...and found it very amusing that the very fact that it is an incomplete draft is ironical considering the content of the intended post...!!!
Check it out...!!
For all those people who were a part of my life...and now are nothing more than smiling faces in my album. Flashes from the past reentering my mind on a reminiscing trip...only to be renegated again to a amnesiac memory.
For all those people...about whom I knew every little detail...the scar on the right eyebrow, the dark brown pupils set distinctly against the white of the eye in perfect dark-chocolated rimmed circles. They are now blurs..blobs of flesh fading away into the distance.
For all those people...who are still a part of my life...and yet arent a part of my life. Voices heard on the phone...on birthdays, festivals...
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I am...
I am the evening sun...
wanting to rest my tired self...wanting to immerse myself in the calming waters of the ocean..!! And yet I cannot...for the little boy answering his exams is clinging onto my last rays. I cannot let him down.
I am the express train...
passing through the lush green fields, gazing at the meandering river..its crystal clear waters sparkling like diamonds. I long to run through the fields...the yellow mustard flowers beckon me.!! And yet I cannot leave my track...for the seven hundred passengers have trusted me with their lives. I cannot let them down.
I am the water bearer...
the leather water bag grinding into my hip. The hot desert sun burning onto my parched skin. The mirages playing hide and seek with my delirious mind. Eternal sleep beckons me.!! And yet I cannot...for the desert life awaits me with thristy eyes. It has trusted me with the elixir of life. I cannot let it down.
I am Atlas...
shoulders sagging with the weight of the earth and its worries. The flat ground invites me to lay down...my spine in perfect harmony with the ground. And yet I cannot...for I lifted the weight onto my shoulders...for today..for eternity.
And I cannot let myself down.
Amen !!
wanting to rest my tired self...wanting to immerse myself in the calming waters of the ocean..!! And yet I cannot...for the little boy answering his exams is clinging onto my last rays. I cannot let him down.
I am the express train...
passing through the lush green fields, gazing at the meandering river..its crystal clear waters sparkling like diamonds. I long to run through the fields...the yellow mustard flowers beckon me.!! And yet I cannot leave my track...for the seven hundred passengers have trusted me with their lives. I cannot let them down.
I am the water bearer...
the leather water bag grinding into my hip. The hot desert sun burning onto my parched skin. The mirages playing hide and seek with my delirious mind. Eternal sleep beckons me.!! And yet I cannot...for the desert life awaits me with thristy eyes. It has trusted me with the elixir of life. I cannot let it down.
I am Atlas...
shoulders sagging with the weight of the earth and its worries. The flat ground invites me to lay down...my spine in perfect harmony with the ground. And yet I cannot...for I lifted the weight onto my shoulders...for today..for eternity.
And I cannot let myself down.
Amen !!
Friday, March 10, 2006
but it rained...
It rained in Bangalore last night. Not the multi-directional jets hitting you with the fury of the heavens, the way it does in Goa. But a light drizzle..just enough to soak the earth and adorn the breeze with that smell which can give Chanel a run for their money...only if it can be packed in a bottle.
I stepped onto the road at 9.30 in the morning and the breeze hit my face..gently...just like a mother lightly slapping a child for making a cheeky comment. The divine smell had persisted through the night in the cracks of the tarred road and was now rising upwards with the heat of the morning rays.
I carefully negotiated the wet patches on the road, not wanting to get my sandals all wet and dirty. The road was jammed...as always. Bikes and autos alike were being manouvered through the gaps, drivers at their slithering best.
I hailed an auto "C V Raman Nagar chalna hai" !!! "10 Rs extra madam" !!! usual story....waited for 5 minutes. After 6 autos, one which didnt come with a price tag of +10 extra !!! Its become an everyday duel...the autowallah v/s me...prize at stake..10 Rs..and maybe a deeper sense of pride and principle.
The auto inched ahead through the traffic. The heady smell of the soaked earth transported me to a different place...to a different age.
An age of new raincoats which oddly smelt of bubblegum; the mickey mouse prints smiling incorrigibly at the raindrops pelting down. An age of opening new fresh notebooks with lines in set of three...and smelling the pages. Polished black shoes getting soaked in the puddles, the water seeping up through the nylon socks. Umbrellas turning inside out with the strong breeze. Uniforms not drying in the rainy days...the sheer joy of wearing casual clothes to school. Splashing water on the puny kid who always had a runny nose. Endless memories pouring down...just like raindrops that poured down in those days. crystal clear droplets mirroring moments lost in the years.
"Yahaan se left...haan bas yahhin rok dijiye" I had reached office.
After paying him 30 Rs (even these electronic meters are rigged!!), I walked along the driveway to the entrance. The huge airconditioned edifice stood before me, intimidating, stifling.....!!!! I looked at the beehive hanging down from the roof....the bees were involved in a dance of their own...carefree creatures of the world. I took one deep breath and swiped my card. The whiff would last me a day...
I stepped onto the road at 9.30 in the morning and the breeze hit my face..gently...just like a mother lightly slapping a child for making a cheeky comment. The divine smell had persisted through the night in the cracks of the tarred road and was now rising upwards with the heat of the morning rays.
I carefully negotiated the wet patches on the road, not wanting to get my sandals all wet and dirty. The road was jammed...as always. Bikes and autos alike were being manouvered through the gaps, drivers at their slithering best.
I hailed an auto "C V Raman Nagar chalna hai" !!! "10 Rs extra madam" !!! usual story....waited for 5 minutes. After 6 autos, one which didnt come with a price tag of +10 extra !!! Its become an everyday duel...the autowallah v/s me...prize at stake..10 Rs..and maybe a deeper sense of pride and principle.
The auto inched ahead through the traffic. The heady smell of the soaked earth transported me to a different place...to a different age.
An age of new raincoats which oddly smelt of bubblegum; the mickey mouse prints smiling incorrigibly at the raindrops pelting down. An age of opening new fresh notebooks with lines in set of three...and smelling the pages. Polished black shoes getting soaked in the puddles, the water seeping up through the nylon socks. Umbrellas turning inside out with the strong breeze. Uniforms not drying in the rainy days...the sheer joy of wearing casual clothes to school. Splashing water on the puny kid who always had a runny nose. Endless memories pouring down...just like raindrops that poured down in those days. crystal clear droplets mirroring moments lost in the years.
"Yahaan se left...haan bas yahhin rok dijiye" I had reached office.
After paying him 30 Rs (even these electronic meters are rigged!!), I walked along the driveway to the entrance. The huge airconditioned edifice stood before me, intimidating, stifling.....!!!! I looked at the beehive hanging down from the roof....the bees were involved in a dance of their own...carefree creatures of the world. I took one deep breath and swiped my card. The whiff would last me a day...
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Thought process........
Uncertainity looms ahead
an all-enveloping fog
I am but a drowning soul
Looking for the proverbial log
No..you can't help me
My eyes are tight shut
my mind is closed
and wrenched is my gut
I wait all alone
lost in the same thought
counting the challenges ahead
reminiscing the battles fought
'It will be okay', they all say
'the sole ray will shine
just cling on to hope
and tomorrow will be thine'
But that feeble voice
gets stronger by the minute
'just let go' it commands
'just get out of the rut'
Future embraces me with its
strong unyielding arm
promising to make me happy
and not to cause any harm
But today plays the Thomas
uncertain about the morrow
cautioning me about future
and the impending sorrow
And so shall it be
I shall wait
for the moment of reckoning
hoping its not too late...
an all-enveloping fog
I am but a drowning soul
Looking for the proverbial log
No..you can't help me
My eyes are tight shut
my mind is closed
and wrenched is my gut
I wait all alone
lost in the same thought
counting the challenges ahead
reminiscing the battles fought
'It will be okay', they all say
'the sole ray will shine
just cling on to hope
and tomorrow will be thine'
But that feeble voice
gets stronger by the minute
'just let go' it commands
'just get out of the rut'
Future embraces me with its
strong unyielding arm
promising to make me happy
and not to cause any harm
But today plays the Thomas
uncertain about the morrow
cautioning me about future
and the impending sorrow
And so shall it be
I shall wait
for the moment of reckoning
hoping its not too late...
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Don't let me die...
"Puchu...I am not feeling well.", Nisha dumped her handbag on the couch and sat down on the arm of his chair.
"Must be the food we had in China Haus last night", Pushkar didnt take his eyes off the editorial in Economic times.
" No...its not that. I have constantly been having this giddy feeling. And today after lunch, I suddenly couldn't see anything. Everything was dark for about...hmm..5 seconds maybe. Freaked me out totally..."
Pushkar carefully folded the paper and put it away. A deep frown was burrowing into his forehead. Nisha was watching him with asking eyes.
He smiled..."Dont worry...guess its time to see the doctor..."
******
Dr. Mehta was in his office. The last patient had been a psychosomatic guy in his 60's who kept concocting strange symptoms and demanding stranger medicines. Dr Mehta had scribbled all possible placebos he could think of in his scrawny writing on the prescription. And just to make sure that the guy doesnt return, he had charged him a very hefty fee.
He buzzed the receptionist to usher in the next patient. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his temples with his weary fingers.
Nisha peeped in with a very nervous look "Good morning doctor"
A broad smile spread across his face. A doctor's smile.
******
"Hello...Rajesh...I need you to do a MRI for patient no #102. And send me the report by this evening. Yeah..on the way there."
Rajesh Kumar Tripathi put down the receiver. Life in the MRI and CT scan department was extremely graphic. He loved the fact that he could read people's minds.
He smiled at his own pun and got up from his seat. Patient 102 would be just on his way. Or maybe...it wasn't a his. It could be a her...a beautiful single girl in her 20s. Pushing his luck a bit too far...she could be from UP...maybe Allahabad..he gave himself 15% chances that she was a Brahmin....
"Excuse me...I was scheduled to get a MRI done now..."
He mentally scratched out number 102 from his list. Maybe 103 would be 'the one'.
Silently he escorted Nisha to the inner chamber for the scan.
******
The lights in the pathology department were off ,save for one room. Ishani Khan was poring over the slides through the microscope. She had to send the results to Dr. Mehta before she left. She was concentrating hard..trying to block the distress signals that her stomach was sending her. The very thought of having a pizza out of a carton, surrounded by the little red-capped bottles with samples of body fluids and body wastes alike was so unappetising. Just two more slides and then she would be done.
"Dr.Mehta...yeah Ishani here. I just checked the slides. Its malignant. No Dr. Mehta...there is no element of doubt. Its a case that even an intern would identify.
Okay Dr. Mehta..have a great evening."
The final light in the department went out.
******
"But Dr.Mehta ....its very clear. The tumor is so big...we have to operate immediately. In fact, I am shocked that she didn't show any symptoms before. Its really weird."
"Dr. Ryan...isn't there any other way out ? I mean...we have seen cases like this before and the chances of the patient recovering from the operation are very low.
What..what chances would you give her?"
"See Dr. Mehta...going by the years of experience that you have had with such cases...I dont think you need my opinion. But I would say...without the operation, she has about a month. With the operation, maybe about a year or so.
"But what if..during the operation...."
"Its all a game of dice..."
******
"Okay Pucchu....what is the doctor's verdict? Listen...I am a strong person...I can take it....tell it to me"
"Its going to an operation...on next Saturday..thats 15th I guess...a major operation.....but nothing to worry"
"Oh...I see.....is it a hammoraege ?"
"No..its a tumor."
Nisha turned away from Pushkar and moved towards the open window. She didnt know if it was the cold wind or the word 'tumor' that sent the chills down her spine
******
"What is it Pucchu?"
"Its nothing dear...just a document which says that I take responsibility for whatever happens in the operation...a responsibility that I take as your husband. Just a formality..."
Pushkar signed on the dotted line. It was not the first time that he was taking responsiblity for somebody else's life. And yet he couldn't get himself to do it.
******
Dr. Mehta put on his gown. He scrubbed his hands one last time and put on the gloves. The nurse holding out the gloves was avoiding all eye contact with him.
He was a much revered and feared figure at the hospital.
Nisha looked very frail in the hospital clothes. The anastheisist was just explaining to Nisha how it is to be under anasthesia when Dr. Mehta walked in. Dr. Ryan was already there in the operation theater.
"Okay? So you clear ? Alright then...here we go...just the prick of a needle."
The anasthesia was fast closing Nisha's eyes. All she could see were blobs of colours around her..in a hazy blur.
Just before she closed her eyes..she held onto Dr. Mehta's sleeve.
"Don't let me die", she whispered. And then she was still...the rhythmic breathing the only sign of life in her.
******
The red bulb outside the operation theater went out. Dr. Ryan walked out, followed by the anasthesist and the intern assisting at the operation. The frustration was writ large over the intern's face...while Dr. Ryan's face was a hardened mask. Years of surgical practice had set his features into an impassive mould. Inside the operation theater, the nurse was trying to go about her job in her usual manner. But it was difficult for her...she had never seen Dr. Mehta this way.
Dr. Mehta was holding onto the pale hand sticking out from under the sheet...the only part of the body exposed to the outside world...pale and lifeless.
He was saying over and over again "Iam sorry I couldn't save you Nisha...but I tried.....I didnt want to let you die."
Dr. Pushkar Mehta (fondly called Pucchu by his family) had failed to save his most difficult patient...his wife.
"Must be the food we had in China Haus last night", Pushkar didnt take his eyes off the editorial in Economic times.
" No...its not that. I have constantly been having this giddy feeling. And today after lunch, I suddenly couldn't see anything. Everything was dark for about...hmm..5 seconds maybe. Freaked me out totally..."
Pushkar carefully folded the paper and put it away. A deep frown was burrowing into his forehead. Nisha was watching him with asking eyes.
He smiled..."Dont worry...guess its time to see the doctor..."
******
Dr. Mehta was in his office. The last patient had been a psychosomatic guy in his 60's who kept concocting strange symptoms and demanding stranger medicines. Dr Mehta had scribbled all possible placebos he could think of in his scrawny writing on the prescription. And just to make sure that the guy doesnt return, he had charged him a very hefty fee.
He buzzed the receptionist to usher in the next patient. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his temples with his weary fingers.
Nisha peeped in with a very nervous look "Good morning doctor"
A broad smile spread across his face. A doctor's smile.
******
"Hello...Rajesh...I need you to do a MRI for patient no #102. And send me the report by this evening. Yeah..on the way there."
Rajesh Kumar Tripathi put down the receiver. Life in the MRI and CT scan department was extremely graphic. He loved the fact that he could read people's minds.
He smiled at his own pun and got up from his seat. Patient 102 would be just on his way. Or maybe...it wasn't a his. It could be a her...a beautiful single girl in her 20s. Pushing his luck a bit too far...she could be from UP...maybe Allahabad..he gave himself 15% chances that she was a Brahmin....
"Excuse me...I was scheduled to get a MRI done now..."
He mentally scratched out number 102 from his list. Maybe 103 would be 'the one'.
Silently he escorted Nisha to the inner chamber for the scan.
******
The lights in the pathology department were off ,save for one room. Ishani Khan was poring over the slides through the microscope. She had to send the results to Dr. Mehta before she left. She was concentrating hard..trying to block the distress signals that her stomach was sending her. The very thought of having a pizza out of a carton, surrounded by the little red-capped bottles with samples of body fluids and body wastes alike was so unappetising. Just two more slides and then she would be done.
"Dr.Mehta...yeah Ishani here. I just checked the slides. Its malignant. No Dr. Mehta...there is no element of doubt. Its a case that even an intern would identify.
Okay Dr. Mehta..have a great evening."
The final light in the department went out.
******
"But Dr.Mehta ....its very clear. The tumor is so big...we have to operate immediately. In fact, I am shocked that she didn't show any symptoms before. Its really weird."
"Dr. Ryan...isn't there any other way out ? I mean...we have seen cases like this before and the chances of the patient recovering from the operation are very low.
What..what chances would you give her?"
"See Dr. Mehta...going by the years of experience that you have had with such cases...I dont think you need my opinion. But I would say...without the operation, she has about a month. With the operation, maybe about a year or so.
"But what if..during the operation...."
"Its all a game of dice..."
******
"Okay Pucchu....what is the doctor's verdict? Listen...I am a strong person...I can take it....tell it to me"
"Its going to an operation...on next Saturday..thats 15th I guess...a major operation.....but nothing to worry"
"Oh...I see.....is it a hammoraege ?"
"No..its a tumor."
Nisha turned away from Pushkar and moved towards the open window. She didnt know if it was the cold wind or the word 'tumor' that sent the chills down her spine
******
"What is it Pucchu?"
"Its nothing dear...just a document which says that I take responsibility for whatever happens in the operation...a responsibility that I take as your husband. Just a formality..."
Pushkar signed on the dotted line. It was not the first time that he was taking responsiblity for somebody else's life. And yet he couldn't get himself to do it.
******
Dr. Mehta put on his gown. He scrubbed his hands one last time and put on the gloves. The nurse holding out the gloves was avoiding all eye contact with him.
He was a much revered and feared figure at the hospital.
Nisha looked very frail in the hospital clothes. The anastheisist was just explaining to Nisha how it is to be under anasthesia when Dr. Mehta walked in. Dr. Ryan was already there in the operation theater.
"Okay? So you clear ? Alright then...here we go...just the prick of a needle."
The anasthesia was fast closing Nisha's eyes. All she could see were blobs of colours around her..in a hazy blur.
Just before she closed her eyes..she held onto Dr. Mehta's sleeve.
"Don't let me die", she whispered. And then she was still...the rhythmic breathing the only sign of life in her.
******
The red bulb outside the operation theater went out. Dr. Ryan walked out, followed by the anasthesist and the intern assisting at the operation. The frustration was writ large over the intern's face...while Dr. Ryan's face was a hardened mask. Years of surgical practice had set his features into an impassive mould. Inside the operation theater, the nurse was trying to go about her job in her usual manner. But it was difficult for her...she had never seen Dr. Mehta this way.
Dr. Mehta was holding onto the pale hand sticking out from under the sheet...the only part of the body exposed to the outside world...pale and lifeless.
He was saying over and over again "Iam sorry I couldn't save you Nisha...but I tried.....I didnt want to let you die."
Dr. Pushkar Mehta (fondly called Pucchu by his family) had failed to save his most difficult patient...his wife.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Rehan's 12th birthday party...
I have known Rehan Kamat since 17 years. How we met is a very interesting incident that happened in the KG-1 classroom of Bal Mandir Primary school. Rehan was opening his tiffin-box when I noticed that he had strawberry cream-filled waffers inside. I absolutely adored them. Mine had the same old chapati-with-ghee-and-sugar, carefully rolled and packed in a tissue. Mission 'Flick-the-waffer' germinated in my mind...and I raced across the room. Just when I was about to scoop it out of his tiffin-box, Rehan looked at me with his big solemn eyes and said "Can we exchange our tiffins? I love chapati..but Mamma has no time to make it".
We were the best of friends in our primary school days. The first 15 minutes of classes would find us both kneeling down in the corridor, making faces at each other-habitual latecomers. The interval bell saw us transforming into a twin-headed torpedo which ran amok in the playground, knocking down the unsuspecting kids, finally transforming back into our human forms in the principal's office. We always considered it our duty to give the teacher a good 100-metre run before confirming our bottoms to the benches. After school, we would stay back to play on the see-saws and swings, just the two of us. Our favourite game was Vikram and Betal..I would climb the neem tree near our school and hang upside down with my tongue out and my hair loose. Rehan would then take me on his back, a la king Vikram with the ghost Betal, and I would then have to escape before he dumped me in the nearest puddle.
The evening sky would find two silhouttes returning home - the bags slung across their shoulders, the uniforms covered with a melange of colours, the occasional wound conspicious by the handkerchief tied around it.
Rehan's mother worked in the bank of India. His father was an Assistant Engineer in the Electricity department. They were out to work from morning to late evening. Probably that is why Rehan came up with the "Mummy-Papa" game where I would alternately play Rehan's Mummy or Papa and pamper him. My barbies would be twisted at all possible angles and turned into toy scooters which I would then present to Rehan, who was my child. I would wash his hair under the garden-tap, wipe it with the soft fluffy doormat (which was our substitute for a turkish towel) and comb it with my Barbie comb.
And then one day Rehan's parents came to my house. It was in our 5th standard.
Rehan and I were playing with my new set of cards in my room. I could hear the voices from the other room. They were shifting to a new house. Rehan's dad had been transferred to a new place. They had already enrolled Rehan in St. Joseph's High school which was closer to their new house. I asked Rehan if it meant that we would never play together again. He threw the cards at my face and ran away. Standing at the door he looked back and said "You are a stupid Neeli". He always called me Neeli.
I didn't go to see Rehan off when they left their house. Things weren't the same at school too. It wasn't really much fun being a single-headed torpedo and knocking down the other kids. The other kids found Vikram and Betal very tacky. So after being by myself for about a month or so, I started noticing that there were other kids in class. Playing kitty-party and home-home with the other girls wasn't half as much fun. But it would do. I missed Rehan terribly.
The next time we met was at Mehul's birthday party. Rehan wasn't his usual self at all. He was very silent and gave monosyllabic answers when I questioned him about his new school and friends. He even refused to join in in the game of passing-the-parcel and sat all by himself, staring at the cake. We met quite a few times over birthday parties. Me, with my group of new friends and Rehan with his sole friend - the half-eaten birthday cake.
He would call me up sometimes. I dont remember when..but somewhere down the line the monosyllabic answers changed to words and the words changed to sentences. He would talk about a new friend of his...Soloman. Soloman was an Israeli. His dad had been to India and fallen in love with the country. So he had shifted to India. He stayed close to Rehan's house. I conjured up an image of Soloman in my mind - Blond hair, fair skin, lips redder than the red poster colour and blue eyes. When I told the same to Rehan, he laughed "You are a dumb Neeli...Israelis have dark hair and dark eyes. He looks almost Indian".
Yes...I was jealous. Rehan was my first friend and the best friend I ever had. And now all he talked about was some dumb Israeli guy who probably didn't even know how to catch dragonflies and tie their tails with a string. I wanted to meet Soloman and push him in the nearest puddle on his oh-so-fair Israeli face. But I never got a chance to meet him.
10th January...1996...I still remember the date. Rehan called me up to invite me for his birthday party. My first question - "Will Soloman be there?". "Of course Neeli..he is my besss"...I banged the receiver down.
There were a thousand questions in my mind...was he a better friend..did he run faster than I ? Did he get better things in his tiffin box ?
I was very excited about meeting him and a trifle scared too. What if he was this school bully type character who could push me down with his index finger ?
16th January...Rehan's birthday. I was wearing my best dress..the pink one with the Snoopy-face print and "Am I not cute" written under it. Rehan's mom welcomed me in with a quick hug. She was asking me about how everyone at home was...but I wasnt listening. My eyes were scanning the twenty-odd faces for a Israeli face which looked almost Indian. Nah...he hadn't come. I sat down near the TV..watching Top Cat on Cartoon Network. Aunty brought in the cake and put in on the table. Chocolate....Rehan loved chocolate flavour. I turned back to Top Cat.
There was a tap on my shoulder. It was Rehan. "Hi Neeli...I want you to meet somebody over here. This is Soloman...my best friend. and Soloman..this is Neeli..my..well..'bestest' friend. You know Soloman...she thought you had yellow hair and blue eyes. See Neeli...his eyes are black. and his hair too. And he plays football so well. Well..we have stopped playing Vikram and Betal now...its for small kids. And we have kind of grown up now !!"
And then Rehan went on telling Soloman all about me. About how I would knock down a whole group of 4 or 5 kids on the playground, about how quickly I would climb the tress to play Betal. He actually called me his 'bestest' friend.
Well..things were going on fine....except for one thing.
There was no Soloman
(Rehan Kamat was diagnosed with schizophrenia. The doctors said that it was in his genes. Maybe lack of attention and loneliness had triggered it off. Symptoms - Silent spells, hallucinations. After two suicide attempts, he was admitted to the Guardian Angel's school for the mentally ill. My 'bestest' friend Rehan has been there for the past 7 years)
We were the best of friends in our primary school days. The first 15 minutes of classes would find us both kneeling down in the corridor, making faces at each other-habitual latecomers. The interval bell saw us transforming into a twin-headed torpedo which ran amok in the playground, knocking down the unsuspecting kids, finally transforming back into our human forms in the principal's office. We always considered it our duty to give the teacher a good 100-metre run before confirming our bottoms to the benches. After school, we would stay back to play on the see-saws and swings, just the two of us. Our favourite game was Vikram and Betal..I would climb the neem tree near our school and hang upside down with my tongue out and my hair loose. Rehan would then take me on his back, a la king Vikram with the ghost Betal, and I would then have to escape before he dumped me in the nearest puddle.
The evening sky would find two silhouttes returning home - the bags slung across their shoulders, the uniforms covered with a melange of colours, the occasional wound conspicious by the handkerchief tied around it.
Rehan's mother worked in the bank of India. His father was an Assistant Engineer in the Electricity department. They were out to work from morning to late evening. Probably that is why Rehan came up with the "Mummy-Papa" game where I would alternately play Rehan's Mummy or Papa and pamper him. My barbies would be twisted at all possible angles and turned into toy scooters which I would then present to Rehan, who was my child. I would wash his hair under the garden-tap, wipe it with the soft fluffy doormat (which was our substitute for a turkish towel) and comb it with my Barbie comb.
And then one day Rehan's parents came to my house. It was in our 5th standard.
Rehan and I were playing with my new set of cards in my room. I could hear the voices from the other room. They were shifting to a new house. Rehan's dad had been transferred to a new place. They had already enrolled Rehan in St. Joseph's High school which was closer to their new house. I asked Rehan if it meant that we would never play together again. He threw the cards at my face and ran away. Standing at the door he looked back and said "You are a stupid Neeli". He always called me Neeli.
I didn't go to see Rehan off when they left their house. Things weren't the same at school too. It wasn't really much fun being a single-headed torpedo and knocking down the other kids. The other kids found Vikram and Betal very tacky. So after being by myself for about a month or so, I started noticing that there were other kids in class. Playing kitty-party and home-home with the other girls wasn't half as much fun. But it would do. I missed Rehan terribly.
The next time we met was at Mehul's birthday party. Rehan wasn't his usual self at all. He was very silent and gave monosyllabic answers when I questioned him about his new school and friends. He even refused to join in in the game of passing-the-parcel and sat all by himself, staring at the cake. We met quite a few times over birthday parties. Me, with my group of new friends and Rehan with his sole friend - the half-eaten birthday cake.
He would call me up sometimes. I dont remember when..but somewhere down the line the monosyllabic answers changed to words and the words changed to sentences. He would talk about a new friend of his...Soloman. Soloman was an Israeli. His dad had been to India and fallen in love with the country. So he had shifted to India. He stayed close to Rehan's house. I conjured up an image of Soloman in my mind - Blond hair, fair skin, lips redder than the red poster colour and blue eyes. When I told the same to Rehan, he laughed "You are a dumb Neeli...Israelis have dark hair and dark eyes. He looks almost Indian".
Yes...I was jealous. Rehan was my first friend and the best friend I ever had. And now all he talked about was some dumb Israeli guy who probably didn't even know how to catch dragonflies and tie their tails with a string. I wanted to meet Soloman and push him in the nearest puddle on his oh-so-fair Israeli face. But I never got a chance to meet him.
10th January...1996...I still remember the date. Rehan called me up to invite me for his birthday party. My first question - "Will Soloman be there?". "Of course Neeli..he is my besss"...I banged the receiver down.
There were a thousand questions in my mind...was he a better friend..did he run faster than I ? Did he get better things in his tiffin box ?
I was very excited about meeting him and a trifle scared too. What if he was this school bully type character who could push me down with his index finger ?
16th January...Rehan's birthday. I was wearing my best dress..the pink one with the Snoopy-face print and "Am I not cute" written under it. Rehan's mom welcomed me in with a quick hug. She was asking me about how everyone at home was...but I wasnt listening. My eyes were scanning the twenty-odd faces for a Israeli face which looked almost Indian. Nah...he hadn't come. I sat down near the TV..watching Top Cat on Cartoon Network. Aunty brought in the cake and put in on the table. Chocolate....Rehan loved chocolate flavour. I turned back to Top Cat.
There was a tap on my shoulder. It was Rehan. "Hi Neeli...I want you to meet somebody over here. This is Soloman...my best friend. and Soloman..this is Neeli..my..well..'bestest' friend. You know Soloman...she thought you had yellow hair and blue eyes. See Neeli...his eyes are black. and his hair too. And he plays football so well. Well..we have stopped playing Vikram and Betal now...its for small kids. And we have kind of grown up now !!"
And then Rehan went on telling Soloman all about me. About how I would knock down a whole group of 4 or 5 kids on the playground, about how quickly I would climb the tress to play Betal. He actually called me his 'bestest' friend.
Well..things were going on fine....except for one thing.
There was no Soloman
(Rehan Kamat was diagnosed with schizophrenia. The doctors said that it was in his genes. Maybe lack of attention and loneliness had triggered it off. Symptoms - Silent spells, hallucinations. After two suicide attempts, he was admitted to the Guardian Angel's school for the mentally ill. My 'bestest' friend Rehan has been there for the past 7 years)
Monday, January 16, 2006
Krishna - Part II
"Om Shanti Shanti"
The words escaped out of Amma's lips as she dipped her index finger in the blood red of the kumkum and made a perfect circle on my forehead. I could notice the mild tremors in her hand. The hand which had held me steady as I walked on my own little two feet..the hand that had held my hand gently yet firm, as we zigzagged through the busy highway after school. The strength was escaping through the fine wrinkles on her skin.
Amma sat down next to me on the cane sofa. The red of the kumkum was still clinging onto her fingertips. Red...blood red...the color that made her my mother and the frail old man in the rocking chair my father. Amma and Appa seemed to have their eyes fixed on me. I knew it was one of those times....
After my board examinations, I had decided to move to the city where I could pursue my engineering. The day I told them about my decision, we had sat in the same positions..the four of us...Amma, Appa, me and the heavy silence. Amma struggled to maintain an impassive, stoic silence while Appa debated with himself in a passionate display of struggle on the otherwise placid face. The verdict was in favour 2-0.
Weekends meant a 3-hour long journey home on the rickety bus and long walks with Appa in the fields. I dont quite remember when the weekly trips turned into monthly trips finally trickling down into unexpected, infrequent visits at the mercy of assigments and hostel "party" sessions. A job offer in the city had ensued. The jury had met again..the verdict 2-0. The trickling stream of visits had meandered over the years - the streak of red showing through..the red of blood.
I caught Appa's glance. The stern black eyeballs had mellowed with age and dissolved into limpid pools of water. But now they were fixed on me. I folded the newspaper and kept it away..."What is it Amma? Is...is anything wrong?"
The tremors in her hands were steadying themselves on the arm on the sofa. I looked at Appa. The man who was my hero all through my growing years, sat coccooned in silence, his gaze fixed upon Amma..passing onto her the strength for uttering the words.
"You remember you asked me many times why I named you Krishna..." the cracks in the voice broke the silence. "The time has come to tell you...."
The next few words were lost in a deluge of emotions, choked words, missing connections put into place. My head was spinning...the words were going around in circles..life had turned a full circle. ADOPTED...the word repeatedly rang in my ears. I was the Krishna...the adopted child...brought up by the generous Nanda and Yashodha. So I was not the dark-hued god...I was not the Gopal surrounded by his Gopikas...I was the adopted son. And who were my parents...? What was the prison that held them in shackles...poverty, relations which could not be named, death....what was it?
Amma and Appa had adopted me...a puny half-starved throwaway from the orphanage. The doctor had diagnosed Amma as incapable of bearing a child. The prescription had been my entry ticket into their lives. The voluntary job transfer to the village and the deliberately avoided family visits had been the wall my parents had erected to shield me from the truth. The faces of the distant aunts loomed infront of my eyes...gushing about how I looked more and more like Appa everyday. The lies flickered in their eyes like hellish fires.
My parents...no I didnt have the right to call them parents...they had revoked it with just one word....ADOPTED. The red...the blood red that tied me to them was just a dye they had injected in the crystal clear of the world, to blur reality. Appa...my hero....my idol...a privilege that was granted to me by the adoption certificate and not my blood. Amma's index finger was still stained red as she wiped away the tears from her eyes. But now it was just the red of kumkum...kumkum that you buy from any shop in the market.
I got up and walked towards the door. Krishna...Krishna..Amma and Appa were calling out to me. Yes...I was Krishna...a figment of a wise man's imagination who wrote an epic, a ghost from the past...thrust into the turbulent waters of reality.
I walked into the fields...the sky was stained red with the remnants of the evening sun. The smell of ripening mangoes whiffed in and out of the leaves. There was a silhoutte in the distance...running across the horizon. A boy of maybe seven-eight years...the full moustache jumping up and down as he ran....a black mark on the sleeve of the oversized shirt.....Somebody was telling a story in the background...a story about three-limbed gods and one-eyes demons.
I turned and walked back into the house....
The words escaped out of Amma's lips as she dipped her index finger in the blood red of the kumkum and made a perfect circle on my forehead. I could notice the mild tremors in her hand. The hand which had held me steady as I walked on my own little two feet..the hand that had held my hand gently yet firm, as we zigzagged through the busy highway after school. The strength was escaping through the fine wrinkles on her skin.
Amma sat down next to me on the cane sofa. The red of the kumkum was still clinging onto her fingertips. Red...blood red...the color that made her my mother and the frail old man in the rocking chair my father. Amma and Appa seemed to have their eyes fixed on me. I knew it was one of those times....
After my board examinations, I had decided to move to the city where I could pursue my engineering. The day I told them about my decision, we had sat in the same positions..the four of us...Amma, Appa, me and the heavy silence. Amma struggled to maintain an impassive, stoic silence while Appa debated with himself in a passionate display of struggle on the otherwise placid face. The verdict was in favour 2-0.
Weekends meant a 3-hour long journey home on the rickety bus and long walks with Appa in the fields. I dont quite remember when the weekly trips turned into monthly trips finally trickling down into unexpected, infrequent visits at the mercy of assigments and hostel "party" sessions. A job offer in the city had ensued. The jury had met again..the verdict 2-0. The trickling stream of visits had meandered over the years - the streak of red showing through..the red of blood.
I caught Appa's glance. The stern black eyeballs had mellowed with age and dissolved into limpid pools of water. But now they were fixed on me. I folded the newspaper and kept it away..."What is it Amma? Is...is anything wrong?"
The tremors in her hands were steadying themselves on the arm on the sofa. I looked at Appa. The man who was my hero all through my growing years, sat coccooned in silence, his gaze fixed upon Amma..passing onto her the strength for uttering the words.
"You remember you asked me many times why I named you Krishna..." the cracks in the voice broke the silence. "The time has come to tell you...."
The next few words were lost in a deluge of emotions, choked words, missing connections put into place. My head was spinning...the words were going around in circles..life had turned a full circle. ADOPTED...the word repeatedly rang in my ears. I was the Krishna...the adopted child...brought up by the generous Nanda and Yashodha. So I was not the dark-hued god...I was not the Gopal surrounded by his Gopikas...I was the adopted son. And who were my parents...? What was the prison that held them in shackles...poverty, relations which could not be named, death....what was it?
Amma and Appa had adopted me...a puny half-starved throwaway from the orphanage. The doctor had diagnosed Amma as incapable of bearing a child. The prescription had been my entry ticket into their lives. The voluntary job transfer to the village and the deliberately avoided family visits had been the wall my parents had erected to shield me from the truth. The faces of the distant aunts loomed infront of my eyes...gushing about how I looked more and more like Appa everyday. The lies flickered in their eyes like hellish fires.
My parents...no I didnt have the right to call them parents...they had revoked it with just one word....ADOPTED. The red...the blood red that tied me to them was just a dye they had injected in the crystal clear of the world, to blur reality. Appa...my hero....my idol...a privilege that was granted to me by the adoption certificate and not my blood. Amma's index finger was still stained red as she wiped away the tears from her eyes. But now it was just the red of kumkum...kumkum that you buy from any shop in the market.
I got up and walked towards the door. Krishna...Krishna..Amma and Appa were calling out to me. Yes...I was Krishna...a figment of a wise man's imagination who wrote an epic, a ghost from the past...thrust into the turbulent waters of reality.
I walked into the fields...the sky was stained red with the remnants of the evening sun. The smell of ripening mangoes whiffed in and out of the leaves. There was a silhoutte in the distance...running across the horizon. A boy of maybe seven-eight years...the full moustache jumping up and down as he ran....a black mark on the sleeve of the oversized shirt.....Somebody was telling a story in the background...a story about three-limbed gods and one-eyes demons.
I turned and walked back into the house....
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Krishna - Part I
"...Om Shanti Shanti".
Amma got up after the twilight prayers, tightening her face against the rheumatoid arthritis. The tiny flames in the lamps reflected themselves in the thousand faces of the diamonds in her ears. As she came into the room, I smiled with anticipation. This was the most enjoyable ritual...Amma touching Appa's feet after the prayers. Appa would always retaliate with a funny blessing and be cursed in turn with a sharp remark said through cheeks the colour of spring roses. At 60, Amma would still blush with the shyness of a 16 year old.
Amma and Appa. The center of my universe. The peak and nadir of my life. Every memory, incident, experience of my life is attached to them. At one-and-a-half, i wiped my running nose with the back of my hand and said in my best baby voice "Ammmmmaaa" for the first time. Amma prayed for the rest of the day, offered her tears to god. Of course, I don't remember any of it. But I have lived the moment through the innumerous times that Amma talks about it - when I lie down in her lap, when I go against her will or just when a leaf from the past drifts into the present.
It was not until I was a good two years old that "Appa" entered my vocabulary - a lapse on my part that has cost Appa heavily in all those family gatherings where he is always chided by Amma.
Family to me always meant the three of us and our dog Tommy. Relatives were aplenty, but they would come into focus only on special occasions - weddings, births in the family. And all they would do is pinch my cheeks and gush about how i had grown so big and how i resembled Appa more and more while Appa would stand by my side, beaming at them with a full-moustached grin. No relatives would come home..sometimes I got a strange feeling that my parents avoided inviting people over as much as they could.
Appa was my role model ever since I was old enough to indulge in hero worship. And in a country with 33 crore gods and larger-than-life filmstars, it doesnt take long.
I would imitate Appa's walk on those evening walks - straight back, long steps, arms hanging loose by the sides, head held high, purposeful yet casual. And when the Dhobi would get Appa's clothes, the smell of coal still lingering in the stiffly ironed creases, I would run up to my room and wear the shirt and imitate Appa's baritone in front of the mirror. I would draw a moustache with Amma's kajal and walk around the house in the same gait. The shirt would be back in the closet before the first sound of Appa's LML Vespa richoceted off the whitewashed compound wall. All the folds in place, the collar facing upwards. Just a faint mark would remain where the overgrown sleeve had taken a dip in the murky waters of the kajal container.
Weekends were always fun. Freedom from the cane-wielding teacher was just one aspect of it. Appa always took me out on long walks - through the fields, mountains. Philosophy mingled with lessons of life and spread across the evening sky in the sweet-smell of ripening mangoes in yellow-orange hues of the warmth of father-son bonding. And the days events would be recounted to Amma over the evening's meal, the rhythmic pauses halting the narration as Amma coaxed another ball of rice into my mouth. Nights were adorned with dreams of waking up a morning to find myself fully grown up -just like Appa, the full moustache tickling the tightly shut pink eyelids,curling the corner of my mouth in a surreal smile.
I would always sleep next to Amma - my head rested on the soft pillow of her arm.
And she would regale me with stories about three-headed gods and one-eyed demons.
Even as my mouth fell open - more out of excitement and interest than exhaustion from the day's activities - a soft hand would close it. Amma always put her hand over me as she slept - as if to reassure herself that I was there with her.
"Amma...why did u name me Krishna?", I asked as soon as she had started telling me about the dark-hued god on one of the humid summer nights. The room rotated about the ceiling fan in rhythmic grating sounds. "Is it because I am dark ?", the darkness of the night had rubbed off on my spirits. Amma's soft laughter wiped the dark soot off my heart. And then she was silent for some time. "No..my little rosebud, you are not dark. I shall tell you someday about it..someday when you grow up." The silence of the night put the thoughts to sleep.
I would ask her about my name many times- as a child, as a teenager.
The last time I asked her, I was nineteen. It was a rainy evening and Amma was wiping my head dry with a linen towel. I had just returned from an after-college meeting with my friends.
"Because...my little Gopal...You always have so many Gopikas around you", Amma whispered into my ears with a sly edge to her voice. Needless to say, I never asked the question again.
<...to be continued>
Amma got up after the twilight prayers, tightening her face against the rheumatoid arthritis. The tiny flames in the lamps reflected themselves in the thousand faces of the diamonds in her ears. As she came into the room, I smiled with anticipation. This was the most enjoyable ritual...Amma touching Appa's feet after the prayers. Appa would always retaliate with a funny blessing and be cursed in turn with a sharp remark said through cheeks the colour of spring roses. At 60, Amma would still blush with the shyness of a 16 year old.
Amma and Appa. The center of my universe. The peak and nadir of my life. Every memory, incident, experience of my life is attached to them. At one-and-a-half, i wiped my running nose with the back of my hand and said in my best baby voice "Ammmmmaaa" for the first time. Amma prayed for the rest of the day, offered her tears to god. Of course, I don't remember any of it. But I have lived the moment through the innumerous times that Amma talks about it - when I lie down in her lap, when I go against her will or just when a leaf from the past drifts into the present.
It was not until I was a good two years old that "Appa" entered my vocabulary - a lapse on my part that has cost Appa heavily in all those family gatherings where he is always chided by Amma.
Family to me always meant the three of us and our dog Tommy. Relatives were aplenty, but they would come into focus only on special occasions - weddings, births in the family. And all they would do is pinch my cheeks and gush about how i had grown so big and how i resembled Appa more and more while Appa would stand by my side, beaming at them with a full-moustached grin. No relatives would come home..sometimes I got a strange feeling that my parents avoided inviting people over as much as they could.
Appa was my role model ever since I was old enough to indulge in hero worship. And in a country with 33 crore gods and larger-than-life filmstars, it doesnt take long.
I would imitate Appa's walk on those evening walks - straight back, long steps, arms hanging loose by the sides, head held high, purposeful yet casual. And when the Dhobi would get Appa's clothes, the smell of coal still lingering in the stiffly ironed creases, I would run up to my room and wear the shirt and imitate Appa's baritone in front of the mirror. I would draw a moustache with Amma's kajal and walk around the house in the same gait. The shirt would be back in the closet before the first sound of Appa's LML Vespa richoceted off the whitewashed compound wall. All the folds in place, the collar facing upwards. Just a faint mark would remain where the overgrown sleeve had taken a dip in the murky waters of the kajal container.
Weekends were always fun. Freedom from the cane-wielding teacher was just one aspect of it. Appa always took me out on long walks - through the fields, mountains. Philosophy mingled with lessons of life and spread across the evening sky in the sweet-smell of ripening mangoes in yellow-orange hues of the warmth of father-son bonding. And the days events would be recounted to Amma over the evening's meal, the rhythmic pauses halting the narration as Amma coaxed another ball of rice into my mouth. Nights were adorned with dreams of waking up a morning to find myself fully grown up -just like Appa, the full moustache tickling the tightly shut pink eyelids,curling the corner of my mouth in a surreal smile.
I would always sleep next to Amma - my head rested on the soft pillow of her arm.
And she would regale me with stories about three-headed gods and one-eyed demons.
Even as my mouth fell open - more out of excitement and interest than exhaustion from the day's activities - a soft hand would close it. Amma always put her hand over me as she slept - as if to reassure herself that I was there with her.
"Amma...why did u name me Krishna?", I asked as soon as she had started telling me about the dark-hued god on one of the humid summer nights. The room rotated about the ceiling fan in rhythmic grating sounds. "Is it because I am dark ?", the darkness of the night had rubbed off on my spirits. Amma's soft laughter wiped the dark soot off my heart. And then she was silent for some time. "No..my little rosebud, you are not dark. I shall tell you someday about it..someday when you grow up." The silence of the night put the thoughts to sleep.
I would ask her about my name many times- as a child, as a teenager.
The last time I asked her, I was nineteen. It was a rainy evening and Amma was wiping my head dry with a linen towel. I had just returned from an after-college meeting with my friends.
"Because...my little Gopal...You always have so many Gopikas around you", Amma whispered into my ears with a sly edge to her voice. Needless to say, I never asked the question again.
<...to be continued>
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Tathastu...(May it be so)
Special Thanks to:
* Shailesh for giving me the name for this post...may we have many more of these wonderful discussions !!!
* Sanat for giving me the idea of a sequel to 'The Flight' Too bad..I couldn't name it 'airborne ghost' though :p :p
The last rays of the sun glared at him through the ventian blinds. He raised a weary hand to shield his eyes against their wrath. The fine beads of sweat on the back of his hand entered his eyes and became one with his tears. They stung his already bloodshot eyes. Pull down the blinds, his mind told him. But his body refused to obey. He was a bundle of wrinkled shirt, alcohol breath and bloated cheeks dumped uncerimoniously against the wall in the corner of the room. The remnant of whatever had been a cellphone held tightly in his hand, the jagged ends of the plastic casing making ruby red satin ribbons on his palms. The half-empty bottle of whisky had done nothing to ease the pain. God......why dont you let me die ? he screamed with his face upward. The wooden ceiling answered him with a familiar creak.
And through the alcohol-induced haze, he could see the face of his mother. The bindi on her forhead perfectly round. her eyebrows doing a ballet when she laughed with him, writhing with the agony of the tandav when she scolded him. But now they were just lying in their place..motionless..lifeless..dead. As though the 5 years of her death had finally caught up with her image in his mind.
"Amma...Karthik hit me with the bat...why doesnt he just die. Then he wont trouble me na". "Kanna...you shouldn't say such things. There are tiny angels all around, who say 'Tathastu' and what you say will come true". "But Amma, I want it to come true...." The eyebrows frowned in slight worry and then smoothened themselves out in silent admonishment of the child.He was five then. But the image of the tiny angels with their gossamer wings floating in the air making words come true, had etched itself in his heart.
When he was seven, his grandfather died. The teary eyed mother tried to explain the event to the saucer-wide eyed boy, Taata has gone to god. He has become an angel now. But what the wailing ladies and stoic men of the house failed to notice was a shrill seven year old voice So Taata will also be able to say Tathastu and make things come true, Amma ?
The last ball of the innings...two runs to win. "Lil' angels...please make us win"...and they had obliged with a 'Tathastu'. It had been his magic word guiding him through the tough tests, nail-biting cricket wins and the occasional fights where the other guy ended up with a bloody nose. A carelessly made wish would be hurriedly followed by a quick slap on one's own face followed by a "please..i didnt mean it" look at the heavens.
All those moments of reckoning flashed in front of the eyes now. A reel...moving fast...then slowing down...to that moment..to that silent prayer...each syllable of the answer ringing in his ears...pausing for a second before moving ahead. He buried his face in his palms, seeking solace in the criss cross patterns of lines on his palms, which had brought him here.
"Yes ma...what do we have here...aah let me see. Your son. Hmm....19 year old you say.....engineering second year ??? good good....one must indulge in education. Okay kid, show me your left palm. You are very stubborn, aren't you ? The Dhanaresha is very long. You will have a fine life. But do not forget to keep your mother in luxury. All these young kids...go off...to foreign lands and forget their amma and appa....Bad...very bad"
" Will...will my son go abroad too ?"
" Yes...why not ?why not ? His education line is very strong...he will go to America very soon"
Palms were read...palms were greased...palms were folded in respect....palms were pressed to the lips in pride and affection.
"May my son be happy in America. May he not fall prey to the vices of smoking,
drinking, and all the foreign women who trap boys of good families with their fair skin and rose-pink lips". And while incense sticks burned and panchamritam was offered to the gods by the frantically praying mother with a kancheevaram saree in downtown Madras...the cigarette burned in one hand while the other clutched a can of Heineken..the eyes checking out the fair skinned damsels in the nightclub in downtown Chicago. The angels did not bless the mother with a 'Tathastu'.
The tape moved faster now. Amma's passing away...the cracking voice over the phone conveying the news of the heart attack. The dull pain..rising again in raging flames...only to be calmed down by the deluge of alcohol.
And then Anne had come into his life. Maybe a creature with gossamer wings had muttered the magic word in all those lonely evenings when he wished the fingers held wisps of shampooed hair and milky-white skin instead of the Marlboro.
American..23...2 past relationships..parents divorced..party freak....strong interest in Indian culture..she had captured his world.
Anne...whose face now filled the screen of his mind....a closeup..the lips parting in a smile...the wisps of golden hair getting into her eyes. He raised his hand to get the hair out of her eyes. He loved the way she smiled when he did that....in all the 5 years of their relationship. But she didnt smile now..she turned her face and walked away...the gold of her hair burning against the last rays of the sun.
The tape moved faster...that evening...the fight..the abuses..the work pressure, the hurled book, the sobs, the hugs....she was walking away....the call...the buzz of the airport in the background.....the beep of the voicemail...the news announcement.......
Blank...the screen was now blank. The cell phone dropped out of his relaxed fingers. The bottle of Jack Daniels stood empty....the last rays of sun had vanished behind the ventian blinds.....blind..the smell of darkness mingled with the sweat on his back....the wall was damp.
The bloodshot eyes peered from behind the palms. She was an angel now...with gossamer wings....making words come true....her pink lips smilin...just the way they had when he told her about his tryst with the winged-creatures and his belief in the magic word.....part glee....part mockery...and sheer amusement....Tathastu she whispered into the hollowness of the room.
* Shailesh for giving me the name for this post...may we have many more of these wonderful discussions !!!
* Sanat for giving me the idea of a sequel to 'The Flight' Too bad..I couldn't name it 'airborne ghost' though :p :p
The last rays of the sun glared at him through the ventian blinds. He raised a weary hand to shield his eyes against their wrath. The fine beads of sweat on the back of his hand entered his eyes and became one with his tears. They stung his already bloodshot eyes. Pull down the blinds, his mind told him. But his body refused to obey. He was a bundle of wrinkled shirt, alcohol breath and bloated cheeks dumped uncerimoniously against the wall in the corner of the room. The remnant of whatever had been a cellphone held tightly in his hand, the jagged ends of the plastic casing making ruby red satin ribbons on his palms. The half-empty bottle of whisky had done nothing to ease the pain. God......why dont you let me die ? he screamed with his face upward. The wooden ceiling answered him with a familiar creak.
And through the alcohol-induced haze, he could see the face of his mother. The bindi on her forhead perfectly round. her eyebrows doing a ballet when she laughed with him, writhing with the agony of the tandav when she scolded him. But now they were just lying in their place..motionless..lifeless..dead. As though the 5 years of her death had finally caught up with her image in his mind.
"Amma...Karthik hit me with the bat...why doesnt he just die. Then he wont trouble me na". "Kanna...you shouldn't say such things. There are tiny angels all around, who say 'Tathastu' and what you say will come true". "But Amma, I want it to come true...." The eyebrows frowned in slight worry and then smoothened themselves out in silent admonishment of the child.He was five then. But the image of the tiny angels with their gossamer wings floating in the air making words come true, had etched itself in his heart.
When he was seven, his grandfather died. The teary eyed mother tried to explain the event to the saucer-wide eyed boy, Taata has gone to god. He has become an angel now. But what the wailing ladies and stoic men of the house failed to notice was a shrill seven year old voice So Taata will also be able to say Tathastu and make things come true, Amma ?
The last ball of the innings...two runs to win. "Lil' angels...please make us win"...and they had obliged with a 'Tathastu'. It had been his magic word guiding him through the tough tests, nail-biting cricket wins and the occasional fights where the other guy ended up with a bloody nose. A carelessly made wish would be hurriedly followed by a quick slap on one's own face followed by a "please..i didnt mean it" look at the heavens.
All those moments of reckoning flashed in front of the eyes now. A reel...moving fast...then slowing down...to that moment..to that silent prayer...each syllable of the answer ringing in his ears...pausing for a second before moving ahead. He buried his face in his palms, seeking solace in the criss cross patterns of lines on his palms, which had brought him here.
"Yes ma...what do we have here...aah let me see. Your son. Hmm....19 year old you say.....engineering second year ??? good good....one must indulge in education. Okay kid, show me your left palm. You are very stubborn, aren't you ? The Dhanaresha is very long. You will have a fine life. But do not forget to keep your mother in luxury. All these young kids...go off...to foreign lands and forget their amma and appa....Bad...very bad"
" Will...will my son go abroad too ?"
" Yes...why not ?why not ? His education line is very strong...he will go to America very soon"
Palms were read...palms were greased...palms were folded in respect....palms were pressed to the lips in pride and affection.
"May my son be happy in America. May he not fall prey to the vices of smoking,
drinking, and all the foreign women who trap boys of good families with their fair skin and rose-pink lips". And while incense sticks burned and panchamritam was offered to the gods by the frantically praying mother with a kancheevaram saree in downtown Madras...the cigarette burned in one hand while the other clutched a can of Heineken..the eyes checking out the fair skinned damsels in the nightclub in downtown Chicago. The angels did not bless the mother with a 'Tathastu'.
The tape moved faster now. Amma's passing away...the cracking voice over the phone conveying the news of the heart attack. The dull pain..rising again in raging flames...only to be calmed down by the deluge of alcohol.
And then Anne had come into his life. Maybe a creature with gossamer wings had muttered the magic word in all those lonely evenings when he wished the fingers held wisps of shampooed hair and milky-white skin instead of the Marlboro.
American..23...2 past relationships..parents divorced..party freak....strong interest in Indian culture..she had captured his world.
Anne...whose face now filled the screen of his mind....a closeup..the lips parting in a smile...the wisps of golden hair getting into her eyes. He raised his hand to get the hair out of her eyes. He loved the way she smiled when he did that....in all the 5 years of their relationship. But she didnt smile now..she turned her face and walked away...the gold of her hair burning against the last rays of the sun.
The tape moved faster...that evening...the fight..the abuses..the work pressure, the hurled book, the sobs, the hugs....she was walking away....the call...the buzz of the airport in the background.....the beep of the voicemail...the news announcement.......
Blank...the screen was now blank. The cell phone dropped out of his relaxed fingers. The bottle of Jack Daniels stood empty....the last rays of sun had vanished behind the ventian blinds.....blind..the smell of darkness mingled with the sweat on his back....the wall was damp.
The bloodshot eyes peered from behind the palms. She was an angel now...with gossamer wings....making words come true....her pink lips smilin...just the way they had when he told her about his tryst with the winged-creatures and his belief in the magic word.....part glee....part mockery...and sheer amusement....Tathastu she whispered into the hollowness of the room.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
The flight....
"This is the final boarding call for the flight BA-134. Passengers please pay attention".
*****************
"Excuse me Ma'am....Ma'am...I think your phone is ringing."
"Oh...I didnt realise...thank you"
"Hello"
"Hi....."
"Please dont make this difficult for me...!!! You didn't have to call...you know how hard it is for me to go through this"
"....I know !! You at the airport ?"
"Yeah...just about to board the flight"
"Listen...I didn't mean a thing I said yesterday. I was just a little bit upset. I mean...its not your fault really. Its just the work pressure. I understand perfectly how much you care for me. I was just a big idiot"
"....."
" say something please. We have such a beautiful life...we dont have to wreck it over such a small issue"
"This isn't just about yesterday"
"But you cant just leave me and go off..."
"I just need a break...I will be back when I can get over all this ugly feeling. Maybe you need a break too"
"Iam sorry...."
"Don't be !!!!"
"......alright. Maybe you are right. But please come back soon...I cant live without you"
"Oh please..lets spare ourselves the cliches"
"I mean it....
******************
"Excuse me Ma'am..would you like something to drink"
"Huh? Yeah...an orange juice please"
"Sure ma'am"
"Thanks"
******************
"Hey dude...whats the thing with ya ?? You look so screwed man"
"Shut the trap Eddie"
"Awrightt...dont get sore man...!!!! Mannn....if you believe in all that rebirth and shit....remember not to get married in your next birth..."
"What the.....get the hell outta here !!!"
******************
"Excuse me Ma'am...you cannot use your cellphone in the plane"
"I know...I am so sorry...but this is really urgent"
"But Ma'am...its against the..."
"Please..I will not be long.....Hello..."
"Ma'am...please"
"Oh crap..its the voicemail...Hi..its me..!! I think I dont need the break...I was a big idiot to even think about reconsidering things !!! I know how much this means to you..and me !! Just wanted to tell you that I am taking the next flight out of Paris for home. Sorry....please forget this ever happened"
*****************
"And we have a breaking news..There has been a plane crash. Flight no BA 314 from New York to Paris, carrying 350 passessengers on board crashed about an hour back off the Scotland coast. As per the latest updates, no survivors have ben found. Over to our correspondant at the site of the wreck...."
*****************
"You have a new voice message. Please enter your access code...."
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
In retrospect...
On friday there was a 'Reach-out' programme in our office. Various NGOs had set up stalls where they sold products made by physically/mentally challenged people. I was looking through the products with a couple of my friends and stopped at a stall which had some paper products. Brightly colored cards, bookmarks, table mats et al were lined up on the table. I was just contemplating picking up a couple of bookmarks for my lil' collection when I noticed that the guy at the counter had deformed hands. Also each hand had some fingers missing. And yet he was taking money, writing out the receipts, handing out the change with such ease. There was a certain fludity in his movements, a certainity which masked the pain that he was undergoing.
Catching my eye, he flashed a bright smile. I got back to the task of picking out the bookmarks, a caught-in-the-act look on my face. As usual I was confused about which bookmark to pick. I just turned to consult my friend and oops...i knocked over the little plastic box that had been kept to accept donations. The "shortlisted" bookmarks fell out of my hand. Embarassed to the hilt, I set the box upright and said a sheepish "sorry" to the guy. He flashed the same bright smile at me. It was a perfectly normal accident. And yet somewhere deep down I felt that my sorry had other connotations. It was almost an apology for being clumsy with ten fingers intact on my hand. It was a tribute to his victory over his disability. And his smile was an indication of understanding and a graceful acceptance of the apology.
***
Saturday night...there I was at the annual day celebrations of a company, with my friends. Wide open grounds, flashing lights, milling crowds, decorated stage, food stalls (which obviously were the star attractions).
And then there were a set of blind kids who performed a group dance. It was so stunning. They arranged themselves into different formations. It was amazing how they found their partner's hand just at the correct beat and how all the interlinked hands went up in perfect synchronisation during the crescendo.
Everyone just sat dumbstruck till the host reminded the gathering that the children can just hear us and not see us !! And then there was a sudden uproar of claps through the audience.
The children were dressed in bright clothes and had flowers around their necks and wrists. The stage was lit with a combination of lights -red, blue, UV, strobes !!!
The audience were rapt in attention. The smiles were wide on their faces as they clapped not just for the performance but for the performers. But the children could not see all this. Their sole motivation were the sounds in the darkness. And yet it was one of the most spirited performances I have ever seen !!!
***
Catching my eye, he flashed a bright smile. I got back to the task of picking out the bookmarks, a caught-in-the-act look on my face. As usual I was confused about which bookmark to pick. I just turned to consult my friend and oops...i knocked over the little plastic box that had been kept to accept donations. The "shortlisted" bookmarks fell out of my hand. Embarassed to the hilt, I set the box upright and said a sheepish "sorry" to the guy. He flashed the same bright smile at me. It was a perfectly normal accident. And yet somewhere deep down I felt that my sorry had other connotations. It was almost an apology for being clumsy with ten fingers intact on my hand. It was a tribute to his victory over his disability. And his smile was an indication of understanding and a graceful acceptance of the apology.
***
Saturday night...there I was at the annual day celebrations of a company, with my friends. Wide open grounds, flashing lights, milling crowds, decorated stage, food stalls (which obviously were the star attractions).
And then there were a set of blind kids who performed a group dance. It was so stunning. They arranged themselves into different formations. It was amazing how they found their partner's hand just at the correct beat and how all the interlinked hands went up in perfect synchronisation during the crescendo.
Everyone just sat dumbstruck till the host reminded the gathering that the children can just hear us and not see us !! And then there was a sudden uproar of claps through the audience.
The children were dressed in bright clothes and had flowers around their necks and wrists. The stage was lit with a combination of lights -red, blue, UV, strobes !!!
The audience were rapt in attention. The smiles were wide on their faces as they clapped not just for the performance but for the performers. But the children could not see all this. Their sole motivation were the sounds in the darkness. And yet it was one of the most spirited performances I have ever seen !!!
***
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Return of the work-a-holy-ics anonymous
Rhyme of the ancient programmer...
When the room was dark
and there was no light
I had a nightmare
when?? oh just last night !!!
There was a noose around my neck
I was sitting in a chair
facing a cluttered screen
and everyone else was there
There were bugs crawling
with their limbs-fore and hind,
all over my body
and creeping into my mind !!!
I tried hitting a button
with relief i was about to slump
when the screen pronounced
the sentence "sys core dump" !!!
There were loadsa other buttons
I tried hitting them all
Nothing worked, nothing changed
and then...i got a call !!
Said the hoary voice
You are the one..
No one will help you
to save u will come none...!!!
The noose tightened
I was choking
I screamed and cried
yet everyone was working !!!
And then I found a note
'Users guide' it said
thousand lines of junk
in panic i read !!!
To come out of your dream
use Ctrl+Alt+Del
for this escape route
gladly my soul i wud sell !!!
And so just when my last breath
was holding onto a thread
I pressed the magic buttons
And all i saw was red !!!
cos on the screen were written
two words - maybe it was a curse
"Fatal Error" it said
and suddenly things were much worse !!!
And then i woke up screaming,
my heart twisted like a sickle
Maybe thats what happens dear pal..
after too much work in a cubicle !!!
When the room was dark
and there was no light
I had a nightmare
when?? oh just last night !!!
There was a noose around my neck
I was sitting in a chair
facing a cluttered screen
and everyone else was there
There were bugs crawling
with their limbs-fore and hind,
all over my body
and creeping into my mind !!!
I tried hitting a button
with relief i was about to slump
when the screen pronounced
the sentence "sys core dump" !!!
There were loadsa other buttons
I tried hitting them all
Nothing worked, nothing changed
and then...i got a call !!
Said the hoary voice
You are the one..
No one will help you
to save u will come none...!!!
The noose tightened
I was choking
I screamed and cried
yet everyone was working !!!
And then I found a note
'Users guide' it said
thousand lines of junk
in panic i read !!!
To come out of your dream
use Ctrl+Alt+Del
for this escape route
gladly my soul i wud sell !!!
And so just when my last breath
was holding onto a thread
I pressed the magic buttons
And all i saw was red !!!
cos on the screen were written
two words - maybe it was a curse
"Fatal Error" it said
and suddenly things were much worse !!!
And then i woke up screaming,
my heart twisted like a sickle
Maybe thats what happens dear pal..
after too much work in a cubicle !!!
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Potraits-I
Well...this is a new endeavour that has kind of wiggled its way into my imagination some time back !!!! what i want to do..is to pick out a picture and then build a story around the picture !!! maybe just a more voluntary and enjoyable form of the picture compositions that used to figure in the english question papers in school !! :)
so here goes...
Chocolat...
"Mom..look at that fisherman", a 7-year old finger pointed in the distance.
"Oh yes Ron...the sun has gone down. The fishermen take their boats and go out to the sea. They return in the morning with their catch", the doting mother explained.
"But papa goes to fish at the creek and never takes a boat. And he never goes at night..."
An amused smile of understanding.."Oh no son...Papa is not a fisherman !!! And this happens in India..not back home in Stratford at the creek".
Silence trying to fathom the difference between 'going fishing' and 'being a fisherman' !!
"Can i go look at him?" the eyes never left the fisherman.
"Oh well....but be careful honey"
The boy half-ran towards the boat, leaving behind 7-year old footprints in the sand.
The fisherman was arranging the net inside the boat, rough callused hands arranging the net in neat folds. He stood there, clad in only a loin cloth, completely oblivious to the round, saucer like eyes that watched every move of his. The eyes watched his hands as they lifted the oars in one sudden heave and deposited them into the boat. They watched the effort in the age-hardened eyes, the wrinkles on the face that cringed with pain, the beads of sweat which glistened on his skin.
The eyes watched the muscles as they strained against the skin, the face defiantly relaxed and calm. The last rays of the sun danced on his face. The eyes smiled gleefully at the sight - the blissful smile of 7-year old eyes.
The boat was ready for the evening's rendezvous with the sea. The net sat regally on its throne flanked by the oars. The sides were wiped clean of the sand and the occassional barnacle that clings onto them. The boy caught the fisherman's eye and he saw a flicker of energy and excitement in them. The boy smiled and the shrivelled beedi-blackened lips broke open into a smile in return - three pan stained teeth greeting 25 pearly whites. And then he turned. He was pushing the boat into the sea, the teeth grinding themselves into the defenseless gums.
The boy stood in silence looking at the fisherman. The dark skin seemed like chocolate...dark chocolate which seems sinful, hard and yet melts at the slightest hint of warmth. The beads of sweat were droplets of moisture when the cold chocolate is left out in the open..exposed, unprotected, vulnerable.Chocolat..they call it in a more exotic manner. And this was exotic for him. Every time the skin moved, it was the chocolate flowing down the stem of the spoon, in jerky movements which have a certain fluidity in them. He loved the color - deep, dark, having its secrets !!!
The boat was almost in the water. The fisherman waited for a wave to lift it out of the sand. And the sea obliged. The boat lifted off the ground with a sudden lurch and the tired muscles clambered into the boat triumphantly. The fisherman turned to look at the boy and waved at him.
The boy smiled and waved back. Chocolate always made him happy. He stood looking at the boat until it surrendered itself to the sea and turned into a speck on the horizon !! The chocolate melted away with the last rays of the sun and blended itself with the flow of the sea.
The boy turned back and retraced his steps...the bitter-sweet taste of chocolate in his 7-year-old mind !!!
so here goes...
Chocolat...
"Mom..look at that fisherman", a 7-year old finger pointed in the distance."Oh yes Ron...the sun has gone down. The fishermen take their boats and go out to the sea. They return in the morning with their catch", the doting mother explained.
"But papa goes to fish at the creek and never takes a boat. And he never goes at night..."
An amused smile of understanding.."Oh no son...Papa is not a fisherman !!! And this happens in India..not back home in Stratford at the creek".
Silence trying to fathom the difference between 'going fishing' and 'being a fisherman' !!
"Can i go look at him?" the eyes never left the fisherman.
"Oh well....but be careful honey"
The boy half-ran towards the boat, leaving behind 7-year old footprints in the sand.
The fisherman was arranging the net inside the boat, rough callused hands arranging the net in neat folds. He stood there, clad in only a loin cloth, completely oblivious to the round, saucer like eyes that watched every move of his. The eyes watched his hands as they lifted the oars in one sudden heave and deposited them into the boat. They watched the effort in the age-hardened eyes, the wrinkles on the face that cringed with pain, the beads of sweat which glistened on his skin.
The eyes watched the muscles as they strained against the skin, the face defiantly relaxed and calm. The last rays of the sun danced on his face. The eyes smiled gleefully at the sight - the blissful smile of 7-year old eyes.
The boat was ready for the evening's rendezvous with the sea. The net sat regally on its throne flanked by the oars. The sides were wiped clean of the sand and the occassional barnacle that clings onto them. The boy caught the fisherman's eye and he saw a flicker of energy and excitement in them. The boy smiled and the shrivelled beedi-blackened lips broke open into a smile in return - three pan stained teeth greeting 25 pearly whites. And then he turned. He was pushing the boat into the sea, the teeth grinding themselves into the defenseless gums.
The boy stood in silence looking at the fisherman. The dark skin seemed like chocolate...dark chocolate which seems sinful, hard and yet melts at the slightest hint of warmth. The beads of sweat were droplets of moisture when the cold chocolate is left out in the open..exposed, unprotected, vulnerable.Chocolat..they call it in a more exotic manner. And this was exotic for him. Every time the skin moved, it was the chocolate flowing down the stem of the spoon, in jerky movements which have a certain fluidity in them. He loved the color - deep, dark, having its secrets !!!
The boat was almost in the water. The fisherman waited for a wave to lift it out of the sand. And the sea obliged. The boat lifted off the ground with a sudden lurch and the tired muscles clambered into the boat triumphantly. The fisherman turned to look at the boy and waved at him.
The boy smiled and waved back. Chocolate always made him happy. He stood looking at the boat until it surrendered itself to the sea and turned into a speck on the horizon !! The chocolate melted away with the last rays of the sun and blended itself with the flow of the sea.
The boy turned back and retraced his steps...the bitter-sweet taste of chocolate in his 7-year-old mind !!!
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
'Booked' for the day...
Okay...so here is a tag that I will surely relish carrying out !!
Thanks Hems for this :)
And yeah...am goin to add a few categories of my own too :p :p
Books that I liked the most
This is like picking out the shiniest diamonds from a sack full of them !!!!
Tough call...but nevertheless...!!
1) Hitchhikers Guide to the galaxy -Douglas Adams
Absolutely Stunning - nothing in the world can beat this book !!!!
No words I use here can sum up what the book is all about...!!
So if you haven't read it...please rush to the nearest bookstore or surrender yourself to the 'Total Perspective Vortex' (oops...got a paradox here !!)
2) Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
Absolutely stunning !! Made me fall in love in Rushdie (fatwa and three wives notwithstanding). The book is a mosaic of emotions, magic and beautiful imagery woven into a story which makes you feel like a kid in a toy shop. Well..maybe on a more colourful note, the book is like a perfect cuppa coffee !! The taste lingers long after the story is over. But it is definitely not something one can finish over a cuppa coffee...!! Quite a heavy read...
3) Godfather - Mario Puzo
A book which I have read about 6 times...and can gladly read again !!!It gave me my obsession with Michael Corleono (and Al Pacino..thanks to the celluloid version). It gave me my fascination for Italy (Italians more specifically :p :p), bell peppers fried in olive oil....and anything remotely Italian.
The book made me a deal I just couldn't refuse :))
4) God of Small things - Arundhati Roy
Sheer poetry. Never before had the 'fountain and love-in-tokyos' on the head of a child seemed so beautiful. A book which I returned without reading just because "public opinion" had it that the book was "crude and filthy"; and picked up 4 years later only to fall in love with it. The innocence of childhood and complexities of adult life set against a beautiful backdrop.
5) To Kill a Mocking Bird - Lee Harper
Amazing book which I can read over and over again. The story is narrated from the perspective of a child, and before you know it you are transformed into a child again, running with a tyre down the road, climbing trees on a mid-summer afternoon.
And aside to the girls, you will definately fall in love with Atticus Finch...well...i did :) :p
6) The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho
What i love about the book is its simplicity. A short fable which teaches you what life is all about without thrusting down your throat obscure, abstract sayings and too-idealistic morsels of wisdom. Left quite a big impression :)
Authors i like
1) Salman Rushdie - Magical...absolutely magical !!!!Amen !!
2) Douglas Noel Adams - I worship this man !!! thats about all I can say !!! :)
3) O Henry - Just read three short stories of his...and have already started loving his style of writing. Makes you want to be a child again..and be presented his book on your birthday by the cheerful old uncle next door.
4) Enid Blyton - for having created a whole new world of picnics in the woods, solving mysteries during summer vacations and burly old policemen screamin 'Clear orf' :p :p
Unusual books that I liked
1) Siddhartha - well...cant really call it unusual !!! The only reason that I put it here is that I never thought I could enjoy such a deeply spiritual and philosophical book !! and I was stunned !!! A must read by everyone who feels restless about life in general...
Cartoons i like
1) Tintin - can swear by the 'blistering barnacles' and 'thundering typhoons' that its the best !!!
2) Asterix and Obelix - for the sheer creativity in naming the characters
3) Calvin and Hobbes - humour at its best !!!simply makes my day
4) Suppandi - how...i mean just about how can somebody be so dumb ??? ?!!!!
5) Archies - Ultimate timepass....:)
6) Dilbert - exclusively for people trapped in their cubicles !!! scott adams takes amazing digs at the "corporate culture" !! :))
Books that I want to read
1) 100 years of solitude
2) Love in the time of cholera
(have heard lots about these two books)
3) 1984
(after the impact that animal farm made...)
4) The Impressionist
5) English August
(have been wanting to read this since 6 years)
6) Shalimar the Clown
(for the sheer love of rushdie...)
Books that I have left halfway thru and want to complete
1) Satanic verses (for the sole reason that I cannot read this ebook for long stretches in office)
2) Lee Iacocca - autobiography
3) Tipping Point - Malcolm Gladwell
Currently reading..
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand leaves a long lasting impression on your mind !!!
Whew !! Thats about it all !!!!
Can think of loads of more categories...but can spare that for some other tag (hey..for those of u who know german..pun unintended :p :p)
I now pass on this tag to Sanat, (for donning the garb of a reviewer with hiddenmoon :) and Ojas, (in memory of all those books read in the Remote Sensing Lab of NIO :)
Thanks Hems for this :)
And yeah...am goin to add a few categories of my own too :p :p
Books that I liked the most
This is like picking out the shiniest diamonds from a sack full of them !!!!
Tough call...but nevertheless...!!
1) Hitchhikers Guide to the galaxy -Douglas Adams
Absolutely Stunning - nothing in the world can beat this book !!!!
No words I use here can sum up what the book is all about...!!
So if you haven't read it...please rush to the nearest bookstore or surrender yourself to the 'Total Perspective Vortex' (oops...got a paradox here !!)
2) Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
Absolutely stunning !! Made me fall in love in Rushdie (fatwa and three wives notwithstanding). The book is a mosaic of emotions, magic and beautiful imagery woven into a story which makes you feel like a kid in a toy shop. Well..maybe on a more colourful note, the book is like a perfect cuppa coffee !! The taste lingers long after the story is over. But it is definitely not something one can finish over a cuppa coffee...!! Quite a heavy read...
3) Godfather - Mario Puzo
A book which I have read about 6 times...and can gladly read again !!!It gave me my obsession with Michael Corleono (and Al Pacino..thanks to the celluloid version). It gave me my fascination for Italy (Italians more specifically :p :p), bell peppers fried in olive oil....and anything remotely Italian.
The book made me a deal I just couldn't refuse :))
4) God of Small things - Arundhati Roy
Sheer poetry. Never before had the 'fountain and love-in-tokyos' on the head of a child seemed so beautiful. A book which I returned without reading just because "public opinion" had it that the book was "crude and filthy"; and picked up 4 years later only to fall in love with it. The innocence of childhood and complexities of adult life set against a beautiful backdrop.
5) To Kill a Mocking Bird - Lee Harper
Amazing book which I can read over and over again. The story is narrated from the perspective of a child, and before you know it you are transformed into a child again, running with a tyre down the road, climbing trees on a mid-summer afternoon.
And aside to the girls, you will definately fall in love with Atticus Finch...well...i did :) :p
6) The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho
What i love about the book is its simplicity. A short fable which teaches you what life is all about without thrusting down your throat obscure, abstract sayings and too-idealistic morsels of wisdom. Left quite a big impression :)
Authors i like
1) Salman Rushdie - Magical...absolutely magical !!!!Amen !!
2) Douglas Noel Adams - I worship this man !!! thats about all I can say !!! :)
3) O Henry - Just read three short stories of his...and have already started loving his style of writing. Makes you want to be a child again..and be presented his book on your birthday by the cheerful old uncle next door.
4) Enid Blyton - for having created a whole new world of picnics in the woods, solving mysteries during summer vacations and burly old policemen screamin 'Clear orf' :p :p
Unusual books that I liked
1) Siddhartha - well...cant really call it unusual !!! The only reason that I put it here is that I never thought I could enjoy such a deeply spiritual and philosophical book !! and I was stunned !!! A must read by everyone who feels restless about life in general...
Cartoons i like
1) Tintin - can swear by the 'blistering barnacles' and 'thundering typhoons' that its the best !!!
2) Asterix and Obelix - for the sheer creativity in naming the characters
3) Calvin and Hobbes - humour at its best !!!simply makes my day
4) Suppandi - how...i mean just about how can somebody be so dumb ??? ?!!!!
5) Archies - Ultimate timepass....:)
6) Dilbert - exclusively for people trapped in their cubicles !!! scott adams takes amazing digs at the "corporate culture" !! :))
Books that I want to read
1) 100 years of solitude
2) Love in the time of cholera
(have heard lots about these two books)
3) 1984
(after the impact that animal farm made...)
4) The Impressionist
5) English August
(have been wanting to read this since 6 years)
6) Shalimar the Clown
(for the sheer love of rushdie...)
Books that I have left halfway thru and want to complete
1) Satanic verses (for the sole reason that I cannot read this ebook for long stretches in office)
2) Lee Iacocca - autobiography
3) Tipping Point - Malcolm Gladwell
Currently reading..
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand leaves a long lasting impression on your mind !!!
Whew !! Thats about it all !!!!
Can think of loads of more categories...but can spare that for some other tag (hey..for those of u who know german..pun unintended :p :p)
I now pass on this tag to Sanat, (for donning the garb of a reviewer with hiddenmoon :) and Ojas, (in memory of all those books read in the Remote Sensing Lab of NIO :)
Monday, December 05, 2005
Moodpic -II
Thoroughly STRESSED at the moment...
got a deadline this evening...
swamped with loads of work which makes no sense....
and yet have got time to spare to pick out a moodpic...:p :p
Friday, December 02, 2005
Moodpic-I
Just felt like postin a pic...which reflects my current mood !!!!
deep in thought and yet relaxed...
absolutely random...
scorching heat on bare cheeks...
a slender leg perfectly fitting into the narrow shadow of a pole...
crystal clear water glistening in a pool..
an unshed tear for everything that ever went wrong...
the feel of skin on a chequered blanket...
the feel of the bone crumbling to bits....
the steam rising out of a bucket of hot water...
the fragrance of shampoo entwined with the curls...
the smell of the creme on sunburnt skin...
the whispering of the breeze through the gap in the window...
the stillness of the fan rotating at the fastest speed...
the melody of the silence...
the soothing feeling of a wet towel wrapped around the neck...
the trembling of the door in the perfectly still night...
the surge of energy through the tired limbs...
the trickling of the last drop of water down the throat...
the soft glow of the laptop in the heart of the room...
the murky smell of yellowing pages in a second-hand paperback...
the goodnight whispered into the phlegmatic ears of a softtoy...
the dormant hug of a pillow with large flower prints...
Don't ask me why I have written this...!! As the title suggests...these are
purely random thoughts that just crept into my mind...!!! no connection...they
make no sense at all...and yet i feel a certain sense of poignancy in them !!
Amen !!
a slender leg perfectly fitting into the narrow shadow of a pole...
crystal clear water glistening in a pool..
an unshed tear for everything that ever went wrong...
the feel of skin on a chequered blanket...
the feel of the bone crumbling to bits....
the steam rising out of a bucket of hot water...
the fragrance of shampoo entwined with the curls...
the smell of the creme on sunburnt skin...
the whispering of the breeze through the gap in the window...
the stillness of the fan rotating at the fastest speed...
the melody of the silence...
the soothing feeling of a wet towel wrapped around the neck...
the trembling of the door in the perfectly still night...
the surge of energy through the tired limbs...
the trickling of the last drop of water down the throat...
the soft glow of the laptop in the heart of the room...
the murky smell of yellowing pages in a second-hand paperback...
the goodnight whispered into the phlegmatic ears of a softtoy...
the dormant hug of a pillow with large flower prints...
Don't ask me why I have written this...!! As the title suggests...these are
purely random thoughts that just crept into my mind...!!! no connection...they
make no sense at all...and yet i feel a certain sense of poignancy in them !!
Amen !!
Monday, November 28, 2005
Fiction..or fact ??
Disclaimers: All the characters are purely a figment of the author's imagination.
Any resemblance to any person or incident is coincidental !! :p :p
(scence 1: The intimation)
The official drummer could be heard miles away. He had a deep bass voice and beat the drums as though he were a washerman beating the grime out of a pair of unwashed denims.
"Hear Hear Hear....
Sir Walter is here
to face the beast
do not worry the least
for he is smart, he is cool
though he looks like a dorky fool
and lest he succeed in the quest
he shall be welcomed as the best
into the elite club of the brave
If not, may god bless his grave"
(scence 2: the departure)
The balconies thronged with people like buses in the metros of a far far away place called India. Young and old alike elbowed others around them in order to catch a glimpse of the hero. Young ladies scratched and bit their counterparts in the bid to pass on their silk hankies to the bloke. And he stood there, the knight in shining armour...armed to the teeth, not a chink in his armour !!!! He was prepared to face the beast. He had been preparing for a good four months...and now the hour of reckoning had arrived. There were prayers, there were tears...and fears too !! All blending to build a climax which would give a certain Karan Johar run for his money.
He started marching towards the lair of the beast. There were drumbeats accompanying his steps...oh hell..those were just his heartbeats !!!!
(scene 3: the lair of the beast)
He reached the lair of the beast. The beast was nowhere to be seen. His heartbeats had stirred up a warcry in him. He scanned the area. Thousands had tried before and thousands had failed...but he knew he would succeed...after all..he was the "one".
And then he saw the beast. It was hideous....!! His mouth gaped open as wide as the four lane highway in the kingdowm. He had heard from the ones who had tried before that the beast always changes form. But what he saw was what he hadnt imagined in his wildest dreams. He had conjured up a tail...but there were poisonous thorns. He had etched out a moustached smile...and there were ferocious fangs playin peekaboo from under contorted lips. He had heard a purr in his mind...but the beast roared.
The beast lay in wait...he had to make the first move.
(scene 4: the heat of the battle)
He went round the beast in his best battle stance - daringly defensive yet cautiously attacking. He tried to pick vulnerable points from which he could attack the beast !! But the beast was like the rock of gibraltar...some knights had even nicknamed it 'The Wall'. He jabbed at the beast from all directions, his lance moving faster with each move. Some wild shots ended up puncturing the air, pregnant with the tension and fervour. Others made small holes on the beast's hide - mere mosquito bites on an elephant's calloused heel !!
(scene 5: the climax)
Sweat trickled down onto his face. Time was ticking by. He hadn't much time to win the battle. He had tried all the tricks that the knight's school had taught him. The studied approach that the more eminent knights had recommended. The 'around the bush' strato that some mavericks had talked about. And yet the beast grew bigger by the moment, mutating into more hideous and ferocious forms. The beast was patient, just watching his struggle in an amused manner.
In a last ditch attempt, Sir Walter went berserk and started yelling, running around and jabbing at the beast with all the force that he could muster.
The beast was irked and it lunged at him. With one swipe of its paws, it yanked out the only muscle of his body which was loose at one end. The dismissal bell rang loud and clear
(scence 6: the aftermath)
Sir Walter returned to the kingdom - weary defeated and teary-eyed. The young ladies returned back to their rooms with a toss of their haugthy heads, to mourn the loss of yet another silk hanky. The old returned to their beds shaking their heads, muttering something about youth not learning from the past. The curious ones asked him what had transpired. The scribes were furiosly etching out onto their stone tablets. The analysts asked him how the beasts looked, hoping to make predictions and get yet more students into the knights school.
But he said nothing...!!!!! He just walked on to join the thousands who had tried to tame the beast and had failed.
(scence 7: 30 years later)
The epitaph on Sir Walter's grave reads
" Here lies the great Sir Walter
Who never but once did falter
He tried to bell the beast
And anticipated a huge feast
But he returned torn and lost
Having paid a heavy cost
And never spoke or sung
Cos the cat got his tongue"
Any resemblance to any person or incident is coincidental !! :p :p
(scence 1: The intimation)
The official drummer could be heard miles away. He had a deep bass voice and beat the drums as though he were a washerman beating the grime out of a pair of unwashed denims.
"Hear Hear Hear....
Sir Walter is here
to face the beast
do not worry the least
for he is smart, he is cool
though he looks like a dorky fool
and lest he succeed in the quest
he shall be welcomed as the best
into the elite club of the brave
If not, may god bless his grave"
(scence 2: the departure)
The balconies thronged with people like buses in the metros of a far far away place called India. Young and old alike elbowed others around them in order to catch a glimpse of the hero. Young ladies scratched and bit their counterparts in the bid to pass on their silk hankies to the bloke. And he stood there, the knight in shining armour...armed to the teeth, not a chink in his armour !!!! He was prepared to face the beast. He had been preparing for a good four months...and now the hour of reckoning had arrived. There were prayers, there were tears...and fears too !! All blending to build a climax which would give a certain Karan Johar run for his money.
He started marching towards the lair of the beast. There were drumbeats accompanying his steps...oh hell..those were just his heartbeats !!!!
(scene 3: the lair of the beast)
He reached the lair of the beast. The beast was nowhere to be seen. His heartbeats had stirred up a warcry in him. He scanned the area. Thousands had tried before and thousands had failed...but he knew he would succeed...after all..he was the "one".
And then he saw the beast. It was hideous....!! His mouth gaped open as wide as the four lane highway in the kingdowm. He had heard from the ones who had tried before that the beast always changes form. But what he saw was what he hadnt imagined in his wildest dreams. He had conjured up a tail...but there were poisonous thorns. He had etched out a moustached smile...and there were ferocious fangs playin peekaboo from under contorted lips. He had heard a purr in his mind...but the beast roared.
The beast lay in wait...he had to make the first move.
(scene 4: the heat of the battle)
He went round the beast in his best battle stance - daringly defensive yet cautiously attacking. He tried to pick vulnerable points from which he could attack the beast !! But the beast was like the rock of gibraltar...some knights had even nicknamed it 'The Wall'. He jabbed at the beast from all directions, his lance moving faster with each move. Some wild shots ended up puncturing the air, pregnant with the tension and fervour. Others made small holes on the beast's hide - mere mosquito bites on an elephant's calloused heel !!
(scene 5: the climax)
Sweat trickled down onto his face. Time was ticking by. He hadn't much time to win the battle. He had tried all the tricks that the knight's school had taught him. The studied approach that the more eminent knights had recommended. The 'around the bush' strato that some mavericks had talked about. And yet the beast grew bigger by the moment, mutating into more hideous and ferocious forms. The beast was patient, just watching his struggle in an amused manner.
In a last ditch attempt, Sir Walter went berserk and started yelling, running around and jabbing at the beast with all the force that he could muster.
The beast was irked and it lunged at him. With one swipe of its paws, it yanked out the only muscle of his body which was loose at one end. The dismissal bell rang loud and clear
(scence 6: the aftermath)
Sir Walter returned to the kingdom - weary defeated and teary-eyed. The young ladies returned back to their rooms with a toss of their haugthy heads, to mourn the loss of yet another silk hanky. The old returned to their beds shaking their heads, muttering something about youth not learning from the past. The curious ones asked him what had transpired. The scribes were furiosly etching out onto their stone tablets. The analysts asked him how the beasts looked, hoping to make predictions and get yet more students into the knights school.
But he said nothing...!!!!! He just walked on to join the thousands who had tried to tame the beast and had failed.
(scence 7: 30 years later)
The epitaph on Sir Walter's grave reads
" Here lies the great Sir Walter
Who never but once did falter
He tried to bell the beast
And anticipated a huge feast
But he returned torn and lost
Having paid a heavy cost
And never spoke or sung
Cos the cat got his tongue"
Monday, November 21, 2005
Spectrum of thoughts...
The cold wind stung his face as he stepped out of the building. A three-odd-day-old stubble was not protection enough from the ravenous cold that was biting everything in its path. He zipped up the sweatshirt, pulled his cap over his ears and continued walking down the road with his typical swagger. There was a slight drizzle. He looked up at the sky - the sun was defiantly holding onto the rays of light, surrounded ominously by murky grey clouds. They were fast closing in.
There wasn't a soul in sight as he turned round the corner. Drops of rain were trickling down through the small gap in his sweatshirt, washing away the grime of the day's work from his muscular back. Streaks of grey on a wheatish canvas. He ran his hand through his hair. The diamonds that had cosied themselves on the furry coat were perturbed. They whooshed down the forehead and pierced his eyes. He shook them away with an amused smile, his eyes glinting with the shine that they left behind in their wake.
The cliff lay just ahead of him. The glass blades that stood defiantly had now given in to the two pronged assualt by nature - the beads that the heavens perspired had pinned them down while the wind strangled them. He walked to the edge of the cliff.
There was a bright hunchback rainbow that lay on the horizon. The colours were still fresh. He could smell them - the heady smell that greets you in a new apartment. He peered into the vast expanse that lay between him and the horizon. His eyes were a darker shade of the sky. He shut his eyes - a premature end to the consummation between the light and the dark.
And yet he could see the rainbow. Bright - it almost spelled VIBGYOR, the behemoth of the science techer by its side making him repeat what each letter stood for.
The Violet was the embossed letters on his office door "Shyam Mehta - CEO" ,imposing and regal. The Indigo was the tie he had chosen at the Van Heusen outlet after much goading by his wife and a fine display of flattery by the salesman. The Blue was his eyes as he drove a hard bargain at the latest acquisition deal - intense, compelling and passionate. The green was the envy of the Sharmas in 101, Prestige Towers as they watched the latest addition to his fleet of cars rolling into the driveway - the bitter bile transforming into words spitting themselves out of contorted lips.
And oh, the yellow was the zardosi border on chiffon saree that had wormed its way from his wife's eyes to his credit card statement. The sheen was blinding him. He shut his eyes tighter. The orange danced in the crystal glass as his fingers curled around the stem. He didn't drink..not even socially. The red unfurled itself infront of his feet - pleading to be trod upon. He stepped ahead.
His eyes opened wide as he almost lost his balance. For a moment fear turned them into a panicky black. And then they were back to their usual icy blue.
He looked at his watch. It was 6 pm. He had to go back to the building. The party would have got over by now. There would still be some souls clinging onto the last shreds of the evening. He would take the 'tools' and get back to work. And then someone would walk across the room - the size 8 Lee Coopers leavin their muddy prints on the floor, which glistened more with his sweat than with the phenol. A stamp of disapproval on his work. And he would start afresh - mopping away the prints from the floor, occasionally bending down to remove the styrofoam cups that lay strewn around. Work was an infinite loop for him.
He turned back for one last view of the rainbow. The colours werent there. The zardosi saree and the tie had been shrouded by the carpet. The letters had been peeled away. The green had settled itelf onto the grass. And the orange had clambered onto the rays and the crystal had shattered into thousand shards, which split the rays into the beautiful illusion before him. The dream drained out of his eyes. He was walking away from the dream - but he would be back again.
There wasn't a soul in sight as he turned round the corner. Drops of rain were trickling down through the small gap in his sweatshirt, washing away the grime of the day's work from his muscular back. Streaks of grey on a wheatish canvas. He ran his hand through his hair. The diamonds that had cosied themselves on the furry coat were perturbed. They whooshed down the forehead and pierced his eyes. He shook them away with an amused smile, his eyes glinting with the shine that they left behind in their wake.
The cliff lay just ahead of him. The glass blades that stood defiantly had now given in to the two pronged assualt by nature - the beads that the heavens perspired had pinned them down while the wind strangled them. He walked to the edge of the cliff.
There was a bright hunchback rainbow that lay on the horizon. The colours were still fresh. He could smell them - the heady smell that greets you in a new apartment. He peered into the vast expanse that lay between him and the horizon. His eyes were a darker shade of the sky. He shut his eyes - a premature end to the consummation between the light and the dark.
And yet he could see the rainbow. Bright - it almost spelled VIBGYOR, the behemoth of the science techer by its side making him repeat what each letter stood for.
The Violet was the embossed letters on his office door "Shyam Mehta - CEO" ,imposing and regal. The Indigo was the tie he had chosen at the Van Heusen outlet after much goading by his wife and a fine display of flattery by the salesman. The Blue was his eyes as he drove a hard bargain at the latest acquisition deal - intense, compelling and passionate. The green was the envy of the Sharmas in 101, Prestige Towers as they watched the latest addition to his fleet of cars rolling into the driveway - the bitter bile transforming into words spitting themselves out of contorted lips.
And oh, the yellow was the zardosi border on chiffon saree that had wormed its way from his wife's eyes to his credit card statement. The sheen was blinding him. He shut his eyes tighter. The orange danced in the crystal glass as his fingers curled around the stem. He didn't drink..not even socially. The red unfurled itself infront of his feet - pleading to be trod upon. He stepped ahead.
His eyes opened wide as he almost lost his balance. For a moment fear turned them into a panicky black. And then they were back to their usual icy blue.
He looked at his watch. It was 6 pm. He had to go back to the building. The party would have got over by now. There would still be some souls clinging onto the last shreds of the evening. He would take the 'tools' and get back to work. And then someone would walk across the room - the size 8 Lee Coopers leavin their muddy prints on the floor, which glistened more with his sweat than with the phenol. A stamp of disapproval on his work. And he would start afresh - mopping away the prints from the floor, occasionally bending down to remove the styrofoam cups that lay strewn around. Work was an infinite loop for him.
He turned back for one last view of the rainbow. The colours werent there. The zardosi saree and the tie had been shrouded by the carpet. The letters had been peeled away. The green had settled itelf onto the grass. And the orange had clambered onto the rays and the crystal had shattered into thousand shards, which split the rays into the beautiful illusion before him. The dream drained out of his eyes. He was walking away from the dream - but he would be back again.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Tag-tix
Nithya has tagged me.....so here it is...
my attempt at crystalling my thoughts into seven points under captivating lil' headlines :))
Seven things I would like to do before I die...(wow...scary thot !!)
1. Start my own company..be my own boss
(did someone talk of cubicle-induced hallucinations ???:p)
3. Visit Sicily (The-Godfather-effect) and Florence and...well..a thousand more places
4. Write a book....or maybe a bit of journalism (sting operations anyone??? :p)
5. Do something which touches lives....(i dunno wat it is..but m shure will find it someday....guess m too confused at the moment)
6. Go on a backpacking tour all by myself to lonely places on the face of the earth (Any recruiters from Discovery or Nat Geo reading my blog???)
7. Make a bonfire by the beach...and sit alone with a cuppa coffee by the fire...watching the sun set !!!
Seven things I can do....ahem...can i write more ????
1. Read for hours and hours altogether without even hearing a word of what people around me are talking (spare me the textbooks though !!)
2. sketch designerwear-clad models with disproportionately long legs (no prizes for guessin who the designer is...)
3. talk non-stop on any topic...
4. argue with vague roundabout logics...until the other person is thoroughly confused or the argument gets ugly n i start cryin :D
5. cook (well...no quality assurance given...and NO...m not potrayin myself as a prospective bride :p :p)
6. eat 5 and 1/2 gulab jamuns in half a minute (dont ask me how i got to the exact figures :p )
7. list 6 things which i can do :))
Seven things I cannot do
1. Sit quiet for a long time
2. Stand in a queue
3. Take crap from people without retorting back
4. Eat curd (yuck...i tried honestttlllyy !!)
5. Stop eating nonveg (i tried this tooooo !!)
6. Go on a diet (reality "bites")
7. Sit in a cubicle the whole day and debug chunks of code....(yeah yeah...i know wat m sayin....but as i said reality "bytes")
Seven things i say the most
1. macchan...
2. goddamn/bloody (its a close call)
3. what the...(i stop at that !!)
4. as in...
5. No da (my every sentence starts with that :D)
6. shit man...shit ya
7. abbee yaar....
Seven things that attract u to opposite sex...laws of attraction huh ??? :p :p
1. Wit and Sense of humor
2. Sarcasm (chandler bing rocks)
3. i-dont-give-a-damn-attitude (a la Rhett Butler)
4. Ability to converse
5. Expressive eyes
6. Lopsided smiles (shucks...m movin to the candy-floss domain....retreat !!!) :p
7. Chivalry...at times...
Seven Celebrity Crushes
1. Rhett Butler (havent seen the movie..this one is from the book)
2. Al Pacino (as Michael Corleone)
3. Richard Gere
4. Irfan Pathan (the latest addition :D)
5. Pierce Brosnan
6. Roger Federer
7. Nagesh Kukkonoor
(hmmm.....there is still strong urge to add more....but lemme just play by the rules...)
..so Amen...I rest my case !!
oh yeah....i have to pass it on...so here goes...
Hema...the lady at the sea...who loves the little joys that life offers and Damak....the "hyd and seek" guy...and mind u damak...u cannot put an "additional info required" tag on this one :p :p !!!!
my attempt at crystalling my thoughts into seven points under captivating lil' headlines :))
Seven things I would like to do before I die...(wow...scary thot !!)
1. Start my own company..be my own boss
(did someone talk of cubicle-induced hallucinations ???:p)
3. Visit Sicily (The-Godfather-effect) and Florence and...well..a thousand more places
4. Write a book....or maybe a bit of journalism (sting operations anyone??? :p)
5. Do something which touches lives....(i dunno wat it is..but m shure will find it someday....guess m too confused at the moment)
6. Go on a backpacking tour all by myself to lonely places on the face of the earth (Any recruiters from Discovery or Nat Geo reading my blog???)
7. Make a bonfire by the beach...and sit alone with a cuppa coffee by the fire...watching the sun set !!!
Seven things I can do....ahem...can i write more ????
1. Read for hours and hours altogether without even hearing a word of what people around me are talking (spare me the textbooks though !!)
2. sketch designerwear-clad models with disproportionately long legs (no prizes for guessin who the designer is...)
3. talk non-stop on any topic...
4. argue with vague roundabout logics...until the other person is thoroughly confused or the argument gets ugly n i start cryin :D
5. cook (well...no quality assurance given...and NO...m not potrayin myself as a prospective bride :p :p)
6. eat 5 and 1/2 gulab jamuns in half a minute (dont ask me how i got to the exact figures :p )
7. list 6 things which i can do :))
Seven things I cannot do
1. Sit quiet for a long time
2. Stand in a queue
3. Take crap from people without retorting back
4. Eat curd (yuck...i tried honestttlllyy !!)
5. Stop eating nonveg (i tried this tooooo !!)
6. Go on a diet (reality "bites")
7. Sit in a cubicle the whole day and debug chunks of code....(yeah yeah...i know wat m sayin....but as i said reality "bytes")
Seven things i say the most
1. macchan...
2. goddamn/bloody (its a close call)
3. what the...(i stop at that !!)
4. as in...
5. No da (my every sentence starts with that :D)
6. shit man...shit ya
7. abbee yaar....
Seven things that attract u to opposite sex...laws of attraction huh ??? :p :p
1. Wit and Sense of humor
2. Sarcasm (chandler bing rocks)
3. i-dont-give-a-damn-attitude (a la Rhett Butler)
4. Ability to converse
5. Expressive eyes
6. Lopsided smiles (shucks...m movin to the candy-floss domain....retreat !!!) :p
7. Chivalry...at times...
Seven Celebrity Crushes
1. Rhett Butler (havent seen the movie..this one is from the book)
2. Al Pacino (as Michael Corleone)
3. Richard Gere
4. Irfan Pathan (the latest addition :D)
5. Pierce Brosnan
6. Roger Federer
7. Nagesh Kukkonoor
(hmmm.....there is still strong urge to add more....but lemme just play by the rules...)
..so Amen...I rest my case !!
oh yeah....i have to pass it on...so here goes...
Hema...the lady at the sea...who loves the little joys that life offers and Damak....the "hyd and seek" guy...and mind u damak...u cannot put an "additional info required" tag on this one :p :p !!!!
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