Miscellaneous

Slender Fingers and a Shaving Blade

2011-12-24T04:46:00.000+05:30

Holdinga pen and jotting down the words

maybethe most divine thing

thatslender fingers can do.

Oris it the strumming of a guitar?

But,sometimes they fail in doing

amundane task as holding

aweightless ordinary shaving blade...

And,cut the bulging vien.

One more attempt in fiction

2011-12-11T05:28:00.001+05:30

Full of possibilities....

Uncouth

Hewas literate according to the official statistics because he couldwrite his name in his mother tongue and even in English using Capitalletters. This was a thing to be proud of when you know that there aremillions around you who used thumb impression wherever theirsignature was required. And, he took small pride in it. Economicallytoo he had brought his immediate family a few notches higher than thepeople of his group, sending his three children to school andcollege, earning and investing in enough so that the children wouldinherit his legacy in equal proportion without any major disputes.His calculations for life and thereafter would have made anyChartered Accountant unashamedly become his disciple.

The Sense of an Ending

2011-11-22T08:06:00.001+05:30

When you finish reading some books, they leave you depressed as if you went to drop a dear friend to the railway station still you feel that the train left before you'd say a proper goodbye. This is the same feeling you get when you finish reading The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes that has won the prestigious Booker Prize this year.

I'm not the person to discuss the literary merits or demerits of this deceptively thin book (about 150 pages only), as I'm not an avid reader (I feel lucky if I complete 5 books in a year), or comment on the controversy on whether it can be called a Novel or just a Novella. Seeing the size of the book I'd promised myself to finish reading it in a sitting taking 6 to 7 hours. But, it took me some 15 to 20 hours over a weekend with couple of meals and toilet breaks. And, I even had a couple of false starts when I stopped reading after the first 15 pages (I'd feared that the jinx of leaving the book incomplete with the bookmark intact had returned), before the lucky weekend.

This book mainly deals with memory. It shows how we mix it up with imagination to make our own history as years go by to make it comfortable for us to live with. And, how devastating it can be when the reality of the past confronts us breaking the spell of our imagined history.

The reason I told it is deceptively thin is because it isn't simple as its size may make you believe and if you are the kind of reader who likes to go over a passage a few times just to savour its feel or beauty may fail in the race against time. Here is one example appearing (about the passage of time) on the first page itself:

Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time's malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing – until the eventual point when it really does go missing, never to return.

There are such nuggets virtually on every page that would stop and make you ponder for a while.

When I finished reading it, it just left me wishing that it was written a few years earlier. So, I could have avoided making a few mistakes that have remained with me as hurtful memories.

A couple of interesting and varied reviews here and here.

House of Cards

2011-11-06T04:43:00.000+05:30

Lifeis always on I'll teach you a lesson son!gear, especially when you are feeling least vulnerable or feel alittle high on confidence about tackling a situation (because you'vebeen through similar things before and got out nearly undamaged inthe past). It isn't about a warlike scenario or some extraordinarycircumstances that I'm talking about, sometimes even going throughyour daily functions when you are at peace with yourself leave alonecheerful (oblivious of the fact that something may go wrong). This isthe time it strikes; a bolt from the blue ( as the cliché goes),virtually pushing you to the brink.

Youmay have put a lifetime to train your mind to tackle such situationssmoothly. But,at that moment everything seems to be falling apartlike a House of Cards. Your faith, your belief just evaporate.

Eventuallyyou survive, regroup, maybe a little bruised, maybe scarred. Because,you are programmed for self-preservation and to cheerfully continuethe charade.

Kaleidoscope

2011-10-31T02:41:00.000+05:30

I found this passage in a longdiscarded story of mine (obviously because I found too much of me init). This is also a tribute to one of first friends I made throughblogs. His blog was titled Kaleidoscope, he has deleted his blog (forreasons that I cannot fathom), but, still he remains being one of mybest friends and guide (as far as writing goes).

Hey friend, hope you revive yourwriting soon by whichever name you like.

Kaleidoscope is the word thatreverberated in her head whenever she was with Rajan. It was not thatshe was good with allegories. For her everything was divided intotwo: Right-Wrong, Good-Bad, Like-Don’t Like or Love-Hate. Only ahyphen could fit in between and nothing else. Rajan was someone whorose above the two clearly divided portions of her mind. As akaleidoscope was filled with broken pieces of glass, but would showcolourful and vibrant images with a smooth jingle whichever way itturned, same way Rajan even with his deformed limbs and contortedface gave a sense of perfection and serenity to the world around him.The vibrancy he exuded was infectious, so was his humour.

The Ghost Writer

2011-10-24T06:58:00.000+05:30

We may never judge a book by its cover because it is nailed into our heads even before we begin to learn the nursery rhymes. But, what happens when you have seen the film based on a book and that too a gripping one? You go to the book expecting to be in line with the film, maybe little clearer and the characters etched with more depth and empathy; that is all. No, not at all! You be ready to be surprised and even shocked as the book takes a totally different trajectory or to another realm.

This was the feeling I'd while reading The Ghost Writer (the American imprint of The Ghost as published in the UK) by Robert Harris, which is adapted into a film by Roman Polanski.

The story is political thriller where a nameless London based ghost writer (the book is narrated in first person by the writer himself without ever letting out his real name), who is called into to finish the work on the memoirs of the former Prime Minister Adam Lang (a character said be based on Tony Blair), when the man working on them is found dead just a month before the deadline for submitting the manuscript to the publishers. So, the Ghost heads to the USA to be with Adam Lang and his team holed up in Martha's Vineyard in Massachusetts, the summer holiday home of the rich publisher Martin S. Rhinehart to finish the book. Obviously, the sailing isn't smooth as the Ghost had expected. First, the manuscript he has been given to work with is bland and needs overhauling. Second, Lang is very reluctant to open up about is youth and his years in Cambridge, and, there is discrepancy in what Lang says about his entry into politics and the actual version as the Writer finds out through his research. There is more to come in terms of thriller and conspiracy theory.

The film starring Pierce Brosnan as Adam Lang and Ewan McGregor in the title role is loyal to the book as far as the thriller part of the story.

But, what I loved about the book is the fact that at least half of it is a writer's manual, a ghost writer's manual to be precise without the dreaded 'Do it yourself' exercise with the process of writing dealt with in detail; from drawing the Contract to how to present yourself in front of your subject. Everyone of the seventeen chapters begins with a quote from Andrew Crofts' seminal book titled Ghostwriting thereby giving direction about how the story will move in the said chapter.

Couple of interesting passages from the book:

All good books are different but all bad books are exactly the same.

Of all human activities, writing is the one for which it is easiest to find excuses not to begin – the desk's too big, the desk's too small, there is too much noise, there is too much quiet, it's too hot, too cold, too early, too late. I had learned over the years to ignore them all, and simply start.

A book unwritten is a delightful universe of infinite possibilities. Set down one word, however, and immediately it becomes earthbound. Set down one sentence and it's halfway to being just like every other bloody book that's ever been written. But the best must never be allowed to drive out the good. In the absence of genius there is always craftmanship. One can at least try to write something which will arrest the reader's attention – which will encourage them, after reading the first paragraph, to take a look at the second, and then the third.This in no way means that this book is very high funda or technical; it can be enjoyed by anyone who is interested in listening to a good story.

PS. Searching for this book was an experience in itself. It was last year in Bengaluru; I went into an upmarket book-store and asked for this book. At least half a dozen of sale-people converged around me and virtually emptied the whole of the 'Horror' section on my lap. Ma and my sister-in-law had a hard time explaining to them that I wasn't interested in horror stories but just wanted a novel titled The Ghost written by Robert Harris. In the end, they themselves had to dig it out from somewhere for me.

A Day When Jagjit Singh Did Playback For Me

2011-10-12T06:06:00.000+05:30

We often feel exasperated when a writer or a filmmaker overly depends on coincidences to move his story forward thinking how lazy of him to use a 'beaten to death' cliché rather than working out something natural or new. But, if we see minutely; the one who has written our lives is the laziest of them all, he uses coincidences that go on to become cliché when used by us in fiction. Here is one such incident:

Long back when I wasn't this bald and my beard was black pepper without even a crystal of salt in it. I was sitting here reading and waiting for my dinner to come. The cassette-player was soulfully playing Seher, the latest addition in my Jagjit Singh Collection.

But, before the dinner, she came that too with a red rose in her hand; “don't get any ideas in your head, this may be the last birthday I'm here to wish you in person. So, felt odd coming empty handed”, she said, handing me the rose. I held it near my nose as Dilip Kumar of Mughal-E-Azam.

At that precise moment Jagjit Singh started singing Tere Aane Ki Jab Khabar Mahke/Teri Kushboo se Sara Ghar Mahke (When the news of your arrival wafts through the air/My whole house becomes fragrant with your scent).

I started to lip-synch him as if I was Naseeruddin Shah. After a few moments she just said trying to keep a straight face; “please save your singing and acting skills for the time when you have a real girlfriend”.

PS. Here are two old posts about Jagjit Singh.

A Fruitful Day

2011-10-08T01:50:00.000+05:30

Yesterday (05/10/2011) for me began on a low note (not the typical 'mood swing' kind of low, but the 'end of the road' kind of low). One good thing about such days is that you tend to love whatever that can keep your mind occupied. So, these kind of days do have a positive side to them, you begin to feel the importance of the things that you'd push away on a normal day.

For me, I reduced the heap of newspapers on my table by at least 250 grams (the pile of newspapers on my keeps increasing unless I mark them as 'Read'). Reread the first fifty of a best-seller that I am intending to finish for a long while now. And, at the end, watched Whose Life Is It Anyway?. It may not feel the right kind of film to see when you are low. But, let me assure you that it can be an uplifting experience if your perspective is right.

I had started this post on the morning of 06/10/11 to mark the Vidyāraṃbhaṃ, but couldn't complete it as other mundane things got priority over writing a blog post.

The Diary – A Short Story

2011-09-25T21:06:00.000+05:30

As I'd said here, I'm posting the short story The Diary below:

The Diary

Today is our thirteenth wedding anniversary. The thought left me numb the whole day, making me physically and mentally inert. I kept wondering whether she remembered or had forgotten, leading a blissful life with her new husband. Though it didn’t hurt as it did a couple of years ago; I had never imagined that we’d end up like this.

The unscheduled call from Priya was reassuring, as usual she just asked: “How are you Appa?” Her speech was so clear that I couldn’t imagine her face while listening to her. Maybe, I felt like that because her mother had remembered that it was an important day in our lives, which made me very happy. Even otherwise, I always look for improvements in Priya, however small they are.

The memory of Nirmala Auntie’s sullen face is still vivid in my mind. She had insisted that we both go to her clinic to discuss the ultra-sound scan report. She began with the history, saying that she was only a glorified midwife at the time of my birth some thirty years ago; just prescribing iron and calcium supplements for pregnant women. “The times have changed, now we depend on these things to decide the fate of a life even before it begins to exist as such,” she was saying looking into the report. I felt that she wished to change its content by the intensity of her gaze; “I think we should terminate this pregnancy -,” she was saying this while looking at the blank wall behind us. I couldn't gauge the seriousness of the statement at that moment but the shrillness in the response to her utterance from my wife surprised me. A simple “What is wrong...?” had a shattering effect. I always thought that she was the most pragmatic woman one could find on the face of earth. Nothing could move or shake her. For her everything had to have a logic and rationale. You'd learn to see the things happening around you with a clear perspective that is not effected by your emotions was her constant refrain.

Afterwards, whatever went on in Nirmala Auntie's cabin had a dreamlike quality for me. I couldn't register their conversation though I'd see their lips moving and their faces taking odd shapes as they spoke. Though, some words like chromosomal defect, Down's syndrome, mentally retarded and abnormal stuck in my head. “I wish to have this   baby.” “You see, it is not the nine months of pregnancy but the time after the baby is born; the struggle will begin then and it won't end soon. It will be lifelong. Anyway, both of you discuss this – we've got some time. It is up to both of you to decide.” Those were Nirmala Auntie's final words before we left her that day. We had not known that there was something called pre-natal detection of deformity in the foetus. Our impression was just that this fancy gadget was to know the gender of the baby before it is born (which is legally banned as leads to female foeticide). But, the modern day gynaecologists insisted on using this fancy gadget at least three or four times during the pregnancy saying that it was just to insure that everything was normal with the baby. And, above all it is an expensive affair.

I waited for a couple of days for her to initiate discussion on the topic. But, she’d become unduly silent after coming back from the clinic and even had extended her leave from work, which happened very rarely. Sometimes I felt like giving her a jolt just to bring her back into this world. At last I broached the topic asking her when we will go in for abortion. I just got a look in response that ordered me to stop. But I persisted; making a case out of whatever scratchy memory I had of Nirmala Auntie’s talk. I was prepared for a full blown argument and had the conviction that by the end she would see the practical side of it and turn around. But, I think I'd misjudged the maternal instinct in her as the only response I got was a grunt or a 'hmm'. “Everything will work out, we've to make it work”, was the lengthiest reply from her. My patience had started to wear off. I was feeling agitated in spite of myself and blurted out; “these kids look cute on TV and their stories make Reader's Digest worth reading”. But, what proved to be the final nail in the coffin of our relationship was my question; “How can we love an abnormal baby?” I never thought it was a harsh or inhuman question as it was made out to be. I had just voiced a practical concern. Still, it drew us apart.

It was utter disbelief and shock for me; I'd expected same kind of approach from her. Anyone knowing her well would have thought that she will go for abortion. She always claimed that she cannot be an irrational sentimental fool that guys like me expected her to be while I was chasing her while doing my MBA. She was my senior by a few semesters. As a single child bought up with lot of aspirations – parental as well as her own. She hardly had any friends out of the campus, knowing her life outside. Initially, I was interested only in casual flirting. But, her repulsive attitude intensified my desire to know her. Again, it took me lot of effort to take the relationship to the next level; there were always conditions; I shouldn't be childish, there was nothing called love whatever I was feeling was just a brief fascination and it shouldn't hamper our studies as our parents had invested their hard earned money for our future. And, unlike me she could stay aloof or distant she desired as if she had nothing for me. It used to make me insecure that she may not have anything for me. But, it didn't matter to her a bit; 'take it or leave it' was her only consolation. So, the onus was on me.

A few months before her final exams I gathered the courage to propose to her and made her read the last paragraph of Vikram Chandra's Commonwealth Award winning book Love and Longing in Bombay:    I might ask her to marry me. If we search together, I think, we may find in Andheri, in Colaba, in Bhuleshwar, perhaps not heaven, or its opposite, but only life itself. She just ruffled my hair in what I believed was a show of affection and told that we'd wait and see what life has got for us outside the campus.

    And, to put it simply as they say in the most abused cliché that 'the rest is history'.

People advise me to move on, to search for a new life-partner as if my heart is a moss infected water tank that can be cleaned with bleaching powder and filled with fresh water. Maybe, I'll be able to do it in future (as I've started writing this nearly after nine years. Had stopped it on the day we went to meet Nirmala Auntie to discuss the first scan report). But, as of now I don't feel fully detached from Priya and her. Though, I can smile without a reason when I wake up in the morning as I used to do before. The guilt has virtually subsided and I've got semblance of a balance and as of now that is the best I can do as far as moving on is concerned.

*********

This story was attempted as an exercise for Kochi Writers' Club, an informal gathering of friends with aspirations to write in English, in this exercise we had to use a passage of literature and I opted for the last lines of Love and Longing in Bombay by Vikram Chandra.

PS. A few posts I'd written about pre-natal detection of disability and other such things here, here and here.

Walking in the rain (figuratively)

2011-09-21T07:58:00.001+05:30

The incessant rains in mid-September is a strange phenomenon, especially these days when a drizzle for a few minutes in June-July at the peak of monsoon season is considered lucky. I've no problem with rains as such (the romantic notions don't work for me though), but I tend to feel physically weak when it rains.

    A few days back I and pa went for a movie in the renovated Sui Theatre rechristened as EVM Cinema that is hardly ten minutes walk from home. We reached there comfortably at 8.30 PM walking (me pushed on the wheelchair) for the Nine o’clock show. The fun started when the show got over. When we got down to the wheelchair, the crowd hadn't moved, everyone was standing in shelter. It didn't long to realise that it was raining. After a couple of minutes pa ventured out with a hanky on his head to find an auto-rickshaw with a carrier on the top to put the wheelchair and returned empty handed (our side of city goes to sleep around 10 PM) after ten minutes. He said; 'we better start walking Beta, hope you don't mind braving a little rain'. He was concerned about my deadline of next morning to submit the review.

    It wasn't pouring but it was surely more than a drizzle. Our clothes wet within no time. We had a bunch of boys walking ahead of us for company (normally it is a few mongrels who accompany us on such jaunts, today they had vanished maybe because they hated getting free bath).

    The showers had virtually stopped when we had covered almost eighty percent of the distance; 'God was just testing us', pa uttered. 'And, given me something to write about'. I replied.

    Even three years ago I'd have sneezed and shivered my way to bed if I got this wet in rains. Which means I have got physically stronger or is it that my mind has stopped caring about what happens to me externally?

PS. One advantage of being a wannabe writer is that whether you are depressed or ecstatic, the observer in you is calmly thinking 'how do I convert this experience into words?'

PPS. While preparing this post a quote fell into my lap courtesy A Word A Day:

A writer -- and, I believe, generally all persons -- must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art. -Jorge Luis Borges, writer (1899-1986)

News

2011-09-18T01:41:00.000+05:30

One of my short stories The Diary has appeared in the Jul-Sep 2011 issue of Success & Ability.

I had put up a Teaser of that story here.

Some of my friends and dear ones have been gracious enough to have read it in the raw form. The rest of you wishing to be tortured watch this space as I may put it here in the near future or better subscribe S & A because I contribute in it on and off. Hehehe...

A big thanks to the Ability Team for being the first to publish my work of fiction.

Belief

2011-09-07T14:07:00.001+05:30

Do I live by man-made dogma;

And, seek heaven Afterlife?

Or, be happy here and now

With mybelief

That youonly know love

And nopunishment.

Does this make you curious?

2011-08-27T05:49:00.002+05:30

The beginning, middle, end or whatever…

The Noose

If she had imagined in her mind's eye how grotesque she looked hanging dead from the ceiling, she may have backed out of the idea of killing herself like that. But, obviously the pain or whatever it was must have been so overbearing in that moment to faze every other thought or vision out into some deeper recess of her brain. I wasn't feeling sad enough or even perplexed by her action. I was experiencing a sense of deja vu, as if I'd seen it coming. A strange kind of calmness had enveloped me, about which I'd have argued with her for hours if she had made a prophecy about it as my reaction to her death.

I’d written the above passage after reading how Ian McEwan starts to write something new:

Sometimes I experimentally write out a first paragraph – or middle paragraph, even – of a novel which I feel no obligation to write. Those kind of dabblings I always set down in a green, ring-bound A4 notebook. It’s full of paragraphs from novels I will never complete, or hardly start. But sooner or later, one of those paragraphs will snag my attention, and I’ll come back to it asking: why does that interest me so much, why does that seem to offer a peculiar kind of mental freedom? And so I might find myself adding a page or two. It was with a complete free hand, for example, that I once wrote what turned out to be the opening of Atonement – with no clear sense that I was committed to anything at all, I was just playing with narrative positions, with tone of voice, with a certain descriptive moment. Or I might decide that what I’ve written belongs to the middle of a novel, and then I’ll spend some idle time tracing out a beginning. Then abandoning it. It’s a way of tricking myself into writing novels.

Here is the full interview.

I’d this image of a female hanging dead from the ceiling in mind for a few days when I was thinking of writing something new. Without really having a clue how to convey it or even the story behind it. The first line came in two-three days. And, it took a few more days (with my legendary typing speed and lethargy) to add words to make into a paragraph.

Numb but not down

2011-08-22T03:08:00.004+05:30

Sometimes you think you have given your best and sit expectantly with excitement rumbling in your tummy that good times are just round the corner. Then slowly it dawns on you that you have turned the corner and nothing much has changed so your best wasn't good enough to change things.

I'm going through a similar situation now, where my energy is sapped and nothing new is happening. I spend time watching films and games and even religiously read newspapers (which I’d stopped doing for a while now). But, surprisingly it hasn't effected me in negative way, I don't feel low, life is going on as normal (I can talk, smile and laugh effortlessly); this would have been unimaginable a few years ago. I'd have become silent, mulling over what would have gone wrong. Maybe, I have stopped caring or I’ve realised that there is something beyond my effort that guides the result of things.

I'm a political fence-sitter, never sure whether my thought process is right or wrong. Initially I wished to write about Anna Hazare's hunger strike. But as it enters the seventh day I’m confused and doubtful about where it is heading. Somehow, I feel that it is hijacked by TV channels that are pulling it to the extremes from both sides. One seeing it as the beginning of a corruption-less utopia and other as it is holding the democracy on ransom. I don't naively believe that every problem can be solved just by casting a vote once in five years. And, I even know that being corrupt has seeped into our bloodstream because being corrupt is convenient and bribing is equivalent to paying tips in a restaurant as we wish everything should be hassle-free, be it renewing our driving licences or getting a gas cylinder. I just hope something positive comes out of this churning.

Now a song from the film Aarakshan. I always thought Prasoon Joshi to be the true inheritor of Gulzar's legacy as a lyricist. This song seems to be the final stamp of that fact:

Finally, the new TV commercial of Airtel mobile Har Ek Friend Zaroori Hota Hai I got hooked to while channel surfing a couple of days back.

While searching for behind the scenes people for this ad I got back to Rashmi Bansal's blog Youth Curry. I don't exactly remember when and how it got pushed out of my browsing list.

PS. This post was just an exercise to flex my writerly muscles. So, please bear if you feel cohesiveness has flown out of the proverbial window.

Paanch – not a formal review

2011-07-29T07:59:00.000+05:30

Read it here.

Goodbye the Old, Welcome the New

2011-07-23T05:56:00.004+05:30

Recently I crossed the 38^th year on the earth and stepped into the 39^th. At that point, there wasn’t much excitement as the saying goes it was just another day, except for the fact that I got the biggest gift of my life; a brand new laptop:

The old one had served me for nearly six hassle-free years, which were the most fruitful and adventurous as things I couldn’t have imagined in wildest dreams happened. So, I’d feared it would be difficult for me to part with it. But, thankfully sentimentalism hasn’t dealt with me badly and I’ve started using the new one with a vengeance.

Though I may have reached the threshold of the 40s I still feel there is still the short pant wearing child thinking: Someday I’ll grow up and be independent.

A teenager who thinks: Someday I’ll write beautifully and be less lonely and miserable.

And, there is even a person much mature beyond my age just observing things go by with equanimity.

Me happy, as of now juggling the three (or are there more? No idea) inside.

(The snap of the old laptop below was taken by friend Raju).

Mundane captures

2011-07-12T06:48:00.006+05:30

Riyaz waiting to take me to work

Ma keeping my lunch bag braving the rain

Clicking the rains

2011-06-28T07:29:00.002+05:30

Grass is always greener on the other side this saying can't be truer for anyone other than me. Much before I trained my mind to be a writer I had wished to be an artist or a cartoonist (beside a cricketer, tennis player etc.), I was amazed by people who effortlessly created images or drawings on paper and thought it was easy. And, my Ma being what she is, always provided enough crayons, sketch pens, water colours and books. She even drew outlines of flowers, animals, birds and human forms for me to paint in. but, slowly I realised that my crooked limbs weren't taking me anywhere, those hobbies got shelved.

I'd the same feeling for photography, it looked so easy (especially when I struggled with words and took strain to write), .just hold the camera and click. But, it was out of bounds for me as it was an expensive hobby, so, even if I got to see through the viewfinder sometimes, the privilege came with strict warning 'don't touch anywhere, the film will go waste'.

As the digital age began to democratise photography, my wish to be a chhota Raghu Rai took wings, seeing my friends easily using 'point & click' cameras. Still, I was very sceptical to try it as I thought the excitement would wear off once the physical effort became daunting, yet the slimy little 'should try it' worm kept crawling inside and here I am making an effort.

These are few snaps of rains taken in the last few days:

This collection happened with the encouragement of two proficient photographer friends Harish and MD.

Moments before the Twilight

2011-06-08T06:51:00.003+05:30

Today (Tuesday, 7th June), the sun shone in its full glory in the Kochi skies after being hidden behind the monsoon clouds for nearly a fortnight. Though I like rains I associate it more with the havoc it wrecks in Pather Panchali than the romance depicted in other films, as it always adversely effects my health and makes me gloomy in a way.

After returning from the office in the evening I found the sunlight still filtering through the foliage and I tried to capture it for posterity. The frames are tilted and some seem to be out of focus that is because my limbs and fingers (and most of my other body parts, hehehe) have a mind of their own and most of the times refuse to take orders from my brain.

This thing (photography) leaves a taste of dissatisfaction on the one hand (as I can't achieve the desired perfection) and thrills on the other as it was something on the long 'Paresh can't do' list till a few months back.

At Sea

2011-05-22T13:00:00.004+05:30

After a long while I went to the beach with my two siblings, sister-in-law and three nephews last week. As usual, my strong brother Manish carried me on his shoulder in the silvery sands and put me in the wheelchair at a safe distance. Then they all went to play in the greyish-blue seawater. And, I tried to click a few photographs with a red digital camera hanging from my neck. Here are a few examples:

Choked

2011-05-10T02:23:00.003+05:30

Heart choked

Not letting any air pass through

Eyes stoned

Not letting out even a tear-drop

Sweat welling up around every pore of the body

Waiting for the soul to let out a cry

Imperfect Frames

2011-04-27T07:37:00.010+05:30

Last week coconut palm climber (in this part of the world there are professionals traditionally qualified persons to climb and pluck the coconut. They visit every home having the palm(s) and do the job for a price) had come to our place. Ma requested him to cut a part of jack-fruit tree threatening the tiled roof of the house. It was a holiday for me and as always she took me out to see him work. I got a bit adventurous and tried to click a few pictures sitting on my wheelchair.

Hidden Thoughts

2011-04-22T06:11:00.000+05:30

No more stories to weave

No more lies to tell

Just an empty mind

Searching for hidden thoughts

Miracles

2011-04-07T16:29:00.002+05:30

Miracles do occur

I sms the person

Sitting next to me

Whom I’m meeting for the first time

Fearing he may not follow my strained voice

With all the buzz around

He replies casually as if I’ve actually spoken to him

Putting me at ease to continue the conversation verbally.

Blow Hot, Blow Cold – The funny ways a breath analyser can behave

2011-01-28T06:29:00.003+05:30

Sometimes we are provided moments to laugh as a safety valve to deal with the pressure cooker called life. One such instance came week; we (me and dad) were returning from a movie around midnight in Robert chettan's cab (dad has a list of cabbies whom he knows from his working days and he calls them in random order whenever we need to go out, and most of them know me since my short-pants days).

Coming back to the story; the police waved us to stop as we were getting down the Thoppumpady BOT Bridge and told us to park on the side. Police checking is a routine thing in the night but, that day I'd an intuition that something was amiss; maybe he has seen us overtaking (prohibited) a twenty feet container trailer on the bridge. The constable came towards us and asked where we were coming from. Robert said cinema and even mentioned film's name. The policeman peeped inside the car, saw me, saw dad and the wheelchair in the back (in Indica the wheelchair has to be put in passenger seat behind as it doesn't fit in the boot). 'Ok, blow into this”, was his next command putting the Breath Analyser in front of his mouth. It made a funny sound somewhat like the siren of an ambulance and red and green light blinked on it. My first thought was that the machine was activated for the test, but realised that some was wrong when the cabbie laughed nervously.

“Are you drunk?”

“No Sir. I told you I'd gone to a movie with them. I'm with them since 7:30 PM”.

“This thing wouldn't buzz if you weren't drunk”.

“I swear on my kids, I don't drink”.

The policeman went to his senior and said what was happening. He came back and sniffed the driver then signalled us to leave as he stopped the next car. Even his senior smiled and waved us good bye.

One good thing about the whole episode was that the policeman never became rude and had the smile intact on his face all the while.

“This is ridiculous Bhai, I haven't touched the stuff since '92”, Robert Chettan told dad.

“Have you had anything strong flavoured for lunch or dinner?” dad asked.

“No! Just simple rice and curry. And, yes the candy you gave me in the interval”.

“Don't tell me that it has alcohol, it is Paresh's favourite”, dad joked. “Anyway, you have got a nice incident to tell your wife about”.

I'd have teased and joked with him even more. But, he looked distraught about the whole thing. So, I kept quiet and told him to pray a little harder before going to bed as God had put him through a little test tonight.

PS: Robert Chettan is a performer of Chavittu Nadakam, a traditional dance-drama performed in church yards during festivals. This art form is on the verge of extinction because the new generation is reluctant to take it up and the public in general isn't interested in it. Now, only capsule version is performed once or twice annually for the foreign tourists.

Bell Bajao

2011-01-18T06:56:00.003+05:30

For the last few days news of domestic violence is clamouring of space along with humongous scams, illegal detention of a minor rape victim, sky rocketing prices of essentials commodities and numerous other worthy things in the media just because it happened in a foreign land and involves one of our high ranking Diplomats.

Normally domestic violence is just a topic of gossip among the neighbours; what I could make out was that she didn't allow him to sleep with her as he was stinkingly drunk or she didn't serve food for his ailing mother or the curry she made was not of his liking and accept fallen in the toilet as an excuse with a wry smile when we see a mutilated face. Even immediate family would wash off their hands saying it is a matter between the couple and we don't like to interfere in their private life.

How I wish there was a 911 kind of service to help not only women but kids too against such violence.

And, the law will remain useless if not impotent unless there is a change in attitude.

Sometime back there was high visibility campaign named Bell Bajao with TV commercials prompting people to non-intrusively halt acts of such violence just by ringing the doorbell. Wonder why they have stopped appearing.

Interview with Director Ranjith Sankar

2011-01-12T06:42:00.003+05:30

Read it here

From a wannabe writer

2010-12-31T05:23:00.006+05:30

It is amazing how a few hours can change your thought process. I'd planned to type this post last night (it was churning in my head for a long while now) with the title I would have been mason or carpenter discussing the blurb of a slim book Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke that goes like:

Go within and scale the depth of your being from which your life springs forth. At its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must write. Accept it, however it sounds to you, without analysing. Perhaps it will become apparent to you that you are indeed called to be a writer. Then accept that fate; bear its burden, and its grandeur, without asking for the reward, which might possibly come from without.

I had planned to write how I would been a mason or a carpenter (who works as diligently as a painter or a writer towards his craft without giving much thought to the world around him) instead of struggling to be a writer, a choice I always think is compelled by my physical limitations. But, a short visit to the hospital yesterday (29th Dec'10) and completing the book in single sitting this evening (30th Dec'10) changed the form of this post.

This book is not merely an advice or encouragement to a young poet from a senior fellow as the title suggests. But, it dwells on the mysteries of life like any good book should; from creativity to love to sex to God, it covers many topics but, its main focus is on solitude, aloneness or loneliness of a creative soul; apathy of the world towards a creative soul to be precise (that is what I could gather). In the modern world I doubt that such experience would be limited to creative people alone, even a corporate honcho, a lawyer or a medical professional would be experiencing such apathy.

Even though I found this whole book to be a big quotable quote. Still there are a couple of nuggets worth sharing:

Things are not as easily understood nor as expressible as people usually would like us to believe. Most happenings are beyond expression; they exist where a word has never intruded. Even more inexpressible are works of art; mysterious entities they are, whose lives, compared to our fleeting ones, endure.

For one human being to love another is perhaps the most difficult task of all, the epitome, the ultimate test. It is that striving for which all other striving is merely preparation.

Wishing you all a happy and fruitful 2011.

Magic Realism

2010-10-19T06:50:00.002+05:30

Read about it here.

Time too had waited

2010-10-14T11:05:00.002+05:30

Time too had waited with me

Watching life move on, from a corner.

For you to come along

Hold my palm

And help me continue my journey

Wonder why…

2010-10-12T11:12:00.002+05:30

Wonder why some mysteries remain unresolved

Some truths never unraveled

Questions go unanswered

If they add charm to life

I could do with little less of that charm.

Practice

2010-10-05T04:03:00.003+05:30

A few days back I made a long face in front of an online friend using emoticon saying that I wasn't getting a sentence as good as I wished. She reassuringly said: “you'll get it, just keep trying.” Next she typed something like “you don't practice, if you practice daily it'd be lot easier for you.” She meant writing (or should I say typing), I know every writing manual or 'How to write' book says: “put away a few words daily – Practice.”

But, I never paid heed to it. Being lazy to type, my excuse being, writing is just an extension of thinking. So, as long as I can think I can write. And, thoughts are rumbling in my head throughout the day or to be precise until this laptop comes in front of me, then more important things sprout up seeking my attention, checking emails is the foremost. Then looking for friends online and telling Hi to few of them. The list goes on like this, and the actual writing rarely happens, sacrificing the thoughts that glowed during the day in the subconscious as being mundane or pedestrian not deserving the effort to be typed out and shared by the night.

Here is a glimpse of the Master Writer Marquez's take on practice in the beginning of his book Strange Pilgrims.

When I began Chronicles of Death Foretold, in 1979, I confirmed the fact that in pauses between books I tended to lose the habit of writing and it was becoming more and more difficult for me to begin again. That is why between October 1980 and March 1984, I set myself the task of writing a weekly opinion column for newspapers in several countries, a s a kind of discipline for keeping my arm in shape. Then it occurred to me that my struggle with the material in the notebook was still a problem of literary genres and they should really be newspaper pieces, not stories. Except after publishing five columns based on the notebook, I changed my mind again: They would be better as films. That was how five movies and a television serial were made.

My friend BG sharing similar thoughts on his blog here.

Employibility

2010-09-16T02:13:00.005+05:30

Read it here.

Rudderless

2010-08-26T06:48:00.003+05:30

Rudderless drifter

Flowing with the current

Wishing to be caught in the whirl

And disappear in the depths

But thrown out all the while

To continue flowing.

Write

2010-08-20T02:44:00.004+05:30

Letters trickle to form words. Words queue up and make sentences. Sentences creep along to become paragraphs. Creating something new or reliving old memories. Do they make sense? Very hard to guess. They project my mood or change it while at work... making me nauseous or exhilarated by the end.

The naked soul being vulnerable for the world to see.

Eden

2010-08-01T17:40:00.009+05:30

These are the few pictures taken collectively by my folks of the garden. They have been my limbs for life. Now they try to be my vision by clicking away with this camera every morning.

I wish to believe…

2010-07-14T13:17:00.000+05:30

I wish to believe that:

Prayers are answered

Faith is unshaken

Love remains undiminished

Something will fill the hollow heart

There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow

And that belief isn’t misplaced.

Random Words Or Raw Emotions?

2010-05-18T23:55:00.003+05:30

Flowing love

Melting anger

Drowning guilt

And

Numb feelings

Raw emotions or just random words?

Well, I'll let you pick.

Silence

2010-05-06T12:18:00.000+05:30

Deafening silence

Echoing in the head

Making words disappear as air bubbles

And the heart waiting to explode

Due to an unbearable vacuum.

Arzee the Dwarf

2010-04-27T13:19:00.005+05:30

A slightly edited version of this book review has appeared in Apr-Jun 2010 issue of Success & Ability

The vulnerability you feel being physically abnormal in the so-called normal world or to put it simply the insecurity and fear of emotional and physical hurt one feels for owning a deformed and weak body, yet hiding it with built-up audacity and witticism is beautifully brought out in Chandrahas Choudhury’s debut novel Arzee the Drawf. That is not all; the book also successfully brings out the fact that these people live life internally (in which everything is magnified or looked through the prism of their deformity) even if they pretend to be extroverted and out-going. They are like iceberg, with only a small part of them being seen by the world.

Arzee is employed as deputy projectionist in a dilapidated cinema hall named Noor. He seems to be regaining his confidence after a failed love affair and is hoping to get a promotion as the head projectionist seventy years old Phiroz has conveyed his desire to leave the job. Though unsure of the good times he just boasts about to his friends with whom he plays Card games.

The book is divided into thirteen chapters in which the author tries to provide us the experience of a roller-coaster ride ending one chapter on a happy note and the next one on despair. It tries to mingle the personal life of the protagonist with the atmospherics of the metropolitan Bombay (sic). So, there is everything from the stench of urine on the roadside and a rat passing through the legs in the theatre to Cricket betting and goons chasing you for the amount you have lost in the betting.

But, in all these the writer does not lose the meditative narration of Arzee’s inner life. The turmoil he is going through almost in a ‘stream of consciousness’ manner where a serious thought may end rousing a chuckle in us or a seemingly lighter thought culminate with unexpected profundity. Sample Arzee’s thoughts on reading the poster of breathing exercise recommended by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar of Art of Living; The breath! Arzee had never really thought about breath – it seemed to take care of itself, so there was always something else to think about. He breathed deeply once or twice, but didn’t feel any difference, and he was too tired to hold out for longer. Idly he found himself wondering what brand of shampoo Sri Sri Ravi Shankar used.

These things give a solid base to the character whether in his thought process or even in his dealing with others. The language used here is proper English, without peppering of local slang. But, that does not take away anything as far as representing low life of Mumbai is concerned; even the cosmopolitan nature of the city is well.

There are characters doing cameo (for a couple of pages); like Arzee’s cab driver friend Dashrath Tiwari, who doubles up as dialogue writer of Bhojpuri films. Once they have zestful conversation in a roadside teashop past midnight about Arzee’s depressing phase and vanish never to return.

Arzee even fights against being stereotyped, so he slaps his girlfriend’s father who tells him to go back to circus in a violent fury. Later he convinces us that the slap was unintentional. Likewise, the humiliation he feels when he has to dress up like the bottle of a newly launched soft-drink and stand outside malls on a daily basis for a good amount.

Arzee the Dwarf is extremely readable book for the empathy it has towards its eponymous lead. Its slim size (of just 184 pages) is deceptive as it is heavier than it actually feels like.

Chandrahas Choudhury’s blog The Middle Stage

Hey Ram!

2010-03-08T12:52:00.004+05:30

Hey Ram!

Was it a grunt as the Mahatma struggled to catch His breath?

Or was He seeking a ticket to heaven in His final moment?

Can’t be sure of that.

But, when my sexagenarian mother utters these words,

While making an effort to carry me as a baby,

They do echo as death knell in my ears.

**************************************************************************************

PS. Happy Women's Day.

Bargain

2010-01-19T12:05:00.001+05:30

Let the heart melt with the pain

The soul drench in blood

If it is the only way to repent

And regain lost love

It isn’t an expensive bargain

Teaser

2010-01-13T11:14:00.004+05:30

An effort to write fiction... Very rough edged... Posting the beginning just to keep this blog active in the new year...

The unscheduled call from Priya was reassuring, as usual she just asked: ‘how are you Appa?’ her speech was so clear that I couldn’t imagine her face while listening to her. Maybe, I felt like that because her mother had remembered that it was an important day in our lives, which made me very happy. Even otherwise, I always look for improvements in Priya, however small they are.

Discovered John Malkovich and Reread Disgrace

2009-12-06T10:52:00.000+05:30

Read it here

KK’s Death Anniversary, Panipuri, A Birthday Party & Many More Memories

2009-10-15T05:45:00.003+05:30

I was lucky yesterday (13th Oct) to hear Singer Srinivas live in concert commemorating the 22nd Death Anniversary of Kishore Kumar.

As always, I was nearly an hour late in reaching the venue, and could hear the last strains of one of favourites Mere Dil Mein Aaj Kya Hai from the film Daag, when Dad was taking me out of the Autorickshaw.

And, by the time I reached my seating place another of my favourites Jeevan Se Bhari Teri Aankhen from Safar came to an end.

Momentarily, I became sad thinking that how many of such gems I’d missed. But, it just passed over as the next song began; like that there were at least two and half dozen more songs in store, none less likeable or favourite than the previous.

My day was made when my request for Meri Bhigi Bhigi Si, a song from Anamika was entertained. Srinivas sang the first stanza without any support from the orchestra because they had not practised it.

I remember the day Kishore Kumar died in 1987 very well. We were celebrating my cousin Sagar’s 9th birthday (he become a very vital part of my life in following years as he wrote most of my exams from Plus I to the completion of my Degree). Ma had prepared Panipuri and Falooda. We were in the kitchen enjoying. I heard Kishore Kumar ka Dheant from the TV; made Ma run out for getting the details, “it was heart attack beta”, she said and continued serving us.

At that moment none of us realised that we’d just lost a legend.

Here is an interesting write-up about Anamika by my friend BG.

Still I…

2009-10-05T11:42:00.000+05:30

Invade my sleep
Devastate my dreams
Wrench my heart
Or suffocate my soul
Still I…

Review of Malayalam film Ritu

2009-08-14T21:59:00.001+05:30

Read it here

Trying To Grow

2009-07-07T22:18:00.005+05:30

My review of Trying To Grow by Firdaus Kanga has been published (modified) in the Apr-Jun 2009 issue of Success & Ability.

The wish to reread an old book may be same as wishing to meet a distant cousin whom you had only met for a few days in your childhood, and, those days are the most cherished memories of your younger days. Now, you feel scared that he may have changed, may have lived a life totally different from yours, and, may have grown up to be temperamentally exactly opposite of you. Then how will you greet him? Hug, shake hands or just say Hi?

I felt the same kind of trepidation when I took up Firdaus Kanga’s semi-autobiographical novel Trying to Grow (recently relaunched by Penguin in paperback). I had read the (borrowed) hardbound version some twelve-thirteen years ago. Those days I was still in the Sidney Sheldon, Harold Robbins, Jeffery Archer, and Arthur Hailey phase, and, Indian English writing was still in nascent stage (I hadn’t read any except a few books by R. K. Narayanan). So, though I was charmed by Kanga’s writing I wasn’t capable of enjoying it in its full lustre (there was a burden that I was reading something very important that I may not be able to appreciate fully).

Trying to Grow tells the coming-of-age (clichéd Bollywood phrase, but trust me it has lot more going for it) story of a boy born with Osteogenesis imperfecta (Brittle Bone Disease) who would break every bone if exerted slightest pressure till the age of five.

This book can be described as showing what roller coaster ride a disabled person’s life in India can be through eyes of Daryus Kotwal nicknamed Brit (as in Britt Ekland and not punning his medical condition as justified by his ten years old sister Dolly when he was born).

Brit’s story may feel funny and frivolous on the surface from the beginning when Brit as an eight year old is taken to a Miracle Man Wagh (tiger) Baba by his father Sam. The Baba does not wear any clothes and as expected turns out to be a fraud. Even the dialogues amplify such situations, especially between Brit and his sister Dolly are laced with innuendos and baser connotations that we fear that their relationship may be bordering on incest.

It is only when we put our analytical caps on that we realise that this just a ploy by the author to lull the reader into a comfort zone (as a scheming boxer would wait patiently for his opponent to let his guard down to give him the knockout punch) before letting him know the harshness of the world occupied by the disabled.

More than the pathos of the protagonist (we doubt for that matter if there are any going by his jovial outlook) who would not grow more than four foot, the story focuses what the people surrounding him go through. His parents are always doubtful of what to dream or aspire for their ill-fated offspring. They are always in conflict amongst themselves, if one of them feels gung-ho about his prospects the other paints a bleak picture. And, his sibling Dolly is the epitome of unconditional love, she is ready to sacrifice her joy to give happiness to her lame brother.

In short, anyone who has grown up in India in the last few decades with severe disability and normal intelligence will have at least a few anecdotes to point and say this has happened in my life. Perhaps except the sexual encounters that our hero Brit was lucky to have (maybe I’m jealous).

Here are couple of snippets that stayed with me after I finished the book for a second time:

When Brit gets a Surprise Special Prize from the School on their Annual Day where he went write exams after studying sitting at home and coming fifth in the class:

Around me the applause burst and swelled like some orchestral climax while I grew smaller and smaller in my seat wishing I wasn’t there, wishing Father Ferra hadn’t talked about me, wishing I hadn’t got this prize for having legs that didn’t work.

And, here is the recklessness of forgetting ones disability and jumping into insurmountable situation:

Funny, isn’t it? When someone is the way I am, you’d think he’d never forget it. But I do. For hours, days. Till I pass a mirror or am ditched at the library.

And, coming back to meeting a long lost cousin: I was as charmed by Brit Kotwal as I was thirteen years ago and felt like giving him a brotherly hug.

On Smoking

2009-07-06T21:08:00.003+05:30

A slightly edited version of this write-up has appeared in Apr-Jun 2009 issue of Success & Ability.

One dreadful thought that I had as a teenager was that I can never be a writer because my left hand was dysfunctional. And, it wasn’t that that I couldn’t use my right hand to write, it was just the hypothetical image of a successful writer that I had in my mind; a bearded fellow at his table, half a dozen of reference books, dictionaries/thesaurus etc. scattered around. A fountain pen in his right hand with a sparkling golden nib going about making a fuzzy sound as it scratches an A4 size paper. His left wrist working as a paperweight holding down the paper he is writing on; a luminous glow emanating from between his fingers with addictively fragrant smoke.

So, somehow I got this impression that smoking cigarette was vital if I wanted to be a good writer (can’t pinpoint today how that idea got into my head). I always cursed my crooked left hand (with the wrist protruding outward, elbow folded at an odd angle and the fingers remaining in a perpetual fist) whenever I failed to write something as well as I wished or read something really good and felt it was beyond my capability to write like that.

Those days smoking wasn’t a social taboo or even a criminal offence as it is now. We could see people freely enjoying it, whether it was an elderly uncle at home, or the rickshaw puller puffing away his twenty five paise worth of Beedi or Mammootty or Amitabh Bachchan lighting up an imported brand of brown cigarette on the silver screen.

The craving for the nicotine induced smoke virtually made me a sniffer dog. I would be always looking out for smokers in the vicinity and tried to drag in as much stuff as possible of what they exhaled.

The harmful side effects of the cancer sticks started sinking in when Doordarshan became the most vital part of my idle life. It had a couple of anti-smoking Public Service commercials. One was a simple message showing cigarette bending downwards from the centre signifying impotence. Other one was more impactful, which ended with Gary Lawyer carbon monoxide affected baritone singing with a cigarette in my hand, I was a dead man. More material started appearing in the print media about the ill effects of cigarettes; from simple bronchitis, coughing, impotence to deadly cancer. All this information curbed my wish to be a smoker.

It was really scary to imagine myself coughing incessantly, while making serious effort to write. I’d the problem of breathlessness as a child; it came with an itchy feeling in the chest and phlegm induced gruff sound. It made me invalid and miserable for a few days. Memory of those days returned whenever I came out of the movie theatre with hundreds of live chimneys (working non-stop for nearly three hours) around. I would have the same feeling in the chest as I’d have during the breathless phases as a child. So, it acted as a deterrent subconsciously. But, still.

A more frightening nightmare was; what will happen to my intellectual image if I became hairless as a side effect of chemotherapy? My craftily unkempt beard, bushy eyebrows and thick sideburns that could hide my large ears; what’d happen to them? I’d be reduced to being as smooth as a mannequin. And, above all, thoughts of those tubes and pierced into every penetrable part of the body; as they show terminally ill patients in the movies.

But, it didn’t root out the craving fully. I got a few opportunities take a puff or two here and there in my mid twenties, when I made a couple of friends who were courageous enough to take me out alone (without the protective shield of the family). But, they were reluctant about me trying a cigarette; their logic; you can’t even swallow a morsel of fried rice without coughing for half an hour, what will happen if you drag too much smoke? There was lot of advising before the tobacco roll was put between my lips; make your lips dry, this thing is expensive, don’t drag too much, be careful that smoke doesn’t reach your throat, be absolutely calm etc.

On the other hand, my writing aspiration starting chugging ahead, couple of my write-ups appeared in the newsletter of the Spastic Society of Eastern India. And, a few letters were accepted by newspapers and magazines. Those things gave me momentary joy. After the initial excitement of seeing my name in print, depression wrapped around me; a feeling of disappointment came over with a thought that if I could do it; it must be very easy. The wish to smoke took a back seat. But, it did not vanish fully. Meanwhile, opportunities in writing became better by the day; from amateur to professional.

Once I read an article by the late actress Priya Tendulkar where she wrote that her father playwright Vijay Tendulkar had this peculiar habit of keeping a packet of peanuts and chickpeas on his table while writing and putting a handful into his mouth in between. After that I insisted to Ma to put a bowl of peanuts on my table every evening. But, that too flopped because of my left hand; I had to stop writing/typing whenever I felt like eating from that bowl.

Then one day I heard Saint Sunil Gavaskar while doing commentary talking about peculiar habits of some of the players when they came out to bat; his fellow commentator asked whether he (SMG) chewed gum or took a stroll in between balls. Gavaskar curtly replied; “I did neither, I’d rather focus on the next ball instead of chewing gum or taking a stroll”. From that day onwards I have even stopped playing music when I’m working.

Has anyone coined a phrase like ‘deformity is bliss’? After going through the process of writing this, I feel it is.

Where are we headed?

2009-07-02T03:28:00.002+05:30

A fabulous music video on Environmental Activism; I love the earthy tone and the acoustic music.

Got it from Salil Bhai’s blog, my second best writer hero after Alexis Leon. Can any post of mine be complete without his mention?

Read their life stories here and here.

My Friend Sancho

2009-06-10T03:29:00.005+05:30

Read this book by former journalist and avid blogger Amit Varma. It is an extremely likeable book in spite of some flaws. The first thing you notice is that uses everyday language and is not pretentious as wannabe on the Booker long-list next season.

It tells the story of Abir Ganguly, a 23 years old journalist covering crime for an afternoon tabloid in Mumbai. Abir comes as a happy-go-lucky guy with an acidic sense of humour, which almost lands him in a soup every time he uses it. Later we realise that we are privy to his thoughts as this is first person narrative (giving the reader a schizophrenic feel as the narrator himself maybe feeling).

As for the tale; Abir becomes a hapless witness of Police killing an innocent person by suspecting him to be a gangster, and as fate would have it he become the protector of the victim’s teenaged daughter (doing B Com) for the next few days. To complicate matters further he starts to fall in love with her. Above all, she is a Muslim named Muneeza (nicknamed Sancho). So, what happens when she comes to know that he was an embedded journalist waiting outside her house (with a photographer) for the Police to arrest him and bring him outside, then silently going away knowing that Police has botched up by killing her father?

The story flows smoothly as Abir tries his best to make the most out of the complicated situation. On the one hand, he is supposed to write a sympathetic profile of Muneeza’s slain dad. And, when he is half way through, he is ordered to include a similar piece on the Officer who shot him.

The writing does become heavy in between as Abir philosophises on various issues that he has to tackle, about his love for Muneeza and lot of other things that makes us doubt whether the protagonist is really 23 or he is 32?

Another slight blemish is the promotion of author’s blog by Abir, which makes us doubt if Amit Varma is a fan of Yash Raj Films as they have become the masters of self-reference in recent times.

I’ve no idea if there is any subtext in the use of Sancho in the title as I’m not very familiar with the Spanish classic from which it is derived.

You can find two cohesive reviews of the book here and

Smile:-)

2009-06-02T22:09:00.001+05:30

Got this video from Sister Amrita’s blog.

Just spare fifteen minutes & have a great day/night according to your time zone.

Change

2009-06-01T14:56:00.002+05:30

Change is the only deterrent
In putting my emotions in black and white
They wax and wane as the moon in the sky
The only thing constant in my soul
Is the love for you;
The ferocity of which never wavers

I Wish

2009-05-07T03:18:00.001+05:30

I wish to hold your cheeks

In the cup of my palms

See sparkling stars in your iris

And convey how precious you are

In a speechless conversation

Borrowed Words

2009-04-22T03:18:00.005+05:30

It was but yesterday we met in a dream.

You have sung to me in my aloneness, and I of your longings have built a tower in the sky.

But now our sleep has fled and our dream is over, and it is no longer dawn.

The noontide is upon us and our half waking has turned to fuller day, and we must part.

If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song.

And if our hands should meet in another dream, we shall build another tower in the sky.

The Prophet by Khalil Gibran

And, as it has become customary in this blog for the last few posts; another Ghazal by Jagjit Singh from the album Love Is Blind:

Lyrics:

samajhate the magar phir bhii na rakkhii duuriyaa.N hamane

charaaGo.n ko jalaane me.n jalaa lii u.Ngaliyaa.N hamane

ko-ii titalii hamaare paas aatii bhii to kyaa aatii

sajaaye a.ng bhar kaaGaz ke phuul-pattiyaa.N hamane

yuu.N hii ghuT ghuT ke mar jaanaa hame.n ma.nzuur thaa lekin

kisii kam-baKht par zaahir na kii majabuuriyaa.N hamane

ham us mahafil me.n bas ek baar sach bolane vaalii

zubaa.N par umr bhar mahasuus kii chi.ngaariyaa.N hamane

Lyrics are taken from here

Loose translation:

I understood. But never kept a distance/

Burnt my fingers trying to light a few lamps.

How could any butterfly flutter around me?

I always decorated the place with paper flowers.

I was ready to die feeling suffocated/

But never displayed my limitations to a heartless person.

Uttered the truth only once in that gathering/

And, felt embers on my tongue for a lifetime.

(I hum this Ghazal after every reckless adventure I take without discounting my limitations and then fail miserably. I promise to insulate myself emotionally after every fall. But, having the nature of a dog’s tail, which never straightens whatever you do. I never learn).

This is the 49th post on this blog. I’ve never took blogging seriously. So, no celebrations on reaching half century or anything. But, it has been a heck of an experience (“life-changing” wouldn’t be an exaggeration). First of all, I found the courage to expose my disability. I wouldn’t have done that if I’d continued writing in print media alone (in fact, the Feature Editors of the newspapers I wrote for realised the severity of my physical condition only after accepting and agreeing to publish my first submissions). There are a few people who probe if I’ve a dent in my personality. But, that is a small issue. Above all, blogging has won me a few good friends, who enrich my life on a daily basis. Thank you chums.

Moments

2009-04-09T11:21:00.002+05:30

Flippant moments
Intense moments
Shared moments
With hands held
Lonely moments
Wishing for companionship
Lived moments
Unlived moments
Never realised Life just passed by
With those cherished moments

Intensity and a bit of Pamuk

2009-03-26T04:12:00.005+05:30

I first heard Apne honton par sajana a few years ago (they were my pre-computer days. So, it must be roughly eight-nine years). I was charmed by the intensity of its lyrics by Qateel Shifai. Jagjit Singh’s voice worked its own magic (being one of my all time favourites). Scouted for the album for months before spotting it in a cassette shop in Ernakulam.

apane hoTho.n par sajaanaa chaahataa huu.N

aa tujhe mai.n gunagunaanaa chaahataa huu.N

koii aa.Nsuu tere daaman par giraakar

buu.Nd ko motii banaanaa chaahataa huu.N

thak gayaa mai.n karate-karate yaad tujhako

ab tujhe mai.n yaad aanaa chaahataa huu.N

chhaa rahaa hai saarii bastii me.n a.Ndheraa

raushanii ho ghar jalaanaa chaahataa huu.N

aaKharii hichakii tere zaano.n pe aaye

maut bhi mai.n shaayaraanaa chaahataa huu.N

Loose translation:

I wish to decorate on my lips/come I wish to hum you.

By dropping a few tears on your shawl/wish to convert droplets into pearls

I’m tired of remembering you/now I wish to be remembered by you.

The whole locality is engulfed in darkness/wish to burn my home to brighten it up.

My last hiccup should come on your lap/wish my death also to be poetic.

PS: the 3rd stanza is missing in the video. The fourth one is my favorite.

Now a beautiful passage from Istanbul: Memories of a City by Orhan Pamuk:

At least once in a lifetime, self-reflection leads us to examine the circumstances of our birth. Why were we born in this particular corner of the world, on this particular date? These families into which we were born, these countries and cities to which the lottery of life has assigned us – they expect love from us, and in the end, we do love them, from the bottom of our hearts – but did we perhaps deserve better? I sometimes think myself unlucky to have been born in an ageing and impoverished city buried under the ashes of a ruined empire. But a voice inside me always insists this was really a piece of luck. If it were a matter of wealth, then I could certainly count myself fortunate to have been born into an affluent family at a time when the city was at its lowest ebb (though some have ably argued the contrary). Mostly I am disinclined to complain: I’ve accepted the city into which I was born in the same way I’ve accepted my body (much as I would have preferred to be more handsome and better built) and my gender (even though I still ask myself, naively, whether I might have been better off had I been born a woman). This is my fate, and there is no sense arguing with it. This book is about fate….

There are two reasons for this post:

1. To push the embarrassing previous post to the second place.

2. To fight the superstition that I can’t finish reading a book if I copy a quote or passage before completely reading it.

AirTel Marketing trying to turn me into a Megalomaniac

2009-03-21T01:32:00.018+05:30

I received this Table Calendar in courier from my cellular service provider AirTel. Wish they had just given me few thousand free SMS’ (my lifeline) and a few free calls for my parents to use instead of spending this much money on making this calendar.

PS: A special thanks to my shy friend for helping me to scan this thing.

A flowing river is never the same

2009-03-17T04:21:00.005+05:30

I’ve heard the above phrase in a spiritual discourse or read in a book (not Paulo Coelho). It came back to me when I heard Kabir Bedi say this:

They (Bollywood) have this fantastic tradition called the narration. They pitch a film to you, not with the script. But by a narrator that comes to your house, it could be the director, it’d be the writer, it’d be a professional, who comes just to narrate the film. And, they give you this fantastic narration; almost shot to shot in its detail, and, you better remember this narration because you’ll never ever hear it again. And, secondly, when you’re given pieces of films, because films are never shot in order; scene eighty five followed by scene three followed scene one fifty two. You better know where all those pieces fit because you’ll never hear the story again and, there’s no script to go by.

to Riz Khan here about how actors are approached in Bollywood.

(Please don’t miss Kabir quoting Walt Whitman at the end of the video).

This talk reminded of an article on Hindustani Classical Music by Raghav R. Menon published in the Hindu Folio talking about the transient quality of Ragas:

Ragas had always been timeless and without history. For there are no old ragas just as there are no old rivers or old oceans or an old wind.

And, googling for the title phrase to check whether anyone else has used it lead me to this beautiful song:

You can get the lyrics of the song here.

This profound post by BG is the inspiration behind this ho-hum.

A couple of thanks:

A big thanks to my friend MM for sending me the audio of the song mentioned above.

And, a friend who is very shy of being introduced here for typing three-fourth of Raghav R. Menon’s article before I realised it is available online.

PS. This post has very little of my own thing. But, I still felt like sharing because these are the kind of things that have shaped my personality. Here is a similar post written more than a year ago.

Ab Ke Hum Bichhade

2009-03-03T01:44:00.004+05:30

A famous Ghazal sung by Mehdi Hassan resonating with life.

ab ke hum bichhade to shaayad kabhii khwabon mein milen
jis tarah suukhe hue phool kitaabon mein milen

(bichhade:part; shaayad:perhaps; khwab:dreams;
suukhe phool:dried flowers)

dhuundh ujade hue logon mein vafaa ke motii
ye khazaane tujhe mumkin hai kharaabon mein milen

(ujade hue:lost in desolate fogs; vafaa ke moti:pearls of loyalty;
khazaane:treasures; kharaabon:dark misfortune)

tuu khudaa hai na meraa ishq farishton jaisaa
dono insaan hain to kyon itne hijaabon mein milen

(khudaa:God; farishtey:angels; insaan:mortals; hijaab:veils)

gam-e-duniyaa bhii gam-e-yaar mein shaamil kar lo
nashaa badataa hai sharabein jo sharaabon mein milen

(gam-e-duniyaa: tragedies of life; gam-e-yaar: pathos of love,friendship;
nashaa: intoxication; sharaabein: liquor)

aaj ham daar pe kheenche gaye jin baaton par
kyaa ajab kal vo zamaane ko nisaabon mein milen

(kheenche gaye:tore us apart; nisaab:fate)

ab na vo main huun na tu hai na vo maazii hai `Faraaz',
jaise do shakhs tamannaa ke saraabon mein milen

(maazi:past; tamanna ke saraabon: mirage of desire)

Translation is taken from here

Poet is Ahmed Faraz

P. S. The video is a few stanza short.

Voice

2009-02-03T03:26:00.002+05:30

Craving not for eternal peace

Or even for unconditional love

Just a voice

That gives the joy

Of having lived

A hundred happy lives

Sparkling as a rivulet

Flowing through the verdant hillocks

Giving fullness to a deprived existence

*********************************************************************************************

Yet another scribbled gibberish. Heeheeee.

Addendum

2009-01-05T00:08:00.003+05:30

The Success & Ability magazine had requested me to write something similar to this and it has appeared in their Oct-Dec 2008 issue in a slightly edited form.

There are advantages of having a vacant face with uneven eyes; one large and another too small. The large one squinting sideways with thick glasses (supporting myopia) magnifying the effect, overgrown stubble with an antiquity of few months. And, the head jutting forward like a turtle’s. All these giving an impression that the top most compartment in the body of the person possessing these features must be empty.

The most obvious advantage may be that you don’t have to remember every casual acquaintance whom you may be meeting only once in three months, six months or even a year. The first question they ask is; “Do you remember me?” and readily pour their bio-data on you without even bothering to wait for your response. So, it is utter waste of precious GBs (gigabytes) of your brain trying to store data of such people because they are always ready to introduce themselves afresh.

There are numerous other benefits of having the looks of a retard; one being that there is zero expectation from you. So, when you seek the blessings of your tuition teacher (who just spent an hour a day with you during the two years) after securing higher second class in Pre-Degree Course (12th in current jargon), what you hear is: “I never thought you were a serious student. I was under the impression that your parents called me after being fed up with your tantrums to join college like your siblings. Anyways, this (holding up the mark-list) is of no use for you as you won’t even get students to take tuitions because of your speech problem and you can’t even think of getting a regular job. The only thing I can see you doing is teaching poor kids free of cost”.

He even had a take on my hobby to despatch Letters to the Editor. He always used to ask me what purpose it served other than wasting time by going through the newspapers and magazines, taking the trouble of writing them down, harassing someone to type it out (in the pre-computer days) for me and spending two rupees for the postage. It was no use telling him about the thrill of seeing one’s name in print or even about my journalistic aspirations.

Flash forward some fourteen years: The aforementioned teacher’s protégé (yours truly) has graduated in Commerce by appearing for exams as a private student (means, you can study sitting at home and appear for exams). He has a clerical job in a MNC. And, above all he has become a small-time film journalist contributing to newspapers and web portals.

Still, when someone sees me sitting in front of my laptop; he tells my parents, “Achha Hain Aapne ise yeh leke diya hai, Khel Toh Sakta Hai. TV Dekhke bhi Bore Hojata Hoga” (Good you have given him this, at least he can play. Watching TV for long is too boring). My parents say; “He works on this”. And, the reply will be; “But still…”.

They say; it is difficult to change attitudes. Very true!

************************************************************************

I’ve to thank a very dear friend, who was proofreading this line after line as I was typing it and gave some valuable suggestions to make it look polished the way it is now. Still, the flaws that remain here are because of stubbornness not to change them.

What makes me extra happy is the fact that four of my poems, which I never thought were publish-able anywhere other than this blog have appeared in the same issue. Please have a look:

Twilight Hour, A Stroll, Mirage and Words

A Sad Smile

2008-11-19T11:55:00.001+05:30

A Sad Smile
Pleading for mercy
that was hard to come by

A Sad Smile
That extinguished the dew of love
from your lips

A Sad Smile
Memory of which
fills me with guilt and remorse

Sparks in a Book

2008-10-02T22:32:00.002+05:30

There was not one amongst us who looked forward to being born. We disliked the rigours of existence, the unfulfilled longings, the enshrined injustices of the world, the labyrinths of love, the ignorance of parents, the fact of dying, and the amazing indifference of the Living in the midst of the simple beauties of the universe. We feared the heartlessness of human beings, all of whom are born blind, few of whom ever learn to see.

The Famished Road by Ben Okri.

A Spiritual Guru may take reams of paper or hours of discourse to say something so profound, which a fiction writer has done so simply. Here is another beautiful example:

“D’you know what happens when you hurt people?” Ammu said. “When you hurt people, they begin to love you less. That’s what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.”

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.

These kinds of sparks do elevate our spirits. And, they also spur us to dust up the characters idling in our heads and to weave stories around them.

I’ve no illusions that anything I put on the paper will be worth seeing the light of a printing press at least for the next twenty years. By then I hope to acquire some decent skills of being a fiction writer.

But one needs to spell out such grand missions when life seems to be stuck in a black hole.

A harried woman and a few cyber coolies

2008-09-07T23:00:00.002+05:30

Read this article by Jenni Russell about her horrid experience of dealing with some Indian cyber coolies working for BT.

Earlier this summer my father, who is in his late 70s and disabled, had a stroke. It happened on a Friday, and my distraught mother rang in the late afternoon to say that he had collapsed, and could neither walk nor speak. She was calling the neighbours around their remote hillside in rural Wales to see whether they could help her lift him up. Forty-five minutes later I called her back but there was no reply. Fifteen minutes later: "This number is not recognised."

In a panic, I rang BT. The first person I spoke to was in an Indian call centre. Could he check the line please; this was an emergency. He asked me for the account number. What account number? The telephone number? No, he needed to know the account number before he was permitted to check the line. How would I find it? By asking the account holder. "But that's why I'm ringing you! I can't speak to the account holder because something's gone wrong with your line!" Then he couldn't help me. Well, could he transfer me to customer services, or the engineers?

Number, name, postcode, account number. Desperate, I explained the situation to person number two. This one was in England. She told me there was no record of my parents' line. And that, as far as she was concerned, was that. Please, I said, look again. This line existed until an hour ago. Meanwhile my father might be dying on a Welsh hillside. Complete indifference from person number two. I plead to be transferred to someone else.

I explain everything again to person number three. She finds the line and confirms that it has been cut off that afternoon. I know this isn't about bills, this is some madness. Can it be reconnected as a matter of emergency? She's not interested in my emergency. Nothing can be done until BT can determine why it has been cut off. I am transferred to person number four.

It is now an hour into the call. Number, name, postcode, account number. It turns out BT has been confused over the validity of the line, whatever that means. It is their mistake. They do not care. The engineers have gone home and I cannot talk directly to them anyway. I will have to go on a list for reconnection which could be a fortnight. Tearful, I ask if the wait can be shortened for cases like this. The answer is no. Person number four is as bored by me as the rest have been. Not one has said they're sorry - either for the situation, or for BT's mistake. Can I speak to a manager? No, they've left. No, there's no one else who can help. If I want to make an appointment for reconnection, I will have to speak to person number five.

Person number five offers me a date. It is a month away. Incredulous, with knots of fear in my stomach, I explain it all again. No reaction. This is the system, she says. Do I want to make the appointment or not? Because if I don't wish to accept it, she will terminate the call. As an afterthought, and because it's clearly on the script, she asks: "And is there anything else I can help you with today?"

I put down the phone and burst into tears. It has been an 80-minute call, and I have either been listening to machines, or conversing with automatons throughout. The indifference of the system feels brutal, and I can't break through it. It is now seven o'clock. As a last resort, I ring directory inquiries and ask them to put me through not to the faults line, but to BT's head office.

A real person answers the phone. She is a middle-aged Welsh woman with a comfortable voice, and when I tell her why I'm ringing, the first thing she says is: "Oh dear! That sounds terrible!" She is the chairman's secretary, and she isn't following any script. She says immediately that she has a list of managers and she will start ringing them now until she finds one who will deal with it and call me back. And she does. The phone is reconnected within 40 hours, and many apologies sent to my father as he recovers.

We all may have our own sordid tales to tell about dealing with the so-called Customer Care Executives working out of call centres for our cell phone company or our ISP.

But, we rarely hear any stories from the other side. I had a friend working in a call centre representing a Credit Card Company in USA. Once he got a call from a customer of Sri Lankan origin, he wanted his card to be activated immediately. My friend said to the gentleman that he had crossed the credit limit and it was impossible for him to activate the card unless the old account was settled. The customer (in a drunken state) argued for hours saying that he wished to talk to the Manager and that he deserved better treatment because of his long association with the Company. My friend pleaded that he can only register a complaint and someone from the Company will get back to him very soon. My friend got to hear choicest expletives English, Hindi and Tamil (the gentleman on the other side had understood that the Executive was an Indian and had asked him which all languages he followed). The situation stretched for three days and when he brought the issue to his senior’s notice, he was advised to resign before the issue blew up.

I also have a couple of friends who have worked in BPO sector who feel burnt out before crossing their twenties.

Here is the original article published in the Guardian.

Playing God?

2008-08-14T05:26:00.007+05:30

Long back I wrote a post wondering what difference it would have made to people around me if pre-natal detection of cerebral palsy was possible in the initial stages of pregnancy as it is for Down’s syndrome. I haven’t got a clear cut idea of what I feel about the matter or to put it plainly I’m confused. Some days I feel I’d be the first in line with application if ever euthanasia is legalised in our country.

(I know that the glass-half-full theorists among you are itching to pounce on me for thinking about euthanasia. Don’t worry; I’m the same old jovial person if you talk to me. I still get excited if I see a poster of a new film on the road. I still wish to see the next release. It is just that I feel ‘Survival of the fittest’ is the most correct statement and I’m not fit enough to survive).

If you’re wondering why I suddenly dug out an old post; the circus on news channels regarding an abortion plea in the Mumbai High Court as the foetus was supposed to have congenital heart ailment.

The hospital given the charge of assessing the medical condition made a clerical error and another offered free medical care. I don’t know, but all this feels like a joke to me. I’m not being judgemental here about the action that Mehtas took or being a pro-life advocate. Still it gives me a ticklish feeling somewhere. You’re talking about a life and you say ‘a clerical error’. On the other hand, if the child grows up to be ok and finds all the media clippings what kind of emotions he/she will go through or what kind of equation he/she will have with the parents? At least the identity of the couple could have been kept a secret.

Wonder what the parents of Naga Naresh Karuturi would have done if they’d premonition of what their child will go through in his life.

There will more such instances as we make progress in science. But, I believe that Nature will have its own way of getting even with us.

There is a beautiful passage in Jurrasic Park by Michael Crichton about how we tend misuse scientific power:

"You know what's wrong with scientific power?" Malcolm said. "It's a form of inherited wealth. And you know what assholes congenitally rich people are. It never fails."

Hammond said, "What is he talking about?"

Harding made a sign, indicating delirium. Malcolm cocked his eye.

"I will tell you what I am talking about," he said. "Most kinds of power require a substantial sacrifice by whoever wants the power. There is an apprenticeship, a discipline lasting many years. Whatever kind of power you want. President of the company. Black belt in karate. Spiritual guru. Whatever it is you seek, you have to put in the time, the practice, the effort. You must give up a lot to get it. It has to be very important to you. And once you have attained it, it is your power. It can't be given away: it resides in you. It is literally the result of your discipline.

"Now, what is interesting about this process is that, by the time someone has acquired the ability to kill with his bare hands, he has also matured to the point where he won't use it unwisely. So that kind of power has a built-in control. The discipline of getting the power changes you so that you won't abuse it.

"But scientific power is like inherited wealth: attained without discipline. You read what others have done, and you take the next step. You can do it very young. You can make progress very fast. There is no discipline lasting many decades. There is no mastery: old scientists are ignored. There is no humility before nature. There is only a get-rich-quick, make-a-name-for-yourself-fast philosophy. Cheat, lie, falsify-it doesn't matter. Not to you, or to your colleagues. No one will criticize you. No one has any standards. They are all trying to do the same thing: to do something big, and do it fast.

"And because you can stand on the shoulders of giants, you can accomplish something quickly. You don't even know exactly what you have done, but already you have reported it, patented it, and sold it. And the buyer will have even less discipline than you. The buyer simply purchases the power, like any commodity. The buyer doesn't even conceive that any discipline might be necessary."

Hammond said, "Do you know what he is talking about?"

Ellie nodded.

"I haven't a clue," Hammond said.

"I'll make it simple," Malcolm said. "A karate master does not kill people with his bare hands. He does not lose his temper and kill his wife. The person who kills is the person who has no discipline, no restraint, and who has purchased his power in the form of a Saturday night special. And that is the kind of power that science fosters, and permits. And that is why you think that to build a place like this is simple."

Mirage

2008-04-10T19:59:00.003+05:30

Chasing a mirage called love

On the tarred highway of life

With the sun roasting your flesh beneath the skin

Telling you that it is just a reflection of the insatiable fire

That is consuming you bit by bit.

Can he write?

2008-03-31T06:59:00.004+05:30

“Can he write?” is the question my parents and others very close to me have had to deal with since the day my writing aspirations started trickling into the public domain.

The first instance I remember is of the Special School I’d joined in my mid teens. Those days the physio mat and the Principal’s table were in the same room. I was kneeling holding the walking bar behind her and could hear her talking to some prospective donor about me: “he is very intelligent, we’re preparing him to appear for SSLC in a year or two. We’ll seek a scribe who’d understand his speech or provide him with a typewriter. He writes well and a small typewriter would do him good”. But the donor’s question may have stumped her: “does he understand the concept of ABCD?” I don’t remember how the conversation ended as in my mind I’d started laughing thinking of the futility of my beloved teacher’s efforts.

Such instances have kept happening thereafter. Sometime they are hurtful and humiliating. But most of the times they’re fun; like once (in pre-internet days) I’d written in a review that a topless shot of the hero and the heroine was there just for titillation and signified nothing in the context of the story. I was mischievously asked how I know what that scene meant and I bluntly said it meant that they were #@%$ing.

It is more fun when I show my efforts in fiction writing to my friends; how do you know that a cigarette would burnout if not used quickly enough? Or how do I know what happens on the first night of the marriage? The reply I itch to give is; “I peeped into your bedroom on your first night”. But that would be gross.

Such anecdotes can fill a chapter in my autobiography (if ever I wish to write one).

If you’re wondering why this sudden hyperbolic rant; nothing serious, I just read a sweet story about a ten year old spastic girl Jemma Leech winning a prestigious essay competition in the Houston Chronicle

PS. I thank everyone who appreciated, contacted and praised me after reading this. I must tell you that I’m not a role model material. If you really need a role model, please chase Alexis Leon, it is his indirect influence that writer Paresh exists.

And, for you doubting Toms: “Hey man/lady, life may not have given me the capability to experience everything. But, God/Nature has not deprived me of the faculty to observe and understand anything. So, I’m fit enough to write about anything.

Write Something

2008-01-22T13:14:00.000+05:30

Write something; is your plea, a request or a command.

But the emotions don’t allow my mind to express them in words.

To say how much is my love for you.

Or showing how precious you are for my soul.

Making me doubt whether I deserve the affection you shower on me.

This Too Shall Pass

2007-12-22T02:32:00.000+05:30

This Too Shall Pass is the mantra constantly flowing in my subconscious mind for the last fifteen years or so. Since I heard S. N. Goenka’s discourses on Vipassana Meditation in audio cassettes lent by one of Papa’s cousins.

I find this an effective tool not only to tide over a bad phase but also to be prepared for an abrupt end of a seemingly happy phase. It is not easy to keep ruminating this especially during the happy phase. It is only when I fall with a thud (figuratively) that I curse myself as to why I did not keep myself aware? And, the cycle continues.

What I have understood of Vipassana Meditation is that it inculcates in us an observer’s perspective in dealing with our emotions. It is particularly helpful for people who do not like to give credit to God for the good times and hold Him responsible for the bad times. For me He is just a person whom I like to call only when I get nature’s call (s) at any ungodly hour, otherwise I like to leave Him alone with his duties of running this world.

Twilight Hour

2007-12-01T02:52:00.000+05:30

Tears rolling down your eyes,

Draining the life out of me.

Is it my pain that you share?

Or is it your pent up rage?

A pinch on your cheek with my slender fingers,

Is the only consolation I can give.

A sparkling smile spreads on your lips.

Tears and the smile giving your face the feel of the twilight hour.

Happy New Year

2007-11-15T01:39:00.000+05:30

(This post was supposed to be uploaded on the night of 09/11/07, but…)

In the morning I’d thought of putting up a greeting here for New Year (Samvat 2064) and dedicating it to my off line friends who remain on my beck and call to make my life easier, but rarely get mentioned here (some of them do request, cringe, fight etc. with me to write about them here and make them famous, as if I’m getting 1000 hits in a week).

Thank you friends, it is not that I don’t value, cherish or respect your friendship; it is just that I feel odd to see my two worlds overlapping.

PS. The picture here of Rangoli done by Ma on the occasion of Diwali and New Year.

Winning Matters

2007-10-30T03:30:00.000+05:30

While watching Chak De India last night a thought crossed my mind that to build a strong team you have show results and guarantee a degree of success. It is a chicken or an egg kind of situation; you can say that to achieve success you need a strong team, but, the opposite may also be equally true. A strong leadership is required in both the scenarios as a power to guide the talent of the team in the right direction.

With the adulation that this film has got, I feared that I’d feel disappointed when I actually get see it. But, my fears were unfounded as I really enjoyed watching it.

But still there is a bit of disappointment because I haven’t learnt computer programming as Jaideep Sahni, which he claims has helped him being a scriptwriter. Instead I have invested money in Syd Field’s book and trying to revive a few story ideas languishing in my harddisk.

On Chesil Beach

2007-10-21T12:36:00.000+05:30

For the past few months I’ve been reading books back to back as a result of a pep talk from a writer I respect a lot. Earlier I’d have read just one or one and half books per year, and many more lying bookmarked at various stages of completion.

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan is the latest one that I read. This book marks a couple of firsts for me. This is the first proper book that I completed in one sitting (a toilet break and a tea break not counted). This is also the first short listed book for the Booker Prize that I read before the Prize was announced.

On Chesil Beach tells the story of a virgin couple, who have been lovers for some time now. It is set in the 60s when people did not talk about sex or discuss their anxieties with their partners openly. They have come for honeymoon in a resort on the Chesil Beach and it becomes a disaster. The author weaves their tale of one night with layers that lay out the past of the protagonists and discusses the politics of that period in England (went beyond my head).

Somehow, On Chesil Beach took me back to Vikram Seth’s An Equal Music maybe because the leading ladies of both the books are musicians. And, the review of Just Married by Baradwaj Rangan kept reverberating in my head.

Here is the first chapter of book from the New Yorker.

Reviews of the book as appeared in the Guardian and the New York Times (requires free registration).

A Stroll

2007-10-11T21:06:00.000+05:30

Wish I could take a stroll alone

Mindful of not harming the wet grass below my soft feet

Unmindful of a spontaneous tear dropping from the eye

Ruminating on the words of a Gibran or a Ghalib

Today I understood that an overdose of happiness can also disturb the Buddhist equilibrium of the accepted state of physical being.

Dreams Are Never Empty

2007-08-23T23:53:00.001+05:30

“Dreams are never empty”, said the wise person ages back, “you strive to fulfil them, some you will and some you won’t. But, it is great that you have dreams”.

Today I am living few of my dreams. It is not as if I was always aware of this fact. It struck me when I went back by a few years to search the reason for my optimism and attitude to give it a try in the past. Maybe the act of dreaming is more pleasurable than realising those dreams and the effort of making them sustain forever. Attaining something that you never dared to think you could achieve but yet not being aware you are so close to your destination is funny, because it throws up the dreaded question: “What Next?” Dreaded because I know that the step is sure impossibility because it will require an Anju Bobby George kind of leap and not the ‘one step at a time’ kind of approach will not be enough.

In fact, some of the dreams, which I’m living today, seemed to be requiring the same kind of leap, but I’m not conscious of making such a leap. The way I took to reach here is very hazy when I look back. Was it a gradual process or was it the snap of someone’s fingers that did the magic I really can’t say.

Still, in insomnia induced despondency, thoughts about euthanasia flash through the brain, probably because the impossibility of achieving more is gnawing inside. The vacuum inside never gets filled. Comments like “you’d be happy with yourself, look around people like you don’t even come out of their houses”, feel like pseudo.

P. S. I have understood that to maintain a blog successfully you should have led an interesting life (like my friends Alexis or BG), when I think of my childhood or early adulthood I recollect weird things like being made to stand in life size pit dug up in the garden with my legs tied with wooden splints and made to play cricket or being a virtual scarecrow with three of my limbs plastered for months to straighten them up when I was in my early-mid teens.

I don’t even have a strong opinion on Sanjay Dutt’s jail sentence and the eventual bail. Nor I can write a long post on Dravid’s decision to bat again (though I had told pappa to pray when he went to the temple next morning that Dravid doesn’t opt to bat again after taking the last wicket) in the last test against England.

P. P. S. The reason for the odd title is that my vocabulary was nil at the time this conversation happened, I was just beginning to feel the language and forming sentences that sometimes did not make sense. By the way, some of my friends still fight that they cannot understand a thing of what I say because my language is very poor. -:)

Hindi Verse

2007-06-06T20:44:00.000+05:30

Inn Galiyon Mein Kahin Humne Apni Zindagi Kho Di

Zaherili Hawaon Mein Humne Kuch Saansey Kho Di

Rishton ko Kamayab Banane Ki Koshish Mein
Humne Thodisi Khushi Kho Di

Jeene Ki Hod Mein Humne Sari Umiden Kho Di

Zamane Ke Dar Se Shayad Usne Sari Khwahishien Kho Di

Lagta Hai Teri Judaai Ke Ghum Mein
Usne Apni Hasi Kho Di

I’d be grateful if anyone can attempt to translate this gibberish into English for my friends who don’t follow Hindi.

P.S. Thanks to my cousin Ravi whose Shayari reignited in me the wish to write something in Hindi.

Be on his friends list on Orkut to receive your dose of some soul-stirring Shayari.

Opportunity Strikes Once

2007-05-20T08:56:00.000+05:30

Opportunity strikes only once.

Leaving you as a mere spectator as it passes by.

Disasters visit you daily.

Seeking your full involvement.

Leaving you drained.

Words

2007-05-11T18:21:00.000+05:30

Your words should throb with Life.

The sentences should rhyme

In a cascading rhythm.

Giving solace to the broken souls

And something to ponder for the Enlightened Ones.

A difficult task to achieve

But surely a state worth aspiring for.

Failure

2007-05-04T01:57:00.000+05:30

Even the most devastating failure shows you a glimpse of success if there was sincerity in the effort.

Yet the first thing we doubt when we face failure is our effort.

In the schizophrenic world inside our head we go through the events that lead us to failure. “Where did I go wrong?” is the question.

Was there a lack of application?

Were you more focused on the end result rather than the individual steps that would take you there?

You cannot even blame external factors because you are not generous enough to give them credit when you succeed.

Question of destiny and fate does not arise as your rational instincts can clearly see who is at fault.

So, the best option is to get up and move ahead with the awareness of all your previous endeavours in your mind, but not fearing failure.

Cutting Potatoes

2007-04-25T02:39:00.000+05:30

A spontaneous laughter or a chuckle is a rare response when I’m speaking. My supposedly witty remarks or funny observations often fall flat as I’ve to repeat them twice or thrice before they are fully understood and their charm is lost. Only a few people are alert anticipating something funny from me.

Last Sunday one of my favourite teachers and me were praising the former Principal of the Special School that I attended for a few years. The Principal was nothing short of a visionary, she not only instilled confidence in me to look for a life beyond the school, but also found me a job as a proof. And, I’ve survived there for the last ten years, just because of the confidence she showed in me. So, I told my favourite teacher: “if not for her (the Principal) I would be still cutting potatoes there (in the vocational training class of the school)”, which instantly made my teacher laugh and made me happy thinking that once in a while my one-liners do work.

Yahoo Messenger

2007-03-31T01:08:00.000+05:30

Friends,

I've lost the password of my Yahoo id pareshpalicha@yahoo.com. So, please don't leave any offline messages (or mails) there thinking that I'll get them when I login. Meanwhile, I've created an alternative id paresh_palicha@yahoo.com. Kindly update your address books.

I'm feeling very sad as this was my first email id, created by a friend, even before I started using the computer some 12 years back (can't even retrive the password as I have no idea of the details he fed while creating the account) and, some of the most important correspondence of my life was done through this id.

Pray, I can recollect the password soon. I'll be happy even if somebody can suggest any technique to hack the id.

A Trip Down The Memory Lane

2007-03-15T19:38:00.000+05:30

My Chaddi (childhood) friend SJL, who has committed himself to improve my internet chat vocabulary for the last few years forwarded the video of Mile Sur Mera Tumhara yesterday while chatting.

SJL sometimes becomes a philosopher and a guide too – adding ghee to my Khayali Pulav (loose translation: Pulav cooked in imagination only). Once from a distant corner in US of A he said that he missed his childhood in Alleppy. I said I did not miss anything about childhood as I am happier now than I was in my childhood.

He gave me a technique: first go back ten years – you’ll know what you’re missing now. Then follow the same exercise and go back twenty years.

He proved his point by sending this video.

The memories it refreshed are:

(The person appearing in video – the memories he/she refreshed).

01) Pt. Bhim Sen Joshi – the Dharwadi maestro who ran away from home over a fight with his father for an extra spoon of ghee in the rice.

02) Narendra Hirwani – the leg-spinner whose sixteen wicket haul in the Madras test to level the series against West Indies – Viv Richards’ Only Vimal Ad – Neena Gupta – my memory is going berserk, so stop here.

03) Kamal Hasan – Michael Madan Kama Rajan & Apoorva Sahodarargal – in Galaxy Theatre my brother had a minor scuffle with a drunkard because he responded “why do you bring sick people in the theatre?” when requested to exchange seats (in a houseful theatre) so my brother could sit with me while watching MMKR – and, of course Sundari Neeum Sundaran Njanum.

04) Deepa Sahi – Hero Hiralal with Naseerudin Shah.

05) Dina Pathak – Golmaal.

06) Tanuja – Kajol in Bekhudi, it was released during that period; I was wondering why everyone was praising this loud girl, but started liking her later.

07) Waheeda Raheman – Guide, when I read the book, I was disappointed; they had given a lousy treatment to the story. It was Raju’s story in the book and they made Rosy’s film.

08) Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna – Spirit of Unity Concerts on Doordarshan.

09) Ramanathan Krishnan – Ramesh Krishnan beating Mats Wilander in the initial rounds of Australian Open once.

10) Amitabh Bachchan – Manmohan Desai’s Ganga Jamuna Saraswati & Toofan.

11) Mithun Chakravarthy – Watan Ke Rakhwale – he climbing a vertical wall like a monkey and singing I want to beat somebody with Neelam.

12) Jeetendra – a poor remake of Rajavinte Makan (don’t remember the name)

Random thoughts:

Those days listening to Prime Minister’s speech from the Red Fort on the Independence Day and repeating Jai Hind after him was the most important thing to do.

Those days Hanuman had the macho image of Dara Singh saying Jai Shri Ram and not the baby cartoon singing Hanuman Chalisa as a Rap song.

Those days watching TV serials was fun.

(The Video is of poor quality).

Enna Thavam

2007-02-21T01:03:00.000+05:30

This video is dedicated to my friend AM, who died in a fatal bike accident three ago in the month of February. He may have been 24 years at that time. He used to come here daily to practice animation on my PC for nearly a month before the dreaded day, and the first thing he used to do after booting the system was to play a version of this song used Dileep’s film Thilakam on Winamp. It was his favourite.

The Diving-Bell And The Butterfly

2007-02-15T17:45:00.000+05:30

I felt embarrassed, ashamed and humiliated when I made my mother read one of my recent posts on this blog a couple of days back; embarrassed not because I had written something that she wasn’t meant to read, but because I found some glaring flaws in the post as she was reading it aloud. Some misplaced/missing words, some grammatical errors that made think of the people who must have read that post and chuckled (I mail my new posts to at least two dozen people), but were kind enough to reply with comments similar to “well-written” and some even posted comments on the blog. It took me a couple of hours to correct the post, but took me the whole night to get over the shame; making me think of excuses for such a lapse; my mind working faster than the two fingers of my right hand or maybe I should’ve read it aloud before posting it and many such things. The worse I feared was that I won’t be able to get back to blogging for a few months until this event remained fresh in my mind.

But as you can see that it was not to happen and I am back here writing. Things changed when I got a courier with a book titled The Diving-Bell And The Butterfly by Jean Dominique Bauby yesterday.

I was explaining the speciality of the book to my father; “it is the autobiography of the French editor of Elle, who dictated it just by batting his left eyelid after suffering a paralytic stroke”, and here I’m sulking about my two stiff fingers of my right hand that won’t move at the speed of my thoughts.

The book is a remarkable memoir of the author’s life in hospital after he suffered the stroke or locked-in syndrome. It is anecdotal and describes how he feels being in the cocoon of his body. It isn’t all that gloomy as I make it sound; there are a few really hilarious passages where he talks about hospital staff, some rude, some indifferent and some being a nuisance.

Somewhere before the end of the book Bauby tells us that he wishes to write a play where the hero suffers from locked-in syndrome and goes through all that he has experienced, in the climax he gets up from his bed and exclaims something like; “Shit! It was just a dream”.

A slim book (133 pages) with large fonts, this is the first book that I could finish in matter of hours.

If you are interested in knowing where I got to know about this book, just read the first comment on this post by Jai Arjun Singh

A detailed review of the book from The New York Times. (Free registration required).

And, thank you HCP for getting the book for me.

A Short Story

2007-02-08T22:57:00.000+05:30

I wrote this story in the same period when I wrote these poems. So, the same introduction will fit here.

Radical Parenting

The cigarette between his fingers was burnt upto its butt. His hands were stretched on the railing as if balancing his body. He was looking down from his second floor flat, but seeing nothing. The soft wind blowing made his Kurta stick to his chest. He looked like a creative person with black square framed glasses, the balding head with grey and black hair made him look experienced and mature.

Chhagan bhai (as he is known) seemed to be tense and nervous in this posture, the cigarette in his hand was a fair indication of his state, he always puffed at a high frequency, but now it was burnt out without being touched by his lips.

The problem occupying Chhagan bhai’s mind was his daughter.

Parul Ved, a final year B. Com student in a local college, a 20 year old girl with average height and beauty.

For Chhagan bhai his daughter is a semi-modern girl, who is not mature enough for her age. It was she who was bothering him from a few days.

Precisely five days ago Parul had told something that hit him like a thunder.

They were enjoying their dinner when she suddenly spoke disturbing the silence of the room. “Pappa”, she said; she had this peculiar habit of calling him that in an odd tune, and he loved it. He looked up. Surprise, confusion and concern showing on his face. “What is it?” he asked. He didn‘t remember once his daughter stopping for him to answer after calling, she went on talking even if he was not listening. Now she had stopped to get his full attention. “Pappa I want to tell you something”, she told. “Don’t you think I’m listening”, Chhagan bhai said; “see my ears, they are standing erect as a dog’s to listen to you”, he continued mockingly.

Parul smiled, her face showed that something was bothering her, she was searching for words, Chhagan bhai's patience was being tested, he was keeping the grin intact on his face despite of himself, He sensed something, somewhere was wrong.

“I’ve a friend”, Parul said, “He wants to meet you”.

“So”, Chhagan bhai asked, his face was still pleasant, his eyes soft, but the smile had disappeared from his lips. “ I think I know all your friends and I have met them all”, “You don’t know him”, Parul replied .She was searching for words again then she spoke after a while, “Pappa, he wants to marry me”.

“Oh, so tell me that he is your boyfriend”, Chhagan bhai quipped, the smile returning to his lips.

“What?” Parul’s mother almost shouted as the expression on her face was of utter shock; her eyes were fixed on Parul’s face, unblinking. Parul was frightened as hell when she saw her eye .She thought they would never blink again.

“Listen”, Chhagan bhai said in a shrill voice, commanding their attention. Parul turned her face towards him, pushing her specs back on the bridge of her nose. His wife looked at him, her eyes still unblinking. “By the way, who is he?” he asked. “He was my senior in college”, Parul said. Her father was listening intently so she continued, “His father is a seafood exporter”. He was not satisfied by her explanation, so he asked with some irritation, “I asked about the boy, what is his name?”

Parul was getting tensed; she was finding it hard to breathe, she felt her heart turning around in her chest. She found it hard to speak and when she spoke the words came after much strain, "Pappa - his name is Shabbir Kapasi, he is a Muslim”, she said. Chhagan bhai was shocked, he had a feeling that something was churning inside his belly and his face stoned. It took him a few moments to regain his composure, “well’’, he spoke as if he was speaking in vacuum, “tomorrow is Saturday - call him, let’s see tomorrow evening”. Parul was happy but restrained her face from showing it.

For rest of the dinner there was a mist of silence hanging on the table, all three of them wanted to break it, but nobody dared to.

That night Chhagan bhai and his wife had a discussion, the crux of the discussion was Parul. His wife was wild at him for the way he handled the situation. “Then what do you think I should have done?” he asked desperately.
“You should’ve told no in the first place”, she said blankly. “Don’t be a fool, what do you think would’ve happened if I would have told no, the talk would have ended there with no result”, Chhagan bhai said with a tone of understanding.

“What do you mean?” his wife asked like a child. “See if I had said no at first, then it would have meant that we were washing our hands off from our responsibility and that she could have it in her own way”, Chhagan bhai explained.

“Yes”, she said, as if she suddenly had a clear vision after being short sighted for a long time.

The next morning at the breakfast there was an unusual muteness of the night. The morning sun was filtering into the kitchen cum dinning room therefore nullifying the need for artificial lighting.

The silence was heavy as an iron veil hanging around them. The silence, which was unheard of for last few years, was now swallowing the pleasantness of this home.

Chhagan bhai broke the ice suddenly. “Parul were you serious last night?” he was looking at her with a mixture of intensity and softness on his face. “What?’’ she asked, her face was an assortment of thoughts that were running through her head. He repeated the question.

“Yes”, she said, gaining the sureness, which she knew she lacked, “otherwise I wouldn’t have told you”.

“Well”, Chhagan bhai said, a kind of ambiguous look on his face, but it was polite and his tone was somewhat heavy, “What I meant to ask was you wanted to study future - M.B.A or CA”. “I will-“, she started to say, but Chhagan bhai cut her short, "by the way what he – Shabbir is doing? “

“Pappa, he is doing M.Com privately and he is also helping his father. He is planning to go to U.S to do a course in Management, he has got scholarship from some private concern”, she said.

“I thought you’re planning to get married immediately”, Chhagan bhai said, a surprise showing on his face, but his voice was calm.

“No Pappa”, she said, mistaking his surprise for mock she continued; “I told this early because my stomach was aching “.

“Oh”, he smiled a faint smile it vanished immediately. Parul became conscious of her mistake and she added; “Pappa, I also plan to finish my higher studies “.

“Has he talked about you to his parents? “ “No Pappa”, she answered; “He says we wait till he comes back “.

“What if he changes his mind?” “Chhagan bhai asked. “It can happen with me also Pappa “, Parul said, an odd type of confidence shone in her eyes as she spoke the words which she never expected to utter even to herself.

Chhagan bhai glanced at her as if he were a patient of amnesia, then spoke, “Parul Beta, you have grown up, really you have grown up, I thought it was only your size “.

It was at sharp five o’clock that the bell rang. Parul went and opened the door, after a slight murmur at the door she came in followed by a man-boy.
“Pappa this is Shabbir”, Parul said.

Chhagan bhai got up from his chair watching him. He had not seen such perfection in his life. What he was looking at was conceptualisation of Hindi movie star. He was tall, his complexion fair with strong black eyes, his face was soft and shining with lemon green hue on the parts of his chin, cheeks and moustache as it was clean shaved. His hair was parted in the middle; it flapped like horse’s mane when he moved his head. “Hello sir “, he said.

“You being Parul’s friend should call me uncle “, Chhagan bhai said.

“Yes uncle “, Shabbir obeyed.

After a few stray topics Chhagan bhai confronted Shabbir with the same queries as he had made to Parul, he was surprised at the similarities in answer of both of them. Shabbir was calm and composed; he didn’t hesitate to speak out his mind. Despite of himself Chhagan bhai was impressed by this boy and so he told Parul; “he is a brilliant boy”, he had said after Shabbir had gone.

But after five days also his mind was not free, the image of what happened in the past few days struck his head in random, in his mind he had accepted it, but he was lacking the conviction, and the support of his heart to evaluate whether it was right or wrong. He had a feeling that he was growing old and was losing control over life. Somehow he wanted to tell no to Parul, but he had no justification for doing that. The image of Parul came into his eyes, a clear photographic image. A strange sensation crept into him, because the image was not of his daughter but of an individual he did not understand. It went out and again Chhagan bhai’s heart started wandering in the blacked-out alley of his doubts.

I was there…

2007-01-31T01:32:00.000+05:30

My mother makes special effort to brighten up my Sunday mornings, it may be by making something of my liking for breakfast or promising to make something exotic for lunch that I would not eat on weekdays fearing bowel problems or just a simple thing as skimming through the newspapers to find something that would interest me before I wake up, and most probably every time I disappoint her by saying that I have already read this on the Net or on the writer’s blog.

But last Sunday was different; we were in Thiruvananthapuram at my brother’s place. She came in the room where I was sleeping with a paper in hand and my six-year-old nephew in tow; “Want to see your Tatu (a form of Kaku, which he learnt when he was a toddler) jump in the bed?” she asked him; taking out paper she wanted to show me.

In my mind I started wondering what it may be; thinking about any interesting book or a movie that I’d have mentioned to her during the previous week, nothing. I concluded it must be the review of Salaam-e-Ishq.

The image of Rajiv Menon looking out from the steam engine used in Guru stared at me as she put the paper in front of my face. I smiled and turned. “Look at his face”, Ma told Jai, my nephew. My excitement was also fuelled by the fact that I had spent a few hours with the interviewee a couple of years back during the AbilityFest 2005

I struggled to see who the interviewer was. Ah! It was Baradwaj Rangan. I was a bit disappointed to see a short lead (unlike his usual longish introductions describing the preparation, apprehensions and sometimes even the goof-ups) and the direct Q & A format. But I read it intently waiting for Rajiv to mention Fiddler on the Roof as one of his future project.

I had heard a conversation between Rajiv Menon and Jaya Bachchan during the lunch at the Park Hotel after jury meet of AbilityFest, discussing this project where names such as Javed Akthar and Rahman popped up. Rajiv Menon saying something like “we’ve to convince Javed Saab that the script is not against any community, if he backs out, Rahman won’t stay and it will not be worth making this film without both of them”. So, when he said in the interview “Now I’ve written a script based on Fiddler on the Roof, with Amitabh Bachchan in mind. I hope I get to do this once the formalities are worked out”. I could see what those formalities were.

It gives me cold sweat and Goosebumps to think back that the man sitting opposite me and who had persistently offered to help me with my lunch was the same person who had directed Kajol in Minsara Kanavu/Sapnay and had shot my all time favourite Manisha Koirala in Bombay.

Sidelight: Imagine Big B singing Agar Main Amir Aadmi Hota To in his legendary baritone as Chaim Topol sings If I were a Rich Man in the original as shown in the video below:

Here is a detailed analysis of Fiddler on the Roof by Jai Arjun Singh

Some of the recent classic interviews by Baradwaj Rangan

Gautham Menon

Aparna Sen/Govind Nihalani

TM Krishna/Aruna Sairam

Finally, thanks to my internet friends Dilip Muralidaran & Bishwanath Ghosh for teaching me how to upload a video on the blog in the dead of the night.

Second take on Thanmatra

2007-01-21T13:18:00.000+05:30

Read it here

Black Friday

2007-01-13T03:04:00.000+05:30

I had sourced Black Friday: The True Story of the Bombay Bomb Blasts by S Hussain Zaidi, the crime reporter of Midday from Mumbai when Abu Salem’s extradition from Portugal was hot news and media was busy drawing up his biography. I thought this book would give me insight into this man, but my brother-in-law who had read the book before me, as he had bought it for me said that there is hardly any mention of Salem, this book is about how Tiger Memon orchestrated the blasts. So, it went into my “will read someday” stock.

I was also aware that Anurag Kashyap had made a film based on it. So, the book never left my consciousness. When the convictions in the Blast Cases began and news of film’s imminent release started floating, the urgency to read it returned. Ma had to dust up my stock to find this book.

I did not know what to expect, I just started reading and to my surprise this was one of fastest read I had (though it took nearly fifteen days, so you know how quick I read :p). Black Friday is engrossing to say the least; it starts with prologue that describes what happened to common people at various locations in the city where blast happened on March 12, 1993. Then it moves on to build up the events and preparations that happened before the blasts. The blasts take place followed by investigation, nabbing of few of the culprits and the beginning of the trail. Culminating with an epilogue that shows the suffering and the loss of common folks from diverse social strata who were on the roads on that day.

Personally for me the blast of 1993 were distant (those were the pre-news-channels days). But the 7/11 local train blasts gave me the taste of terror. Having at least dozen people I know travelling by those trains at that time of the day made me really panicky. Frantic calls and SMSing started enquiring about the well-being of relatives, friends and acquaintances, which continued for a few days. It made me wonder about the foot soldiers who may have placed the explosives on the trains for a few thousand rupees; what they may be feeling if they were watching the devastation they had caused on TV, or if one of their relatives or friends happened to be the victim of these blasts.

Black Friday brought the same upsetting questions to my mind.

P.S. The film is expected to be in the theatres on February 9th.

P.P.S. Here is an early review of the film.

Resolutions – Nothing this year

2006-12-30T02:04:00.000+05:30

Generally around end of October or beginning of November I begin to do the mental exercise of analysing how I faired during the year, did I achieve the targets that I had set for myself and resetting targets for the coming year. This year is different as I didn’t realize it coming to an end until mid-December, which makes me wonder if I have become mentally numb or is it the awareness in the back of my mind that long term planning is anyway futile. I would like to believe the latter, but the former is also equally true.

This year has been largely uneventful, except for winning a couple of good friends and restoring relationship with couple of old ones thanks to this amazing thing called internet.

And the best part is that I don’t need to make any conventional resolutions like reduce the intake of carbon monoxide, tobacco, alcohol etc. or abstain from other worldly vices (I don’t wish to increase the traffic here by naming them as people googling them will eventually land up here) or even a simple thing like ‘stop being gluttonous and bring yourself back into shape’ (my mother always chides me saying that my appetite is less than my six year old nephew’s). I lead such a life that would take years of penance and meditation for ordinary folks to achieve (the pun is unintended, look around you, where else you will find a 34 years old man who doesn’t smoke, who doesn’t drink and above all who is celibate). I give the credit for this line of thinking to Arun Shourie, who said somewhat same things to describe his spastic son in a TV interview few years back.

So I always ended up making lofty resolutions like ‘write stories’ ‘finish the script you have in mind’ ‘read more’ etc. etc. and at the end heading nowhere.

No resolutions this time around, just a wish that we all have a happy year ahead.

Happy New Year!

Sreesanth's Dance and the Amul Topical

2006-12-26T19:48:00.000+05:30

Sreesanth's dance in the first test against SA. I was watching the Match live with an USB keyboard on my lap connected to the laptop that was kept on stool nearby (I've this arrangement as my legs have the habit of going up in the air at their own will & it is risky to keep the expensive laptop on them). I was wishing India to cross 400 runs lead, but wasn't focusing on the match. I saw Sree hit the ball & camera following it to the boundary, but was intrigued to hear Ravi Shastri laugh uncontrollably in the commentary box. It was only after a few moments that tv viewers got to see what really happened that made Ravi Shastri laugh so much.

This Amul topical was like garnish on that happy moment. My relationship with Amul topicals deserve a full length post, so more on them later.

You can find the Amul topicals

here.

(This is the first time I've posted an image here on my own. I always ask Alexis to do it for me & this is also the first time I've typed a post online, generally I type what want to post & paste it here, so I fear lot of spelling mistakes & missing words).

Towards A Perfect World?

2006-10-07T02:39:00.001+05:30

My first acquaintance with Down’s syndrome happened in my early teens when I used to go to Cottolengo Special School in Fort Kochi for physiotherapy sessions twice a week. A boy with chubby cheeks and small eyes used give my mother company while Sr. Annie and Sr. Margaret tried hard to flex my extra-stiff limbs.

I wasn’t aware of what that boy was suffering from or what his condition was called. I began to understand the condition much later during my days in Raksha, a special school in Kochi. I understood that this condition happened due to chromosomal abnormality, which could be detected even during the early stages of the pregnancy so it was possible to terminate the pregnancy if one wished to.

During the same time I happened to see a debate between the moral brigade and the science brigade on BBC about the pre-natal detection of disability. The next day I took up the subject with someone, who had experience of working in disability field, she said that striving for a perfect world and our reluctance to accept something different may be good arguments, but I won’t advise anyone to knowingly bring a disabled child into the world, when we ourselves are not sure about our lives how can we bring a child who will need our support all his life.

Some days back my friend Nilesh posted a news item on his blog titled Down Syndrome births drop: Decline suggests abortions up in wake of better tests

I again took up the subject with another able-bodied friend who is ten years younger to me , married and with a child, with no connection in disability field except me. He reflected similar thoughts as the previous person I had discussed the subject with.

I myself am unclear on the subject, I have sometimes wondered (and sometimes wished also) what would have happened if similar tests were available for Cerebral Palsy before I was born. The world in which I live in would have been a slightly different in my absence, better or worse is anybody’s guess.

P.S. but during a meeting held recently to discuss the proposed amendments in the People with Disabilities Act, which has provisions for prevention of disability I realised that this pre-natal detection is similar to sex-determination test, which is illegal.

P.P.S. imagine sometime in near future a test is developed that could screen defective foetuses that have the potential of turning out to be wife-beaters, hate-mongers or child-abusers then this world will surely be perfect.

Women Power

2006-07-19T23:29:00.000+05:30

Surprise! I’m not going to write about the contribution of fairer sex in fighting the Blog Block here. But I am feeling like a protagonist from Rang De Basanti just being mentioned here, which was due to the timely help from a witty lady. Oops, I wrote the thing that I had said I won’t write about.

Actually, I found an interesting study titled More Disabled Kids Live With Single Women . This study is US-centric. It got me thinking that if such a study is conducted in India it will derive somewhat same results. We may be proud of our stable family/social structure that supposedly is good for the children.

But, when it comes to raising a disabled child, I have found that initially it is the courage of the mother that makes the difference. This trend is prevalent among all sections of society. The extended family may or may not come along depending on the success she achieves in her task. But she keeps on fighting her battle till the end as did the Rani of Jhansi.

How I wish that our social scientists would carry out studies about women that defy the conventional Tulsi/Parvati image of a typical housewife in India and give us the reasons behind their courageous defiance.

P.S. If there is difficulty in opening the above link, try this New York Times link (free registration required).

My Images Tag

2006-07-14T10:19:00.000+05:30

Tagged by Alexis

1. Most desired celebrity

Manisha Koirala
Comment: She is the most desirable celebrity for me in the truest sense of the word. I had fallen head over heels for her (figuratively) since the day I saw her picture in the paper when Subhash Ghai launched her in Saudagar. My admiration only kept growing for her as an actress with films Bombay, Khamoshi and Dil Se. I have also forgiven her for films like Ek Chhotisi Love Story and Market. Heroines have come and gone after her whom I have liked, but no one can beat her.

See those eyes and that smile; I don’t think you can disagree with me.

2. Want to do this some day

Do a short term (Month long) Film Appreciation Course at FTII, Pune
Comment: I don’t think a comment is necessary here. Hope it will happen in the next couple of years.

3. Want to visit this place

Pondicherry
Comments: No, I haven’t read Mukundan’s book yet. But I have heard stories about this place from a friend who died in a bike accident a couple of years back and also read Alexis’ post that intensified my urge. The place has some charming attraction.

4. Random Favourite

Khalid Mohamed
Comment: Sorry all the people on my Blogroll, you all deserve to be here. But it is because of this person that I know you all. It was the chance sighting of his review of Khalnayak in TOI while watching the film on the video (those days films released simultaneously in the theatres and video) that stirred something inside my head. Now, I get withdrawal symptoms if I don’t get to read his review of a film on the Sunday.

5. I was tagged by Alexis

I wish that Bishwanath Ghosh and Varna to carry this tag forward.

Creative Writing/Literature

2006-07-01T22:05:00.000+05:30

No, No!! Don’t worry I am not going to elucidate on the subject, so please read on. In fact I was feeling frustrated/guilty about just reading other people’s blogs (and sometimes commenting on them) and not doing anything with mine. So, just thought of posting some Quotes on the subject, which I found while digging the Net for a suitable quote for a subject I have to write on.

I have always liked write-ups beginning with quotes; somehow they give an impression that the writer has certain command over the subject or that the written piece would have intellectual depth. It is also the proper way of writing as mentioned in numerous articles in the Competition Success Review, which I read ages back.

Personally, I’ve been successful in beginning a write-up with a quote only once or twice.

I have kept my fingers crossed that I can do it for third time also.

Kaavya Vishwanathan Is Not Guilty (Pun Intended)

2006-05-25T02:25:00.000+05:30

(The title is modified to clarify that this post was intended to be funny).

The greatest part of a writer's time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book. -Samuel Johnson, lexicographer (1709-1784)

I got this quote in a mail from A.Word.A.Day which prove that Kaavya Vishwanathan is not guilty of plagiarism.

I haven’t read her book, but would like to own it now as a Collector’s Item.

An afterthought: if I had the capacity of internalising books, Khalid Mohamed,
Sidney Sheldon and Harold Robins would have got a run for their money, as I always reread passages from their writings. Never had the patience for rereading any other authors.

Talk

2006-05-23T01:48:00.001+05:30

‘Talk’, they say. ‘Otherwise how will people know that you are intelligent’.

I have heard this rant from the time when I could mumble only a couple of words to this day when my speech quite ok. But still my vocal cords betray me at some vital moments. Very shameful, it seems.

Experts say it is in my mind – it is purely psychological. ‘If you can talk to me with clarity, why not with others?’ is the question. The solutions: take a deep breath – don’t premeditate – be relaxed. I try all that but my voice still chokes. It is physical or psychological is open to debate.

One day a messiah appeared, I repeated my problem to him expecting the same ‘it is in your mind’ kind of reply. But what he said stunned me: ‘you don’t need to improve, you see communication is a two way street. If you are putting maximum effort to talk, the listener should at least put some effort in understanding what you are saying”.

Now I thank him every time my voice fails me.