Sparks in a Book

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

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?

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

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?

“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

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

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

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

(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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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).