A WORLD OF RECONCILIATIONS

When I am angry, disgruntled and struggling to make a point and “a restrictive word count, speech time or listening capacities” snub my views, I feel my efforts to opine are all worthless. As a journalist, I sense the tremendous responsibility I hold when a shocker hits headlines, all eyes turn to you…all of a sudden people begin to make sense of the news you supply, which otherwise they’d simply prefer to pay no heed to.
November 26, 2008 is one such day, well-etched in my memory. It was a chaotic, unpalatable and hurtful night of misfortunes. Three top cops martyred, over 175 butchered by “frozen in the head lunatics,” failure of intelligence, commandos battling to calm a city that was suddenly suffering from dysfunctional normality and unwanted political drama. All this in three nights…yes, it probably appears to be a script from some Hollywood ‘A’ rated action movie….but you’re sadly mistaken. This is reality; this is the “great Indian dream”, a nightmare that keeps interrupting our peaceful life…for which solutions cannot be found through hypnosis. “Relive this painful dream and thank your stars if you come out alive,” is all we get in reconciliation. “Ah!! I am safe, nothing happened to me this time,” we sigh, when terror strikes. Is that all that is left of us…are we just waiting to be slaughtered by a bunch of lunatics…who in the name of religion, keep crushing us time and again. “Oh!” we again sigh, “thank God, its not one of us…they were not Hindus, not Christians,” so another reconciliation. Good, our religious hypocrisy always gets the better of us.
Politicos also indulge in similar mud-slinging. The opposition pin points failure of the government, the ruling party tries to be apathetic and speaks about compensations to families and there is some bantering, blame game and wasteful media coverage (word space and air time) offered in platter to them. So, while our commandos struggle to secure hostages and nab terrorists holed up in the locales, our politician fly down from their well-protected hubs to grab some media attention and speak about all they should not. So, attention is diverted, the police tries to bodyguard our dear friends who we once voted for, instead of securing the terror stricken place. Though, I must admit, the one anti-north ridden politician made me proud this time… he refused to come out of his haven, he did not ramble…however there were smses being passed…only goes to show how much we missed him during this time of crisis. Where was he? Probably his attention seeking tactics slipped when he saw Indian soldiers battling through thick and thin…on land he claimed owned by the marathi manoos…I have a strong feeling that he is ashamed. But, well…it is just a feeling. Some people never choose to learn. But if his silence has worked in our stride…then I am glad.
So, now, as I wish to write no more and feel exhausted, dispirited and cheated by the “spirit of Mumbai” jingle, that keeps jingling from foolish mouths…this angry self, says adieu, we need to get back to work, I have another day to look forward to, another news report to cover and may be some better news to bring to you. Uh!!! Is this is another reconciliation? Probably, yes.

Change!!!! we have...

The implausible is said to have taken place last week. Once victims of slavery and racism today hold the seat of power. The secret is simple—Yes we can and the well-worded belief — the Change we need, the two main slogans of Barack Obama's campaign. Obama's victory however was no mean task. The U.S may have been progressive when it came to technology; money but feminism and racism are still core issues that strike at the heart of America. However, the change that the U.S is celebrating is less about power and more about having its first "black" President. It's surprising though that India is celebrating this change, in fact, one of my dear friends was telling me about the need for an Obama in India. Hey wait a second…Obama hasn't even started executing his duties. In India we witnessed change decades ago. In a country where Hindu-Muslim riots are forever persistent, and where Muslims are a minority (blacks are a minority in America) we had our first Muslim President Dr Zakir Husain in 1967. India is the same country where the British Raj and reformers struggled for women emancipation, but hey…we had our first women Prime Minister Mrs Indira Gandhi in 1966 (A women President in America is still to see the light of day). Well, if you are still not convinced, India also had its first Dalit President, Dr A.P.J Kalam in 2002 (Dalits were once considered untouchables). So as a passing food for thought to my dear friend who wanted an Obama in India and to all my readers…I think we have always had more to celebrate than America.
Change we made in every decade after ever since we got Independence…unfortunately we chose to ignore.

Strangers in the night

Aren’t we are all strangers. In reality, friends surface out of strangers, and life begins when two strangers meet and fall in love. Even when a baby comes out of the mother’s womb, the world around is alien to him/her. Surprisingly, it is rare that people acknowledge the fact that relationships emerge from the unknown? Familiarity happens only out of the unfamiliar. Though one can easily tell apart a stranger from a friend, we forget that our friend was once a stranger.
This brings me back to a small incident that took place in my life… how a stranger came along… and changed everything for me. This story has nothing to do with the introduction, and in a way contradicts it because this stranger still remains a stranger. I have been waiting to share this anecdote and this seems to be the right occasion.
You don’t meet good people too often, and when you meet them, you do not realise how nice they could have been and then when they leave, you just can’t forget them. But we all need to move on…so did I.
As a young girl, I spent a better part of my life in the Oman. I came to Mumbai only when I was 16. My grandparents then lived in a small village in the Kundapura district of Mangalore. It was seldom that I visited them. But that summer of 2005 was different. I decided to spend the whole summer with them, because they were all alone. Unfortunately, it was the last and the best of my holidays that I spent. I lost my grand dad the following year. My grand pa who I fondly called “dada” owned a huge farmland at Kundapur. I wouldn’t deny that it was spine-tingling to live alone in their small cottage. Living life in the city and in the village is poles apart. You have fewer people around you… very few, and everyday seems to go at snail’s pace. In the village, there is always a lull feeling, the slightest sound slap your eardrums…the birds perching, the snakes hissing, the flies buzzing, the cows mooing, the trees brushing against the wind, all these sounds come alive.
The village in Kundapura was no exception it was densely forested, and dada’s cottage overlooked a huge plot of land. The plot of land had a big lawn, cowshed and an oversized well. Everything was so vast; it is impossible to not find your own space here. This episode that I will now relate took place few days before I left for Mumbai. The day had been simple like any other, and the evening had been mundane at grand pa’s home.
I vividly remember the heavy rains on that particular day; the entire village was void of electricity due to the heavy downpour during the week. There was very little, that one could do on such dull evenings, and I was feeling exceedingly bored, though the rains seemed to recede with nightfall.
Later in the night, my grandparents and I moved to the lawn for a quiet after-dinner chat. While grandma sat on the porch and cut opened a big jackfruit for us, Dada and I took a stroll in the lawn. We had to manage with the lanterns. For some reason, I adored the idea of a relaxing walk on a gloomy night, on damp earth with a lantern in one hand and the smell of wet mud reaching for my nostrils. It was a special night. Everything was special… may be because grand pa and me had never been so open in our conversation before. For the first time, he spoke to me about his challenges, hardships, about his love (my grandma) and the most intriguing of them all ‘spirits’.
“Spirits, exist, all around you”, he said. “They may love you…hate you, it is why they want to meet you, but they look for the right time and the right place.” I was dumb found, Dada surely nerved me. I was so scared with the thought of spirits that I hurried towards Grand ma and began eating the jackfruit she had cleaned, only to dilute the fear that crept within me.
It was getting quite late, and we were still anticipating the supply of electricity. We were tired of sleeping in the dark, unlit and unventilated cottage for days. But sleep was getting the better of me; my drowsy eyes had already begun to droop, I almost prepared to make headway for the cottage, when suddenly we heard the clattering of our gate as if someone had entered the farmhouse. But who… Who would come here at 10:30? My heart began to jolt, were it the spirits, I contemplated. Did the spirits come to meet us?
Dada however, walked outside the lawn towards the gate to see who had come at such an unearthly hour. Surprisingly, he came back with a young man, who claimed to have lost himself in the village. He looked like he was in his early 20s, I could barely see him in the dimness of the lantern. But this couldn’t hide his polished features. He looked worn out and exhausted, and was wet from tip to toe, as if he had just got out of a pool. On asking he told me that he had fallen into a fishpond in the dark and was worried because he didn’t know how to get back home. Initially, I found it difficult to believe him, but the sincerity in his eyes forced me to. He spoke konkani as well as English quite fluently and looked like he belonged to the city. My grandma hinted me to get a glass of water from the kitchen, to quench his thirst. I still remember that raw smile on his face, when I handed over the glass to him. With Dada around, no stranger would ever feel uncomfortable. Grand Pa had this inherent joviality and he always loved keeping people happy around him. The lights had not come yet… and the mosquitoes were painfully sucking fresh blood. Grand pa nonetheless, went to fetch firewood from the small hut beside the cottage to light some fire to make the young man feel warm. Grandma and I stayed up with the stranger in the wet-chilly lawn.
“What is your name?” my grand mom asked him.
“Uh…uh...hmm…Aaron…Aaron Rodrigues”, he said hesitantly.
“Nice name, where are you from?” she asked suspiciously.
“Mangalore”, he answered “Actually I came here to visit my sick uncle… unfortunately I got lost… and my trips gone completely futile.”
“Why?”
“Because… I may not see him again, I had one opportunity and I used it for something else?”
We were slightly taken aback with his incoherent answers, but decided not to inquire much. But, I was completely drowsed in inkling, I wanted to no more…a lot more about him.
Soon, dada came in with logs of wood, and I helped him to light it at the centre of the lawn.
The lawn looked bright with the flames crisscrossing like intense jarring waves, and Aaron looked good…his eyes were fine and wanted to say a lot of things, I hoped I could only understand. His forehead had a lot written between those lines.
It is never easy to begin a conversation with someone you don’t know; it isn’t easy either to strike a rapport with a person you’ve never met but for some outlandish reason I wanted to speak to this young man. I felt as if I knew him before…and wanted to know more of him. ‘Was he feeling the same.’
No, I don’t think so. He was too exhausted to think.
“So young man, what do you do?” my dada interrogated.
“Hmm… I study, doing my last year in commerce.”
I wondered why his answers were so brief, he either did not want to speak or maybe he just felt the questions were too personal to answer.
The heat of the fire however made him feel quiet better and he was slowly gaining his calm. Soon, Grand ma served him dinner followed by a hot cup of coffee.
I liked him…may be, I still didn’t know. How can you like someone you knew for just about an hour? Wasn’t it just next to impossible?
It was 11:30 by then and the electricity didn’t show any sign of dawn. Dada was slightly apprehensive with the prospect of allowing a stranger into the house (although he liked him), he therefore asked us to get a cot out for him. So, while grand ma and I went to sleep in our room, grandpa stayed back with him.
Grand ma fell asleep quickly, but at 1:40 am I was still awake, trying to sleep in the stuffy room. It wasn’t raining, but it was cold… very cold. He was outside but his thoughts were disturbing me. Everything about him was so intriguing…appealing. What was happening to me? I hadn’t felt like that for anybody before…actually for nobody. But now for him…why was it so out of the ordinary?
Suddenly…I heard a faint knocking on our main door, wavering me from my stream of thoughts. Dizzily, I got up to open my door, not realising whom I was going to confront.
“Uh…Umm. Sorry to wake you up… I am really thirsty and need a glass of water.”
It was him, the stranger. He came out of the blue and spoke to me, finally. Another glass of water…. meant another dose of his captivating smile that had already managed to sweep me off the floor. In a bout of happiness and excitement I ran to the kitchen, filled a glass of water and handed it to him. He smiled…I smiled back.
“So you live here”, he asked, handing over the empty glass of water.
“No, I’m from Mumbai, just finished my XII. I’ve come here to visit my grandparents.”
“Hmm…got your results”, he asked.
“No, they will be up by next week.” I said nervously.
“Thanks for the water… I actually did not expect anyone to open the door, and neither did I want to wake your grand dad. He is fast asleep.”
“Uh…its ok, I wasn’t getting sleep anyways.” I said.
“Once again, sorry for the trouble.”
“Its ok”
Upset with my depressing and boring tête-à-tête, I shut the door as he moved towards the lawn… but before I could reach for my sheets, I heard another knock.
What did he want now?
With an unexplainable eagerness I tiptoed towards the door again and opened it gently.
“Actually…I wasn’t feeling sleepy either, so I just thought if you could give me company outside, I mean… in the lawn, it’s slightly creepy and chilly out there. Hmmm… not forcing you though,” he asked.
Was I surprised? Yes of course.
Was I dreaming? No I wasn’t.
Though, rebuffing such a request was pretty difficult for me. Yet, I did not even want to be caught dead giving company to a stranger at 2 in the morning in my grandpa’s lawn.
Astoundingly, without any hesitation I agreed to stay up with him until he wanted to sleep.
Somewhere down the line, I knew that this wasn’t me, but I was just going with the flow. For the first time I hadn’t thought practically. Why? I couldn’t reckon.
It is always better to leave some questions unanswered, because not everything is under the control of mortal beings. Life just gives you one chance.
We did not speak much, yet I now realise we said a lot to each other.
Our conversation had been limited to the stars, the skies, the village and all the possible animals within it, but what I very well remember is his confession. After an hour of baseless talking, I decided to go back to sleep. I wanted to leave for my room, heavy-eyed, irritated with the monotonous chat because I seriously lacked the capacity to hear more. I walked back, excusing myself, when he came closer and caught my hand.
Would you believe it…he caught my hand?
First, I felt intimidated by him, and actually pulled back. But what followed was his ultimate confession. It was just like an all night-dreamt fantasy that finally came true.
“Do you know something? I came here for you… specially for you,” he continued. “We may not get the opportunity to meet again, but I hope you will remember me. Your memories, though of few hours, will stay with me forever. Trust me, ever since I saw you near the roadside bakery shop, I wanted to meet you. I finally got the chance, but it is too late now. I don’t know what you feel for me…but I just hope that you won’t ever hate me. I will have to go now, thanks for your kind hospitality. Please convey it to your grandparents too. You have a lovely family. And you will remain my angel forever. Bye.”
Saying this, he walked towards our main gate and then outside the farmhouse. He did not look back even once nor did I stop him. I was slight taken aback to actually comprehend the whole situation. He said he had seen me before near the bakery.
Surprisingly, I had been to the bakery for the first time that morning, did he actually want to meet me since then.
Did he then lie…about his previous identity? Perhaps Yes. But, why? Just to meet me.
At that point of time, I hated him, I hated him for lying… without even realising if he was lying, I hated him for leaving me like that, though he claimed that I was special to him, possibly I hated him for everything… but it was only for that instant.
I got up late that morning, and found myself sleeping on the cot that we had removed for the stranger in the lawn. My grandparents were stunned to find me there, but said nothing then. However, during breakfast Dada quiet expectedly asked me how I landed in the lawn and where the stranger had suddenly disappeared.
I knew it was not fair on my part to conceal such a weird yet wonderful episode, but at the same time I even speculated if they would believe me. But I buckled up the much-needed courage and related the entire account. After narrating the complete incident, my grandparents were relieved that he had left so quietly. In fact, they felt it was not safe for me to stay with them and suggested that I immediately leave for my uncle’s house until I left for Mumbai, as he lived close by. They firmly believed that he could harass me once again and since they were old enough they would not be able to guard me. I did not argue, and relented. Grand pa rang up my uncle to come and pick me up as soon as possible.
My uncle however, turned up late that evening, extremely distressed and traumatised. On enquiring, he told us that his cousin’s son had come to meet him from the city, as his cousin was unwell. The boy unfortunately died after drowning in a pond. The villagers had found his body only last evening and the onus of delivering the body to his family had fallen on him. He told us that he had just done away with all the formalities when he realised that he had come to take me home. He then removed a snap of that young boy from his shirt pocket to show my grand dad.
Shocks can come in all forms, but what we saw after this was the most bewildering of them all.
The snap was of Aaron, the lost traveller who had visited us the previous night…. the stranger who claimed that he loved me…the first boy who I had fallen for…the spirit who passionately wanted to see me.
It was true, he hadn’t lied to me, he did fall into the pond in the dark, but he never managed to come out alive. He must have seen me in the day, and plausibly wanted to meet me, just like I wanted to, when I first saw him. The story is strange, as peculiar as the stranger. Dada was right, “Spirits, do exist, all around us. They may love or even hate us, and they do look for the right time and the right place to meet us.”
Aaron Rodrigues was but one.
That night was…special, special because we had a visitor, a strange visitor.
A Stranger in the Night.

Riding on a Pony

"Madamji we've reached," the man on the wheel said.
With my head reeling and eyes shut, I whispered, "Accha, utarti hoon."
I was feeling nauseated when the jeep had begun moving up the hill in spirals. My stomach churned and I wanted to throw up, I had also asked the driver to halt, but he refused saying it was not safe to stop at such a height. Heights scared me, but I wanted to visit Matheran, there were too many stories told, too many to still unfold.
We had lost few and gained some here…They have all become part of our lessons learnt in Matheran.
I got down from the jeep, but I couldn't hold footing on the red sand. "Madamji paani," the driver asked. I refused as I knew I would be fine in sometime. We were still at the foothills of the hill. I tied my laces, wore my back-pack. The driver again courteously, asked, "Would you like to ride the pony uphill or do you prefer walking."Matheran is the only pedestrian hill station in the state of Mahrashtra. Motorists stopped below, after which only a mini-train, ponies or your feet could take you to your destination.
"My journey begins here and yours ends. Thanks," I replied in a rudely-soft monotone as I walked to climb the hill. My mother hated this habit of mine. If I did not like a person or was too disinterested to get into a conversation, I would end it on a very sarcastic note. She said, it was offensive, yet very pleasantly put. Dad to be more precise described it as sarcasm.
Yes, I did not like the driver, simply because he did not stop driving when I was uncomfortable. I could hate and like people easily and this is all I liked about myself. I was coming to love Matheran and had already begun to hate the driver. A balance I have maintained, right from birth. If there ever was a void, I knew how to fill it. My trip to Matheran was to fill the same space created in our lives 21 years ago.
After paying the toll, I began my trek. It would be only 20 minutes later that I'd reach the hill station. It was mid-January and the temperatures were freezing at around 7 degrees. My cardigan kept me warm, but my hands were still cold.
I had just passed a hawker selling cucumber spices with pepper, when my cell phone beeped…after already two messages of the same kind while walking my way up the hill, I wasn't expecting anything different, "Welcome to Airtel Maharashtra, you are now on Airtel roaming. Your call rates will now be…." Nuisance!! I thought, the same message thrice.
Few minutes later, I received another SMS. I opened it irritatingly. "Hey sweetheart, give us a buzz when you reach Matheran…already missin u, tk of u r self, i hope v can trust u."
I replied to the SMS, "rchd matheran…it's a nice place…but won't send more smses…on roaming…will talk ltr..bye."
I switched off my phone. Staying off contact helps connect better with the place you are in…
As I was walking uphill, my eyes suddenly fell on the Matheran signboard; I was finally here.
Twenty-one years ago, I had come here, as a three-year-old. It is strange; my heart skips a beat when I think of coming here as a baby. We lost him in an accident the last time we came here. My parents never traveled after this. Today, they allowed me, but on one condition… I won't ride on a pony.
The one-day trip to Matheran begins…
My best friend Payal stayed here, so it spared me the hassle of checking into a hotel. Payal and me are good friends from college. Incidentally, we bonded in college on boys, as our respective exes were brothers, later we bonded on Matheran, her native and my fairy tale land.
She knew everything about me, right form me wearing diapers till four to have never been kissed even at 24.
As I entered ‘Navya restaurant,' I saw Payal, waiting anxiously. She rushed towards me and gripped me tightly by the hand; her eyes suddenly began to water. "Seeing you after two years," she said. Payal had taken up hotel management in senior college while my interests lay in the social sciences. Payal had been handling her father’s restaurant ‘Navya’ for three years. “How long will you be in?” she asked, as she moved her arms forward to gather me in a tight embrace. “10 hours, Payal, that is all I have,” I replied.
“Then we must get going,” she said.
She pulled my hand forward and took me inside the restaurant kitchen that led to a small cottage. This is where Payal lived with her “ma”. After her father passed away, she decided to move back to Matheran so that her family business continued. I remember her telling me, “To see ‘Navya’ pass on to another hands would be sending my dead father an invitation to hell.”
Payal treated me to dosa for breakfast, after which we went shopping for chapals and chikki. Ponies passed me as I crossed the road, I trembled. “Payal,” I said, “This fear needs to run down.” After a long pause she said, “Wait till evening comes.”
Shopping, gossiping blew time like dust…it was 4 pm and already late. I shook Payal who was lying on my lap. “Lets go now,” I requested. She was tired, but got up and slipped into a good fitting pair of jeans. “Levis…Rs 5,000…hows it?” she asked. “Great…but lets go…I have a train at 6.30,” I answered. She had tried to put a damper on my object of coming to Matheran but I managed to get my way.
We came only at 5.45 in the evening. Her mother, by then had packed all my shopping items in a bag. Payal again had tears in her eyes, “You should have stayed,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said with a smile. I was planning to drive down to Neral station in a cab.
“How will you go down to the cabbie, do you want me to give you company?”
“No,” I said, “I’ll go alone....I shall ride the pony”
As I rode down, I hummed,
"Yankee Doodle went to town
A-riding on a pony
Stuck a feather in his hat
And called it macaroni...."
I couldn't see Payal now, but i know she was smiling.

Mumbai 11.45
Dear diary,
I am back home. Mom and Dad really missed me today... But I am happy for reasons I have longed to find an answer to. You know I sat on a Pony today. I can't believe I did that, but, yes, I did. This wouldn't have been possible without Payal. I rode the entire Matheran stretch while she behind me. She reminded me of Abhay, my 10-yr-old brother. He was sitting behind the last time, I remember. But then he slipped and fell. What happened after that was strange? I remember riding alone, then, my parents had looked at me with eyes of desperation, fear and pain.
Not the loss of my brother, but the fear I saw in my parents eyes while riding the pony had been eating me from inside.
Today, as I got down the pony Payal gave me a broad smile.
Later, she smiled again as I rode the pony down, alone. I no longer fear the pony…but I miss my brother and Payal. One I lost and the other I found in Matheran... and yes my parents never knew that I had been riding on a pony.
Gud Night

THE LAST TIME IT RAINED

We make out of darkness,
An unresonable shadow,
We make out of human,
A beautiful friend,
But the last time it rained,
I was alone and empty,
I couldn't make out of water anything insane.

We see muck,
And fix our eyes on the pink lotus,
We see the selfish,
And still wipe our eyes of their greed,
But the last time it rained,
The sky was heavy and the earth hazy,
My eyes tried but couldn't vision good.

We see fish,
They move not swim,
We see people,
They leave not walk,
But the last time it rained,
It was heavy and brutual,
My body was soaked and not wet with pain

We see sadness,
And look for hope,
We see hate,
And pray that its forgiven,
And this time when it rained,
The drops fell on me,
I smiled and said it was better than the Last time.....

Why I pray?

I walked my own lanes,

To find myself,

Amongst the narrow and wide,

Lost amidst the bright and dim.

I remember Him,

With great fondness and zeal,

So that I touch and reach,

An ambition I love,

But what my heart always failed to reveal.

Thus I bend my knees slightly,

With my head raised towards the blue,

Hoping to evade my fear of failure,

Because somewhere He knows,I hate to fall,

And cry bitterly when in pain.

And only He believes,That I would do no wrong,

But gradually coil when hurt and insane.

So I clasp my hands together,

And make a call,

If He answers,

He has heard,

The fear would be gone,

My love revived,

With my faith in GOD soon reconciled.

Three point something @ the centre of Ahmedabad

Chetan...Chetan...Chetan...you know my friends think I am mad? After meeting Chetan Bhagat, I have been troubling, well actually harassing a lot of people...by just talking about him so much.

Probably it is an ambition I so rigidly follow and the manner in which he gets me read his books. I think his works are the fastest I have read, I have never read anyone's work earlier with so much intensity. I usually read while lying on my bed, when I really have nothing to engage me. To read Chetans work...it is different... I actually wait for an oppurtunity to pick up his book and see what next??

Well too much about me...now back to CBs new book "The three mistakes of my life."

I take the responsibilty of not completing it in a day, it took me three days...but they are the days...he again is a big hit....this time though he opts for a smaller town like Ahmedabad...Chetan has it bigger than 5 point someone and One night @ the call centre.

There is a lot of similarities in Chetans three books, the three most imporatant points that cannot go unoticed are:

a) The narrator: CB is undoubetedly a very good story teller. He is always involved somewhere, somehow....he starts the story and we sit there to listen to him. Heard of writers with this charisma? While in five point someone, we assume that Chetan was telling his story all the way, in the second half of ON@TCC and TMOML, Chetan and his readers become the listeners...coz there is someone else who wants share a story...an interesting story

b) Friendship, Romance and sex: Seems like CB has a strong friends circle, otherwise it is usually difficult to share with your audience a story about "friends" like the way CB has done in all his three books.

Well, about romance.... what shall i say about this, the lead character always ends up in a relationship which he is very confused about in the begining...and well they end up having sex (not morally right according to Indian standards). But it is not really uncommon in India either.

So...going the filmi way, something goes wrong in the relationship or it is effectively made part of the narrative and the readr is waiting to know what the climax of the relationship would be like. In the end in apna bollywood ishstyle the hero-heroine meet. Waah! Hum satisfied or aap?
c) He chooses a scenario:

Be it campus life, the call centre or religion, cricket and business, CB knows what he is talking about. He does not have to get into heavy details, his work is simple, he does not get into excessive research either. His research is simple enough to blend into his story. After all CB is not a non-fiction writer or researcher he is a "Story teller."

I really like CBs work, because after reading his third book, I realised what novella (novel) is all about. It is not about being complex and heavy, it is not about using hi-fi grammar, it is about being you...expressive and being you. CB manages to do it everytime.

Govind, Omi and Ishant....they remind me of three friends I know of...one a so businessman like - overambitious-selfish-pros n cons infected, the other so religiously inclined and one who just doesn't care a f*** about people and is obessessed about cricket.

An intresting story - based in a small town situation - Belrampur in Ahmedabad, a city that was brutually ripped by the earthquake and Godhra riots in 2001 and 2002.

The story is about how three freinds see it all, how they try to rise out of the ashes and build their lives again. It could cost them their life....

All the three friends weigh business, religion and cricket differently, but it is their friendship which gets them through even with their differences.
a) Omi and Ishant do not love business...but they help Govind fulfill his business ambitions.

b) Govind and Ishant care less about religion, but they give in to Omi's faith and his Bitoo Mama's political cum religion propoganda.

c) Govind and Omi follow cricket but not like Ishant who becomes a parasite on the day India plays a match.

They all start a business - a combo of their taste - a sports shop, rented inside Omi's family temple. Business, Religion, Cricket...

Govind- is a mathematical genius who scored a 100 in his XII exam, and also starts tutoring while running the shop to earn an incentive for the shop. He loves Probability and weighs his possibilities in life all mathematically....even the number of times he has slept with his best friend, Ishants sister Vidya (9 times- he recounts in two months). Vidya, is his love, he starts off as her maths teacher, tutoring her for her medical entrance and then....it just happens...

Govind is narrating the story...and he speaks about his three mistakes...you need to figure those mistakes out?

Ishant- district level player, passionate about cricket, runs from the NDA (Defence school) to become a cricket player. He helps Ali start new, a young 12-year-old boy, whose talent can take team-India to heights

Omi-he loves his religion, he follows the saffron part closely - his Mama drags him into politics. But he never once allows his love for religion to hinder his friendship with his two friends and their love for Ali.

All in all, the book is packed with drama, you will cry, fall in love, rejoice and bite your toungue in pain...it is all about generating emotions....CB knows to do it well.

I have only one question for CB...since he has quite a female fan following...why doesn't he have a Girl in the lead character the next time. Though it is challenging to write from a woman's point of view, role playing is a part of a writers job. I think he needs to get out of his commoness...it seems to be his comfort zone, but too much of comfort makes one feel uncomfortable later.

Otherwise, Chetan has one big fan in me...I love his work and the manner he has drawn people to read his work...

5 stars for his third book

Someday over the rainbow....

There are some dreams, that we never imagine would come true. We think of it...like being so untrue and impossible, so much so that even if we dream about it again, we just let it go...

I had this strong desire to meet author Chetan Bhagat, after I read One night @ the call centre and Five Point someone. It never looked realistic, until the 6th of May, when my editor came up to us, and asked if any of us was a CB fan. I raised my hand instantly, without second thoughts..his name had magic...his writing like a spell. My editor handed me an invite...and said Jane you have to meet him and discuss the launch of his new book. CB is big in India, though literary writers find it hard to accept him in their league, he is big, he is the J.K Rowling of India...without any denial.

I met CB on the 8th of May at High Street Phoenix....the expeirence was the fulfillment of my first impossible dream ofcourse...it was small...but still so big in my memory....

My article was published on the 9th of May in The Asian Age supplement. He spoke about his new book "The Three Mistakes of my life," and the movie which he scripted "Hello".

Read on...

Few hours before the launch of his third book, "The three mistakes ofmy life" in Mumbai, writer Chetan Bhagat looked all excited about thelaunch."We are running out of copies of the book," he admits, "and we had to call for more copies from Delhi today."With his the guy-next-door charm Chetan Bhagat comes out as a cool and friendly person, who loves his readers and gets enthused every time he finds an admirer of his work."Oh! You read my books…" he says surprised. Chetan still feels that he has to come to terms with his large audience base and confesses that he blushes with happiness each time his fan asks him for an autograph."I knew that I had a big audience base in the U.S among the technocrats and other student population there, after my books were translated in French, I learnt that even the French loved my work.But, unfortunately I haven't been there to sense my following. It is India that pulls me time and again," he says talking about his fans. He adds, "I love my Indian readers, and that is why I am launching my books in different cities in the country."An IIT, IIM graduate, investment banker and writer all the roles suit Chetan Bhagat perfectly. He does not look uncomfortable in his role-playing and fits himself well into anything. Content with his decision to move from Hong Kong where he spent eleven years as an investment banker, Chetan says, "It feels like coming back into your mothers arms. I come to the city very often but the feeling of settling here is entirely different." Though Chetan finds life in Hong Kong very comfortable, he loves his country and is making aconscious effort to adjust with the city's pace and traffic. "I actually meditate during a traffic jam, it keeps me calm and gets methrough the long traffic hours," he admits slyly.
Chetan believes that audience feedback is essential; it helps him improve his writing each time, but a writer with strong readership to his credit, still faces brick bats and is accused of ripping literature apart. On this, he says, "If the criticism is constructive even if negative, I take it with a bag full of sugar. But some feel Iam writing trash and compare it to Mills and Boons; I cannot change mystyle for them." He adds, "I write different books. If you are not into reading my books…you are not, I am completely fine with it."Talking about his new book, Chetan claims that it very different from the last two books. This time he chose for a smaller town like Ahmedabad and has tried covering the issue of Gujarat riots. "I was in IIM-Ahmedabad, and lived there for two years and know people there.The issue of the Gujarat riots is also very close to my heart; I tried to blend it within my narratives. Also I wanted to cover the issue of Gujrathi's wanting to get their daughters married to rich businessmen,"he says. "These are some problems dominating the town and I tried best to deliver it in my book."When asked about his expectations from his third book. Chetan says, "I just hope that my readers are not disappointed. After the huge success of my two books, I find it challenging to meet those expectations, but I guess…its part of your job," he muses. India's top selling author has more surprises to give. He recently wrote the script for the movie "Hello" which is a remake of his secondbook "One night @ the call center" starring Salman Khan and Katrina. Elated about the snapshots of the movie going to be screened in hisbook launch at Mumbai, he says, "I am satisfied with the movie. It keeps the essence of the book alive and fresh. Though, I was not present for all the shoots, I am sure director Atul Agnihotri has done a fine job."

For Chetan, writing is a hobby. He writes only when he feels like he needs to and does not show any inclination to make writing a full time profession. "I will continue working as an investment banker in Deutshe Bank, Mumbai - that is my job. If i get a good story i will probably try my hand on writing some good film scripts," he says.

Until then, Chetan is basking in his success and at teh way his life is taking shape. He intends to take a break to reduce weight. He says, "I put on so much weight while writing my third book. My family, friends and fans feel I need to do something about it soon."

Well....Chetan I dont think you need to do anything about the weight....this fan just loves your work

After that converstaion with CB..he gave a me copy of his book with his autograph...I hesitantly removed my copy of his first two books and asked his autograph there too...."Oh my fans carry my books everywhere," he laughed. I couldn't help but give a sheepish smile....

Love and Regards,

Jane...

That, I want to see a smile on your face

I am not an opinion maker...I love my everyday. I do not really smile until people make me do. I said, I came here to make a difference. I thought I was feeling good. But, now, I realise I am so random and just the random things in life make me smile.
I smile when:
a) If a friend remembers me, and says 'well talking to you after a long time' it makes me blush, atleast they know our last past and I am just glad about how well I still fit in their memory even if unintenionally.

b) If I am given a small compliment, I hold my lips together. My heart smiles though, I do not want to show...does it make sense in reflecting how much you appreciated it.

c) I beam when I see that person stare at me. Why did he happen to look? I do not know either....but its nice to know someone is in an akward or confused mind frame when seeing you. You enjoy that brief moment and eat it down with the utmost pleasure....even if what they thought was negative.

d) I just learnt that if you smile daily when the sunrises, the sun will have better reasons to smile at you, atleast they are reciprocating if not answering. Their smile can kill....kill your life with more ahem...happiness.

e) I giggle while reading, only my mind knows what got me move my lips, my teeth dance and toung hop...I made some noise too...very "Giggly wiggly"....I sounded crazy. But something in those words made me do....but you care less.

f) I don't know what I am writing but I am sure that you are smiling because I wrote to express and impress। And since nothing has gotten into your head you are still reading to understand why the hell was I REALLY SMILING???

g) Oh!! I forgot one last thing...I smile when i am really nervous. Especially when I am talking. If you are scowling at me and I am still smiling, it is probably because I was peeing in my pants...and I am just so shit nervous that all my emotions have frozen..(otherwise I would have just kicked you in the rear for have given me shout, but my condition blah blah....it doesn't call for it)

Next time I SMILE you jolly well figure out why I did...its hidden in these pointers.

Love always,
Keep smiling and keep dreaming,
Jane

P.S. I Know my crap has still not been undertood by your minds...forget it, you are simply trying too hard for no benefit of yours.

Leaders with VENOM

In a world where everyone prefers being lead than leading, we truly face a dearth of good leaders. It is a true and known fact that being a part of a nation which suffers from the problem of good leaders', we need to go along way.
Yes, we as a nation lack fine leaders and this is not just an underlying fact but a hard hitting truth.
India has been a country of varied contradictions. Though, we have been grabbing eye balls and drawing adulations from the west because of our prosperous growth in business and economy, we are also suffering from rural poverty and the ever rising tide of social tensions due to the cultural, economic and social disparity within the nation.
India is soon emerging as an economic power house which that be attributed to our liberalization policies post 1990's. We are the nation that gave birth to the Mittals, Ambanis, Tata's and the likes of Aziz Premji who without batting an eyelid have gained the status of being one of the richest 'business houses' in the world. To contradict, the same, we are also the same country that cradles terrorism, poverty and is still embroiled in casteist differences.

While Ratan Tata, on of the recent visionaries of our times has created the worlds cheapest car, 'The Nano'; a home grown product and a remarkable leap in the global automobile industry, we are waged in wars due to home grown terror groups and violent militant cells like the LTTEs, Naxalites and SIMIs. Why??
Firstly, a leader must never lie. He/ She needs to be true to their profession and dedicated to the role of leading. Once a leader; forever a leader. Integrity and consistency is the business of leading. But do our leaders really have these qualities?
Very often, we mistake Politicians as being synonymous to leaders. As a matter of fact, this is completely irrational. Though most of our leaders are politicians, not all politicians are really deserving of this slot. Politics under the garb of superiority has destroyed the very own facet of India, i.e. its 'democracy' and we are mere players, who are being used as pieces of a dice game. They roll the dice and we move foolishly, without even realizing the consequences of our actions. Leadership is not about 'me' it is about 'them' and probably the politicians of our country with their corrupt and inept leadership have axed the very roots of our nation. Politics has truly become an arena of bloodsucking individuals (poli – many; tics – bloodsuckers).
Politicians delve into faked up 'India rising' and 'India shining' campaigns, but do they even half realize that almost 94% of our student population comprises 12
th grade dropouts, then the mere 6% percent of the educated elite should not be considered. Is there nothing to fathom...when 14 men molest a women on a new years night, when mind-boggling statistics reveal that a woman is being raped every 30 minutes in a safe metro like Mumbai OR when Dalit women are being stripped for the lowliness of their caste and paraded throughout the village naked in the eyes of thier sons/fathers/husbands.
When the CM of Gujarat, Narendra Modi in his recent elections harped on 'the development tasks he undertook' in his state, everyone began venerating him. His efforts in economic prosperity almost overshadowed his devastating role in the Gujarat riots of 2002 where thousands of innocents Muslims were victims of cold blooded murder. All this was triggered by the burning of 50 karsevaks in a train near Godhra station. But was this a licence to the death of some inncocent few. Shouldn't we then be ashamed about a handful, leading our country?
However, while defiantly crying over our leadership discrepancies we need to realize that after all these leaders are elected by us. Leadership does not necessarily come from leading but actually taking the initiative. In that sense we all need to realize that we somewhere need to bear the onus of electing the one who leads us. Often, we create a hue and mock over the people who run our governments. Unfortunately, we are the creators; we create the mockery and then laugh or otherwise cry at our own creation. We are co-conspirators in creating a hollow in 'good leadership.'
It is also worrying to see that people have become so violent and so sensitive about faith that they overlook the deafening cry of their fellow human. Religious hooliganism has crossed boundaries of humanity...and the impact is scary.
Even the Sikh riot of 1984 (after the assasination of Indira Gandhi) is shockingly dismaying. Scores of Sikhs were burned/beaten to death and many women raped only because the assassinators of Indira Gandhi were Sikhs. It was a Hindu backlash of sorts to teach the community of the perpetrators a lesson. To top it all Rajiv Gandhi (her son) on being asked what the government was doing to control the riots, very insensitively commented, "When a tree falls (Indira Gandhi..he meant) the tremors would be felt." Such political insensitivity has destroyed foolish religious minds. Are we Indians so susceptible to religious instigation and political exploitation...I think our own GODS are too embarrassed too answer for our shameful deeds
The media also needs to be sensitive enough in portraying those who have carried upon themselves the mantle to lead. Recently, in Mumbai, in a war of words two politicians from two different parties started spewing venom and questioning on the people outside Maharashtra (in specific the North). Without second thoughts, Raj Thackeray who was well aware of the dire consequences of his statements commented on the North-Indians as those looting the employment opportunities of the Marathis. What followed, though was very well planned by the leaders, and was also shocking. The locals began beating up innocent north-Indian taxi wallas and damaged north-Indians running cabs all over
Maharashtra. What did the rest of us do…we watched the destruction with our hands tied and our mouths taped? Two people lost their lives in this havoc. Their leader was left unscathed. Isn't it shocking? Do we really want a leader like him to lead us in the near future?
While talking about the failure of governance in our country we must also realize that Seventy-one percent of the population—742 million people—are below 35 years of age. In other words, India is not a graying nation; it is full of young people. It can be moved with a positive leadership. Can we make a difference? Or; is the youth to happy to shove the responsibility to an elite few, who are unfortunately bred with caste, religious and cultural differences.
Leadership begins with the readiness to take the baton, the other qualities just follow. But do we have someone who is prepared to hold it leaving all of his/her insecurities for once and being the diplomatic self.
It is not a denying fact that we have had some great leaders like our former President Dr. A PJ Kalam and at present our Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh. They are not only well respected gentlemen but highly well read and great intellectuals. But, they are soon going to be a part of our textual history. What about our future?

Chit-Chat

This whole 'chat craze' began somewhere in 2002. I went on yahoo, on a friends advice and then started chatting with random people.
The First thing I would ask was their asl (age/sex/location) "Asl plz"...then if i found it interesting I would hop to other details like name, work, hobbies etc. Then, I wouldn't have a chat id with my name....I kept wierd names like butter87, coolgurl, missspice....if all that meant anything.

It was fun to chat with people who you knew only virtually, an uncessary pass time which i could probably do without, but was enjoying living with...
I remember on one of my birthdays my friends came over and we decided to play and have some fun in the chatroom...we added some random guy on my id...apparently from New Zealand and it was a fad to chat with men who we really didn't know.
Well this is one of the keedagiris...we girls did at 15...i cannot stop laughing at the thought.
These chat men were funny, we enjoyed beating around the bush, i remember one of them was so bugged with us that he ended up abusing us...we abused back...Oh what fun...was it??
Reason: We found our school boys were boring...some were Nurds while some were the biggest cartoons and so we always prefered to stay away from them (That 'girls better than boys' attitude.)
Ahaan! But virtual men...well the feeling was different...lolz

After that stopped chatting for about two years...i found it such a waste and useless job...had too many real friends and did not want to add the virtual load..
It was only in 2006 that the chat and networking bug caught me again...but this time it was a different feel and the reasons to be hooked were also not really the same.

In the years, the chat revolution has become so different, every second person chats...now we chat more with our own friends or friends of friends than strangers. Further, we are hooked on to chat more than the cell. Most cell phones allow access to the internet. Today, people are always logged on...at work, school, college....networking has become faster and everyone is all well connected...we almost find it difficult to mess with unknown people. If interested in them we go ahead...but messing, abusing, fooling around....dude that is rare.
Imagine doing foolish things on a networking site; thout even realising ... your profile will be blocked; its no longer a virtual thing....you can be tracked and everyperson knows the other....
Big risk to mess.....

Today if you have a missspice, coolgurl you would certainly be mocked at. And we rarely indulge in the asl type of questions....the idea of chatting with strangers is no more a trend...or for that matter chit-chats...have become way to decent or for that matter far too transparent

The Apple theory

My friend shared this very intresting theory with me... i liked it...actually appreciated it too....i really don't know in what context my friend said this.....But it surely sounds nice....

Girls are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree. the boys don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. instead, they just get the rotten apples from the ground that aren't as good, but EASY. So the apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing.They
just have to wait for the right boy to come along, the one who's brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree...Intresting theory??

A 'PLEA' to you who saw me killed

Two years ago, there were a spate of hostile witnesses who refused to stand up for cold blooded murders they had seen with their own eye....

Zahira Sheikh refused to identify the accused in the Best Bakery case where a muslim family were burnt alive (Godhra Riots 2002 while actor Shayan Munshi refused to have seen the murder of model Jessica Lal.....

That is when i wrote a small letter....i spoke for the innocent victims..it was just something random...

I rest my hands on yours, you will free me from these unjust shackles, you will bestow my soul its peace, and I am waiting and still waiting…

I know you were there and saw it all, and I think I gave you the last call, then why did you deny. You were lucky I chose you to be a part of this struggle and I hoped against hope that you wouldn’t run.

It is commendable that you were trying, but then you suddenly refuted. There should be some reason, let it show, let them know the hidden truth where lies. I feel your pain, and the grind that you are going through, it is always hard to live with the luring green and the complexities of power and force.
These temptations are minor obstacles and the rigidity you shouldn’t succumb. But I believe that I will get justice and you will help provide.
It’s been years and everyone is still fighting. Yet, the web is getting complicated and the incident murkier. It is simple and you know it. Identify my slayer and put an end to this obscurity. Though my faith in this system has hardened with time, it is still willing to thwart. I need the hope…

If you have the slightest care the least you could do is empathize with my folks, they are suffering and they’re soreness I can feel. I am not fighting for justice but a cause, I might sound selfish but it is human to be one, I desperately need my lost happiness, I want to feel content.
Your effort will bring smile to millions, a silver lining for several who still anticipate justice. Please do not turn tables, you witnessed me die… I hope you won’t lie

My DADDY Strongest....

Da, daddu, dada, dad....you are my strongest
Dad (daddu) never drives a car, he has always been scared about being at the drivers seat. His legs freeze when he has his hands on the steering wheel. So...he never drove a car or atleast I haven't been passenger to a drive by Da. In the 15 years I spent in Oman, Dad always preffered to hire his company driver to take him to work and back...he also developed strong bonds with them (as he admired the courage of those who managed to move a car by its wheels). At time his friendship with his office drivers were really useful as very often they took us shopping, dropped us to picnic spots or otherwise just took us on an errand.
But Da was firm....he said he would never drive and he didn't. He was not weak or scared...his weakness actually came from his strength...his family. He loves us and he personally did not want to drive the streets of Oman as he believed that the smallest of accidents on the streets could get his family in a no-no situation in a strange land.

Actually da is different. I cannot compare him to other dads (because everone has a best dad too)but he is minea and i cannot ask for anyone better. Keeping me happy has been dads past time hobby. I am his jaan cum jaanu and i do get a little uncomfortable when people try calling me the name that i feel only dad has the right call me with. Well, earlier when i was a fat, round obese little piggy...da would call me batati or battu (meaning potato -batata). Again, no one would dare call me that...i would burst into tears feeling hurt and laughed at because of my appearance. But da...he could do anything and just get away with it.

I remember when i scored great results in my Xth...i had been in Mumbai for my college admission while da and ma were back in Oman. Later, Ma told me how excited daddu was when he heard about my results. We use to stay on the 4th floor and on that particular day the building lift had gone for a tizzy. Dad had done some four five rounds up down the building just to share his excitement with neighbours and call me and family outside from the ISD booth which was a kilometre away. He bought peda boxes and distributed it to his colleagues not even half- thinking about whether it fit his budget.

Then i remember my first offical interview at DNA in April 2007....six of us from college were called for the job....all came alone except for me. Da again came with me as i did not know the directions to the office well (again i have poor navigational skills -- gee i can never give directions). The interiviewer called us in for the first round which was followed by the second. The ordeal lasted for over 3 hours. All that time, daddu waited below the building (not even at the reception - so that i wouldnt feel out of place with da around). He waited patiently....I got the job.....he was elated. He had a tear in his eye. He earned it....
Love you so much dad,  wish i could be there in Oman for your 50th b'day. You are my strongest man, the first and the last i'd ask. My first love .....My daddu........

WAITING

Two people wait endlessly for hours at a bus stop. Both are unperturbed by the heavy downpour, and stay silent for long until they find an answer to their trouble in each other…

Carelessly I got down the bus, with half-expectations from what I did and where I was going. I feel like a loose shelf, ever ready to fall with the burden of things upon me.
As soon as I get down the bus pulls away. I cross the road towards another bus stop I see in the opposite direction, to take a bus back home. I do it every Sunday; it helps me kill my boredom. I get up at eight in the morning, have my breakfast and incessantly move out of my one bedroom apartment for a long bus ride from home to an incoherent destination and back. It thrills me.

They think I am crazy because I try to find happiness in the smallest pleasures of life. Now, I wish to stay away from them, I love the way I am but they always try and find flaws in my life.
They tell me that there is a void in my life, my eyes look empty to them…I hate it when they say it.
Why? Only because I am a 38 years old spinster. What if I never had a companion? Was it wrong if I snubbed every man who approached me?

‘No,’ you are not normal, they say, they, who claim to be my friends. Actually, they loathe my status, they are trying to force their sadness upon me….burden me further, make me fall before I could try and sit.
I already feel heavy; I do not want more, is all I can argue.

Well, somewhere they know I am vacant like my fishbowl without water, they have seen me draw two tea cups every morning and drink both leaving none so as to satiate the hollow in my life. They are angered when I pick up my receiver and talk, only to hear myself. They tell me that my ear drums ring an unhappy and lonesome calling. I have no family, nobody to call a father, no mother, siblings though living, died years ago for me. If I have someone it is only my friends, but they do not seem to understand me very well now. They have begun to jeer at me and I am not enjoying it.

I am waiting at the stop, like a lost traveller. It has just started raining; the drops are slowly raging becoming forceful with the tick of every second. The drops hit my senses, I realise the need to come back to the present.
I push open my umbrella, it unfurls its rainbow colours, and my head feels colourful with the reflection. Now I suddenly feel pleasant. The road is empty as nobody really finds the need to be on the street early on a Sunday morning, ceaselessly waiting for a bus.
The rain is getting heavier, I am drenched completely, it is past half an hour but I cannot see a motor pass by. The emptiness of the street slowly begins to creep into the vacant heart of mine. Tears begin to roll down my eyes, but I cannot see my tears , the rains try hard to wash it along with them….but my senses allow me to decipher the salinity of my tears and the sweetness of rain water. I know I am crying but nobody can see me crying, even not him.

Oh! I didn’t realize, there is a young man standing besides me, his yellow raincoat covers him and he is the only person I see on the road. It looks like he is also waiting for a bus. Though I am waiting I really do not know whether my reason will give me satisfaction.
Another fifteen minutes move by, with only two of us on the street I still see no sign of a bus. As time passes his restlessness grows. I think he wants to go somewhere urgently. He looks at me every few seconds, trying to find means to approach me, though he seems a little hesitant, I know he will, any moment.

I can see him come closer to me. His face looks pale, troubled and anxious. I try and distance myself but it becomes impossible since he is trying to strike a conversation, but I don’t really want to talk to anyone. I want to be left by myself but he comes closer.
“If you do not mind, can I ask where you are heading for?” he asks hesitantly.
“Why?” I ask angrily, as if he were intruding my comfort zone.
“Actually, I don’t think heavy rain like this will permit moving of buses, we could hire a taxi instead. It would be cheaper if we shared one.”

“I am not interested? I prefer waiting.” I said rudely.
He turned back, after giving me a go-to-hell stare and said, “Sorry, if I have to say this, but you were very rude, I was just trying to be kind to you.”
Realising I was in the wrong, I apologized for my behaviour. He then moved away from me and sat on the railing, still waiting. Another half an hour passed by, I couldn’t see a bus yet. He was still waiting for a bus, I felt bad, I shouldn’t have been so impolite.

“I think you should take a cab and leave, you are getting soaked out here,” I suggest.
“Oh! Its ok, I prefer the bus, lets see how long it takes, it should be there…in a few moments right. If I have waited so long, why not a few more hours.” he replied sarcastically.
The rain splashed endlessly, my rainbow umbrella did not help much, and neither did his yellow raincoat.
In actuality, we were bathing under a cold shower for hours. The tap didn’t shut and I don’t think we wanted it to either. It helped me loosen the aching knots within me, but I failed to understand how it was helping him.

“You seem to be disturbed,” he said as if reading my mind.
I wanted to give back to him once again, for intruding my privacy. But I stayed calm and replied only few minutes later. “I love getting drenched in the rain; it makes me feel better. Otherwise, only the foolish would wait for hours like this. Does that answer your question?”

“Got it! You are counting time and your loneliness is disturbing you. Isn’t it?” he quipped with a smirk. Unintentionally, he got the hint.

“Yes, it kills me everyday, I hate to say it but this is how I stay alive,” I said half-brooding, trying to sense self –pity. I had opened myself to a person I knew only for few hours or so. I became a little conscious and tried keeping shut. But somehow, I wanted to pour myself. “My friends tell me that I live a life of a recluse, I hate them for this. They never reciprocate when I want them to.”

“Ok, go on,” he said, his ear consuming every word that hit his drums, appreciating my fears without sympathy. “Can I know who your friends are? I mean…if you really don’t mind mentioning those pig-heads who keep on saying this to you?”

“Yes of course, those pig-heads are my sheets, my sofa, the pillows where I lay, my house keys, my chair, my table….”

He interrupted suddenly. “I think we need to talk about this at a coffee table. You mind a hot cup of coffee….the weather also seems perfect. And my car just stands bang opposite this stop. We could hitch to the nearest outlet…that’s if you…”

“I don’t mind, I want to talk,” I said shocked yet not discomfited with what he said. He had a car, then what forced him to wait. Where did he want to go? Questions cropped, but he had listened to me and I couldn’t have asked better. I walked along with him to his car.

That day had been alleviating, I found a friend, a human, now my lifeless friends had nothing to laugh at me about.
We only spoke for few months, until Leukemia drew us apart. He died, I knew he was going to die, no one knew about it though. He needed to talk, so did I. We found relief in each other. He was a companion whose presence made a big difference to my inanimate life. His death didn’t kill me; it gave me a reason to live, a reason to understand souls like me. Now I am not alone…I am at peace. My friends don’t see me cry anymore, his memories are enough to re-live what I lost.

Epilogue

Kaheen mere aasuon ne mujhe dhoka de diya,
Raah main chalte chalte mera saath chod liya,
Baithi hoon main tanha, kisi ke yaadon main ghum hoon kahin,
Lekin ajib hain haseen aa rahi hain, aasun nahin,
Shaayad in aasuon ko un lamho ne kaid kar liya…

Failed and flawed religious Glory

It is a very disturbing fact...most of us cannot see beyond religion. It is an argument where i have perenially failed in voicing my opnion among a bunch of unrelenting and 'never going to be convinced individuals.'
It is also disturbing to see how biased we are about people from other religions. We fail to see that we share a common culture that which can be traced to our struggle for independence..where we fought as Indians and not Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs or Christians.

It also worries me to see that people have become so violent and so sensitive about faith that they overlook the defeaning cry of their fellow human. Religious hooliganism has crossed boundaries of humanity...and the impact is scary.
Surprisingly, we all have our prejudices about the 'typical hindu/muslim/christian'...we do not realise that they are after all people who are very much a part of the common thread that we share which ultimately goes into building a strong nation.

Today, I was reading a front page story on the Bilkis Banu case.

Fourteen of her relatives were murdered by a bunch of sick 'hindutva fundamentalists' during the Godhra riots of 2002. Banu who was 8 months pregnant then was gangrapped by these men and her 3 year old son was smashed to death. It is a crime...it is the most disturbing and inhuman story i heard of in recent times. Even thinking of it gives me goose pimples.....the only thought that comes to me is 'Why did they do it?' And the only definite answer i can draw is that they were muslims...that is why?? Those Hindutvas believed that each of those innocent muslims deserved death....BUT WHY??

Only because 50 karsevaks were burned in a train at Godhra station...was that a ticket to commit Mass murder in the name of religion. Political hypocrisy has existed far too long...and my blood boils when i read stories of my innocent fellow country men who are victimised for someone elses crime...only because they belong to the same religion. It pinches me to learn that the leader of the same state who takes an oath to protect citizens commits mass genocide and still gets away with it because of the support of the majority...

Further, the accused in Bilkis Banu's case have been given life imprisonment as the judge termed it as not being 'the rarest of rare' and so the accused couldnt be sent to the gallows (death sentence).
Godhra happened in 2002, i was young then,it is 2008 and people havent yet recieved justice...our system is flawed, her pain is fresh and i personally believe that Justice delayed is justice denied.

Even the Sikh riots of 1984 (after the assasination of Indira Gandhi) is shockingly dismaying. Scores of sikhs were burned/beaten to death and many women raped only because the assasinators of Indira Gandhi were Sikhs. It was a Hindu backlash of sorts to teach the community of the perpetrators a lesson.
Male members of Sikh community were taken out, "were beaten first and then burnt alive in a systematic manner. In some cases tyres were put around their neck and then petrol was poured on them. In some cases white inflammable powder was thrown on them, which immediately caught fire. This was common pattern followed. The shops were identified and looted and then burnt."
To top it all Rajiv Gandhi (her son) on being asked what the government was doing to control the riots, very insensitively commented, "When a tree falls (Indira Gandhi..he meant) the tremors would be felt."

Such political insensitivity has destroyed foolish religious minds. I am still hoping to see a day when we would see each other as self made Indians than religious entities. What makes 'people' is not their 'religion'....we need to understand that and learn....But when?

Are we Indians so suseptible to religious instigation and political exploitation...I think our own GODS are too embarrased too answer for our shameful deeds

GENERATION GAP(e)

What is with the generation? The gap between the young and old seems to be large...wider than the length of a nine yard saree, and this distance is probably too long for people from both generations to reach the other.
The Gen X and the Gen Y phenomenon have so rapidly caught the craze of its inheritors that they no longer feel the need to be inherited by anyone. They are individuals identical by birth but very much in search of their own identity.
Differences between generations are usually bound by cultural and societal upbringing and this gap is only a stark assertion of the variants in their experiences, opinions, habits and behaviour.

For instance,
When mom says, you are not to receive calls from any of your guy friends after 12 in the night, you retaliate because you feel that ‘women’ (apparently your mother) is still living in an old mesh and you wish you could get her out of it but ignore it as a gap between two similar (in body) but different intellectuals (in mind).

When you believe in partying hard with the shortest of clothes or literally living off...the purse strings you have been pulling...you hate the grandmother questioning which comes from older relatives. They are old; frustrated pig heads… is what you triumphantly preach.

When Dad advices his young lad to ride his bike slow, this ‘I am crazy about bikes' dude wonders whether the ‘Gods were really crazy’ when they sent his unadventurous dad down on earth....He doesn't have a sense of adventure…Poor him (you feel).

And while you are busy buzzing your girl friend or showering her with unnecessary ‘whats up babes/darling/ sweetheart’ smses, your mother prepares a delicacy for your father...and reveals her anxiety about treating him to a great meal.
You begin to smirk and wonder...when will they learn that in the world of technology, the stomach has no say....it is just the efficacy of the speed in your hands that manages to impress and not the food.

The youth prefer living on modern junked junk of burgers, pizzas and variants of KFCs, McDs but they hate roti, sabzi and daal...and feel it is all so traditional...and again begin to cringe about the huge generation gap.

But if you are still gaping for bigger gaps, we need to look far beyond our borders and water bodies….more than a Generation Gap we suffer from a “Cross-Continental GAP.”

Most of us today are a bunch of trying and dying hard 'wannabes'. The culture in the west has charmed us so much, that our own values go for a toss...and when the oldies try to have a say…we impinge calling it a Generation gap.
Today these visible differences can be rooted to our desire to imitate a culture that was never propagated by our forefathers but always considered elitist for a reason we do not know.

So while the old may prefer listening to ‘Pandit Ravi Shankar’, country music or ghazal maestros like ‘Pankaj Udhas’ or ‘Jagjit Singh’; we laugh at their stupidity for ignoring bollywood mish-mash, bootilicious Beyonce, belly shaking Shakira, hard rock or all that Hip-hop jazz. Where is the Generation-next heading then? Is this huge gap because of education or an impact of the west?

It is best though, to accept the differences and move on…rather than pondering about where and how the gap widened in the first place?

Today, the gap exists in the ever-present orthodox nature of the old and the young are just trying to stem out from these traditional beliefs…Some of them also call it the hypocrisy of the old while some feel ‘what is past is past’ and there is a need for change.

Inter-religious/caste marriages in India are the most obvious examples. While generations that preceded us believed that such marriages would never work, the generation today is trying hard to prove them wrong. Some are half-successful while some are basking in their triumphant success of proving their elders wrong.

The gap is widening, but slowly there is also a sense of acceptance which is coming way…though we cannot cut ourselves completely from the main stem, the branch is now learning how to bloom without the help of the stem.
To breakaway would mean that one generation just does not want to be a part of the other and finally decides to split. So for now we need to enjoy the gap…because with all the confrontations, arguments… what comes out is a person who is a confluence of Both.

What India....what PRIDE?

There i go again...i say something i barely expect you to understand. My INDIA...my pride, it is a fruitless attempt of making me feel Indian everytime.

My pride stems from the most improbable feat....
Yipee!India won the 20-20 world cup,
Horrible!! they treat my India like a piece of junk abroad, OR
Gosh!!!my fellow Indian was victim to racial slurs; she was called an 'Indian' in a popular game show.

Sometimes, me and my Indianess force me to protest...I run down the closest street and amidst media glare; burst crackers or bombs, or burn or hail effigies of the most likely brain diggers who re-ignited that indianess in me (Be it team-Australia, be it Jade Goody, or be it Dhoni's Team India or Indian doctor Haneef)

Particpating in media activism...I send spades of smses to the money making media, believing that my Yes or No sms would make an impact on my countries pride (which is highly unlikely).
I dont mind sitting home and sending a Rs.6 sms to add a 0.00001 difference to the media polls early next morning. ....but yes i am still making that small difference...so i heed no answers to anybody.
I wish to stand behind the reporter who talks passionately infront of the camera speaking about the hue and cry i make when my fellow Indian is disturbed abroad. I signal from behind waving a hand to the camera...or looking at it in the eye...just to show that i exist...(I am whole, i am Indian..look at me...i have a voice...listen to me).
I speak to the journalist on the channels mike saying "I am unhappy with the treatment meted out to them....this is unfair and i am ready to kill."

I believe my opinion will make a difference...my voice will ring an alarming cry and people will realise the consequence of hurting an Indian's pride.

Now i am satisfied, i have retained my pride, i come back home and lie back. I am now Indian...no one can crush my unfathomable pride.

Unasbashed i go gaga over how my dear bhai-behen, ma-beti, baap-daada are treated
outside the country...But i forget....they kill my pride everyday. My Indianess is shaken every minute. Another fellow Indian is stripping my ego every second.

Is there nothing to fathom...when 14 men molest a women on a new years night, when mind-boggling statistics reveal that a woman is being raped every 30 minutes in a safe metro like Mumbai OR when Dalit women are being stripped for the lowliness of their caste (just do a google search and i wont be surprised if you were shocked) and paraded throughout the village naked in the eyes of thier sons/fathers/husbands.

Where is my glory then....when man kills man in the name of religion, when a muslim faces the wrath of marrying a rich Marwari Hindu somewhere in Kolkatta or when the west of my country triumphs in the name of communalism wherein people harp on the development by Narendra Modi and forget the thousands of innocent victims of the Godhra riots in 2002.

Isn't my vanity crushed when the youth speak of politics 'as shit' and a game of blood suckers (poli=many and tics=bloodsuckers) and blatantly refuse to be a part of it. I fear then...about my tomorrow...because i know not who would wish to lead.

I douse in my bhaartiya sanskriti...but these values and principles are only left in a lurch...when the young fag and booze endlessly and engage is promescuity, strongly asserting that their 'life' is nobodies business and your questioning is a criminal act of forbearance.

The youth believe its cool to release the burden of being a Virgin (which they can't hold far too long)....today, they would rather prefer too many name plates on their unvirgin card than gamble their lives for the nation at war or politics.

I then loose my stem of strength because i fail to comprehend to their lives and see it a self-mockery of my prolonged absitnence from this all.....

I then begin to dread being in the country of Naxals, and the LTTEs, i fear death in the name of fundamentalism when the SIMIs or equivalent of the Al- Qaida's glorify the radical nature of their religion and spread terror....
I then begin to loath on the 'Hindutava' that politicians keep talkin about without realising its impact on the innocent minority, which is a complete enslavement and vindication of their rights.....

If I force my insight further...i know i am nested in false pride from which i dont know if i would ever rise.....WHAT PRIDE then....Which INDIA then??