Intensity and a bit of Pamuk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. -:)