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).

Enna Thavam

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

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

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 eyes. 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…

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

Read it here

Black Friday

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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)

(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

‘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.

Tagged Again…

Tagged by Alexis

5 people who top your shit list….. and why:

1. Couple of people who pretend to be very close, but I understand that their affection is hollow.

2. Mahesh Bhatt – for talking ill of Osho.

3. Sanjay Bhansali – for making Black

4. George Bush Jr. – for all his foolishness around the world. Alexis, Silverine & Anand the Thanda (Father) of this tag please bail me out if something like this happens to me.

No other serious contenders

Close brushes with death/danger:

No serious accidents – A couple of falls riding pillion on a scooter, a couple of stitches here & there. Falling off the toilet seat (Ha…Ha… Ha, a regular feature & getting bumps on the forehead, as mentioned here). Breaking a few specs, while friends try to physically carry me (sometime glass pierces the nose or eyebrows). That is all.

5 Preferable modes of suicide, in descending order:

This is a tricky question for a person with pronounced suicidal tendencies.

1. Cyanide pill.

2. Plastic rope noose.

3. Stilling wrists.

4. Stilling throat with finger nails (tried & failed).

5. Choking with bare hand (-do-).

5 Guilty pleasures:

1. Browsing corruptible websites (only once in a while, being a stingy person – I get worried about internet costs, having opted limited subscription).

2. Drinking binges (once in a year or two years – due to physical limitations). Please don’t tell my parents, I’m a very good boy, you see. :D

3. Reading blogs while pretending to be doing something very important.

4. Freely using Malayalam swear words (cannot do the same in English, Gujarati or mother-tongue Kutchhi).

5. Wasting weekends virtually doing nothing.


5 things you never want to forget:

1. Good friends.

2. People who gave me confident/had faith in me when I was just dreaming about becoming a writer/journalist.

3. My first interview with Lal (of Siddique-Lal fame), because later it lead to this

4. Confessing my love to someone (though the result wasn’t positive, but got a patient hearing, that meant the world to me).

5. That ‘Happiness is just a State of Mind’.

5 things you wish to forget:

1. The Fiascos (there are many & some of them are really unmentionable in public).

2. Bad experiences with people/being misunderstood due to the lack of communication skills on my part.

3. My disability (at least once in a while).

4. Time spent in Bangalore & Sangli for treatment (around 3 years – the most depressing period of my life till date).

Cannot remember anything else worth forgetting.

5 really exotic dishes you have tried:

Never been experimental with food. Like to eat anything vegetarian that tastes good.

5 crushes/loves in your life… in chronological order

1. CH (I must’ve been 10 then).

2. One Not Five (a nickname – from kindergarten-).

3. SG (sort of an Oedipus complex, in my mid-teens).

4. Manisha Koirala (want to direct a film with her).

5. RS.



Strangest dream you ever had:

Thinking… Thinking… Nothing… People sometime tell my mother that they saw me walking/running in their dreams… How I wish to see that dream.

5 most valued personal possessions:

1. My Wheelchairs (for all practical reasons).

2. My table.

3. A Wrist Watch.

4. Some of my writings.

5. My laptop.

5 favorite superheroes….. and why:

Not very fond of superheroes.

Silverine I’m handing over your Poolival (Tiger tail) to my friend Varna

Happy???

My review of Iqbal

See it Here

My Hate-List

I was tagged to do this by Alexis, who is my real life hero.

But preparing this list mentally was hard work and required a lot of internal churning. Also, I am a little scared to put up this list after seeing the response Alexis got for his.

This is not a Hate-List in the strictest sense of the term, as it includes things, which can be in ‘Do Not Like’ to ‘Utterly Despise’ categories.

muhabbat me.n nahii.n hai farq jiine aur marane kaa
usii ko dekh kar jiite hai.n jis kaafir pe dam nikale

Ghalib

A loose translation of this Urdu couplet may mean “In Love there is not much difference between life and death; you live by the sight of the person who is worth dying for.”

I feel the same for Hate. You have to live with the things/qualities you hate, which makes life worthwhile. And, I am not sure if I may start to admire any of these things/qualities in future or in a specific person. This is a list in passing.

01. Strand of long hair any place other than the head (specifically in food).

02. Lethargy (in me. Being physically a very lazy person I feel that I could have gained a lot more from life if I could keep my body active as my brain is).

03. Pompousness/Showing off (would love it if it is integral to someone’s personality e.g. Shah Rukh Khan).

04. Cranky Children (it is the fault of adults. Children should always remain Happy).

05. Bickering.

06. Pep Talkers/Self proclaimed motivators (hate it when total strangers come up & say: “Try, you can do it”. Appreciate it from people who have passed through similar situations or from people I love/respect).

07. Anger (it makes me physically stiff, hampers my abilities to talk, so I always try to delay the thoughts that may bring anger).

08. Lack of Application.

09. Imposing Ideas.

10. Extremism of any kind.

Three Mediocre Poems

I wrote these poems between late-teens and mid-twenties. An age when everyone feels that what one is going through are the most original things that no one else before him has experienced or will experience in future. I wonder if I was bit late in going through such a phase in life, as everything else happened a bit late in my life then it is supposed to be. In the those days there was a heady cocktail of Ghazals of Pankaj Udhas, Jagjit Singh etc. and literature and discourses of Osho pushing me. Above all, I was buoyed by the fact that a couple of my ‘Letters to the Editor’ and a couple of amateur film reviews had been published in newspapers and magazines.

Your Eyes

Your deep brown eyes

The depiction of truth and honesty

Whenever they look into me

They reach the depth of my soul

And come out with treasures hidden in it

I feel like a fool

Searching for words

To describe Creator’s creativity

But I need steam of words

For the feelings boiling in the kettle of my heart.

Memories

There is corner in my heart

Which I keep as a locker

To store my past

Its memories sweet and sour and bitter

Present a kaleidoscopic picture of my past

And tell me how well I fared with my lot

The way memories dominate my mind

It helps me to run away from ambiguity of my future.

Lost

Dreams are lost with the sweet slumber.

Wishes are buried deep inside the heart.

The vulnerability to love,

The courage to hate,

Is lost.

Hopes for the future,

Memories of the past,

Are lost as I pass through the present.

Futility of existence pierces the soul.

Now I wish my life to be lost in the oblivion of eternity.

An Email that made my day

From: VISHWA BHATT [mailto:bhattvm@yahoo.com]
Sent: 11 November 2005 23:34
To: pcpalicha@sify.com
Subject: Re:Interview!

Dear Pareshji,
Thanks a million for your mail.
It is a fantastic interview you have written.
I am so thankful to you for this.
I appreciate your command not only over the language,but the subject also.
It is one of the most authentic interview.
I wish u all the best,
Thanks,
Vishwa Mohan Bhatt.

Paresh Palicha wrote:
Dear Panditji,

I will ever remain grateful to you for giving me the opportunity to interview you when you were in Cochin, Kerala last month. The interview was published in the Hindu. I will courier you a copy very soon. I have attached the weblinks.

http://www.hindu.com/fr/2005/10/28/stories/2005102801230200.htm


http://pareshpalicha.blogspot.com/

Your ever grateful follower

Thanks & regards,
Paresh