and..another thing

I live to eat. Justification-

2011-08-23T13:49:00.004+04:00

It is disheartening to witness that in five years of blogging, justice hasn’t been done to the one thing I love. Dear reader, paint me as you want post this narration..couldn’t care less. I love food, live to eat and other cliché should conclude this sentence fine.

1) This blogger travelled 60 km by BMTC (in peak hour traffic at that) just to taste what TOI called the perfect coffee in Bangalore. Totally worth it.

2) Post lunch, this blogger managed to polish off 1.5 DBCs at Corner House single handed (frand wanted to THROW AWAY 0.5 DBC! Such a whack this toon had never received).

3) This blogger managed to finish Fresco’s 20 layer cake in under 20 minutes. And was eager for more.

4) One Saturday, this blogger scoured most of North Bengaluru by herself for the perfect bhel puri and found it at her fifth attempt.

5) The quest for the perfect paratha is still on.

6) This blogger found the perfect Butter Masala Dosa before she was born.

7) Cuisines from most parts of the country...conquered.

8) Cuisines from most parts of the world...will be conquered soon.

9) This blogger had Maggi for breakfast, lunch and dinner for three days (nine attempts at preparation) to make the perfect Maggi variant. Mission accomplished.

10) Something similar happened with pasta a week later. Ah..adolescence.

11) 2*100 gm bars of 90% dark chocolate subconsciously ‘cleaned’ in under an hour (that actually aided recovery from minor illness). This was when my family began to suspect I’m crazy.

12) A pound of Hershey’s Mildly Dark vanished without trace in five days. That’s when my family concluded I’m a maniac.

13) Ask this blogger what happened to her thirteenth birthday cake. Ask. Aaaask. :D

14) This blogger’s biography will have a cliché chocoholic related title.

15) Or maybe a caffeine related one. About 400 ml of SSB is ingested on an average day. No addiction. Yet.

16) If you invited me to 'hang out', I probably came there solely for the food.

17) Quest for the perfect Jalebi, Gulab Jamun, Vada Pav and Bakarwadi still on. And I need your help on this one.

Yes, someday I’ll die of a nutrition-related illness..possibly even suffer from diabetes in a few years. Until then, it is ‘all I can eat’. :)

Ooo. I saw God.

2011-07-26T12:30:00.008+04:00

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of visiting the abode of a deity at one of the richest temples in the world. For a self-confessed religious apathetic, this was the first visit to a temple in four years and was more a product of compulsion than free will. However, a minor factor that materialized the journey was indeed free will, although restricted to savouring a certain sweet delicacy the temple gives away, possibly as consolation for having to navigate a mile long maze to catch a glimpse of the deity.

My contingent reached the temple at the crack of dawn. ‘Heh, we’ll beat the queue before it even forms’ was the motive. Sadly, as if to certify India’s upholding of ‘unity in diversity’, several thousand people with the exact motive as my parents’ had already taken their places and there we were, sorry faced, at the far end of the queue. As we inched towards the gold building, I realized the unimaginable: Indians are the most motivated people in the world. The aforementioned citizenry that had thronged a square kilometre space had only one goal that day – get a glimpse of ‘god’. Nothing else mattered. Nobody even bothered to look at the five-hundred year old inscriptions engraved on the temple’s walls, built by an emperor considered among the greatest in Indian history. That the stone temple stood on an entirely stone-based foundation plastered with clay over centuries did not matter to them as did the fact that the food they would later be served is still made from the same recipes the emperor’s cooks used half a millennium ago.

This theory of no-gaze-avert was put to test when the crowd reached the gold-plated architectural marvel. Yours truly overheard discussions revolving around bullion trade and jewellery with miscellaneous entertainment about how many necklaces and bangles could be made with the building’s gold exterior. Again, nobody took a second look at the figurines etched in gold: souvenirs from Hindu mythology that boasts of magical birds, animals and events, all beautifully depicted. But my version of culture shock happened when we were in front of the holy idol. It was a world I had seen only in Discovery’s coverage of the Kumbh Mela – chants, prayers, closed eyes, palms gathered, all with genuine, unshakeable faith. I don’t know if they were repenting for sins, praying in gratitude or seeking the almighty’s help but the faith that was obvious in their intensity of salutation, their desperation to get more than a glimpse of their god, their determination in trying to manage a few more prostrations before being pushed away to make room for more people..was almost like passion, passion I had never felt before, faith that I have never seen nor had in time, people or even in myself. For someone alien to the concept of ‘belief’, looking at an idol could never be as meaningfully comprehensible as seeing what it meant for the millions who travelled for days..for that single glimpse of ‘god’.

And then surprisingly, it all ended. The tension, the adrenalin they had in front of the deity almost instantly subsided. Theoretically, almost an equal number of people were expected at the ‘prasadam counter’ but I seemed to be among the few lone, obviously exhausted warriors seeking an oasis. With more than sufficient sugary spheres to last the return journey, I exited the oasis in glee.

Back home, nothing had changed. The same people who could grind mountains to dust before the almighty had come back to level zero and went on with their business as usual..daily prayers still being offered, prostrations still made, chants still pursued, finer details of their day still overlooked.

And D.K Bose, still running.

The Blogger Clique Theory

2011-06-21T22:19:00.001+04:00

The Blogger Clique Theory was proposed by PCH01. It states that bloggers stop blogging when they see their perceived audience (other clique member with Blogging / internetpoints clout) disappearing.

Let A, B, C and D be a group of blogger acquaintances. As long as A, B, C and D mutually interact on a regular basis, there is a constant flow of blog posts on each of their blogs. The moment A, B and C get their offer letter, frequency of respective blog posts wanes and D, with no apparent reason to stop posting stops posting.

Associated dynamics:

• If A, B, C, D are a group of bloggers, their frequency, topic, word play and nature of blogging influence each other. If they are a closely knit group, A, B, C and D will share fundae, playlist, reading list, to read list and so forth.

• If A, B, C are bloggers and D is a non-blogging common acquaintance, D will start blogging within a few months of being acquainted to A, B and C. The quality of D’s blog may be superlatively superior or exceedingly inferior to that of the other three.

• D, from the aforementioned inferior case will tend to up the frequency of blog posts, mostly to appear ‘ishtud blogger type’. D’s blog and Tweet history will then correspond. The service provider hosting several D-rated blogs would then suffer a massive blow in subsequent Google PR allotment parties. However, most Ds start on Blogger which Google already owns, explaining the detritus orbiting as you read this.

• D, from the aforementioned superior case will eventually intimidate A, B and C. There will be blog wars, with areas of contention being number of patrons, fan out of posts, flaw detection and the like. If A, B, C, D have monetized their blogs, SEO wars will be waged to gain traffic and hence AdSense revenue.

The virtual world was free from such bewilderment in circa 2006. But free speech seems to have thrived and none is gladder than I am to witness it.

ValEd Hour

2011-02-16T19:05:00.002+04:00

I haven’t made at attempt to translate feelings into words for a while now...nothing remarkable had happened. Now that some lessons have been learnt, it is time for a translation-

Passion

Being coerced into doing something one does not like often makes one find other outlets for creativity. In most cases, however, one succumbs to depression and passion ceases to exist. In another world, excelling in something you passionately dislike is the best validation in the world. Speaking of which,

Validation

Apparently, the weak alone seek validation from sources other than themselves. Opinions of other (and permit me to say, lesser) mortals, pleasant or not, are mere strings of words which should not make one feel better or worse at the end of the day.
That, children, is the ideal case. Every night, your last thought is of that event which was not in your favour. And this will go on forever, there’s no fighting the process of validation. The point of this paragraph is that it while it is completely fine to seek validation, what’s not fine is depending on it for a boost of self-esteem.

I am what I am..

..is an excuse egomaniacal souls came up with to ignore criticism. When someone suggests beneficial improvement, give an ear before quoting popular SMS forwards that ask the recipient to perform unmentionable tasks if the sender’s attitude is unacceptable.
‘I am what I am’ is only contextually applicable. One of these contexts is when you are forced to go against your ideals. Google the others and use the line wisely.

Universal Popularity

Won’t happen. I was resented for being a tad more liberal than others in a social group to the extent that a schmuck even warned his girlfriend against me! (That’s a funny story which will be up here another time...full chick-flick material and all. :D)
This is another context to quote the previous header, garnish with swearing (only if you usually do that, because it’s a part of who you are :P) and strut away to greener pastures. In the absence of such pastures, I do not know how to deal with people who dislike you yet interact with you on a regular basis. You are welcome to suggest ways.

Expectation

Three years of college taught me to not expect even courtesy from most people. Calls went unreturned, as were texts and ‘friendly’ advances. This only added to the humour of character building though, because at the end of three years, people who mattered had always returned love.

...

These are just some things I realized (rather late), which you probably have already. If not, don’t dwell on them. Learn your own lessons.

Ranger Rani

2010-07-25T19:17:00.005+04:00

She looked nothing like the conventional pretty girl - pleasantly plump, pierced brow and lip, bandana, tattoo adorned arm and leather boots. Yet, Rani happens to be the most beautiful person I have seen.

Every morning, I watched her zoom into campus on a motorcycle, an oddity in the parking lot of an all-girl college. She showed the helmet its place and walked swiftly to Nescafe each morning..every morning. That she was nearly bald under the bandana didn't make her less radiant for she always had a kind 'good morning' ready. I used to watch her till she was out of sight, oblivious to several 'What's the deal with her hair?' and 'Did she actually shave her head?!' remarks.

Lovely as she was, even the dogs on campus loved Ranger Rani- that was what I heard people call her. She somehow managed to be in the canteen, library and the chapel at the same time! Rani seemed to be everywhere, sometimes spread out in the sun alone while academic sessions were in progress, perpetually with food, iPod carelessly plugged, book in hand with her typical stare-on-I-don't-care look. That she had only one state -happy- seemed to grab my attention always and slowly, I began to seek inspiration in her. Rani's answer to life helped build an attitude impervious to judgement that shaped a person who valued kindness while not letting any turmoil affect the tone of her 'good morning'. A mother soon noticed her eternally pseudo-depressed teen happier than she had been in the recent past and was heard raving about how the 'II PUC stress' had failed to affect her daughter.

After a few months, there was no sign of her in college and the general assumption was that she had graduated. I did eventually find out that Rani didn't really run a razor along her scalp every Sunday; she was on chemotherapy for leukemia. That didn't seem to deter her from effortlessly bringing the Enfield to life with a single kick.

I do not know where or how Rani is today..it is depressing to even think about the success rate of chemotherapy. Every morning as I start the Scooty, there is that one moment of regret for not getting to know Ranger Rani in person, for all the conversations that could have happened over the numerous donuts she downed and for the difference we could have made in each others' lives. All those endless hours idled in the basketball court - an amazing person was just a syllable away.

...

Months of searching on networking sites hasn't helped. I don't even know Rani's full name or anything beyond the above description. If you happen to know who I refer to, please help me get in touch with her. Till then, one can only hope the Enfield roars on..

Recursive function

2010-06-28T10:33:00.002+04:00

Sing Aksie's_little_rhyme (sing)

{

All day I sit
Bite and chew;
Custard, jelly, fruit
And candy blue;
Cheesecake, mousse
And Black forest
Shove stress and unrest;
Dark chocolate cookies
Supplies that never cease;
Freezer full of sundae
Now tackle the goddamn Monday;

Finger chips with dip
Bagels with thyme;
When you're down and out sing
Aksie's_little_rhyme (again);

}

PS: First four lines of function exist on the rough work page of Friday's VTU booklet. :D

Fun with Numbers

2010-05-26T12:12:00.004+04:00

No math or ugh..’apti’ involved.

While most features of cellular devices remain unperturbed by a large percentage of users, phonebook is a feature that is exploited universally. This virtual register bank not only serves the purpose of associating names with cellular numbers but also acts as a nickname/rude word reminder/memory refresher list. Needless to say, the entire concept of communication would suffer a blow without this technological venture.

For years, I have remained annoyed at textual replies on the lines of ‘sry my contacts gt dltd whos dis??’ and decided to not resort to such feeble means of identity excavation when I had a blank phonebook a couple of weeks ago. A situation encountered is presented next.

Messages received during intra-college fest:

‘Hey wer ru come fast its startin now’
‘Aksie seminar hall at 2’
‘Dude dance started. Come to amphi’
‘Shal v go for treasure hunt?’

It is highly impossible to choose the best alternative with only a minute available for decision making. The following variables have to be considered: event, company soliciting my presence, distance from current location, expected crowd, availability of food and availability of air conditioning.

Can’t ask who the invite is from (against ideals), insufficient balance for several calls (to guess sender’s identity by voice recognition) and definitely can’t go without knowing who else would be there (what if you were seated alone, happy and caught the attention of a sorrow-inducing other?)

Whattodo aa? Simple.

Run down, check the list of events, participate in an individual-entry event you’re sure of winning/getting rigged in your favour.

Else, grab food/beverage/both and gather acquaintances, if any, in shouting radius. Run to terrace, find place under the water tank to watch most events.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen with me. I toured the entire campus at 1400 hrs, sampling a few minutes of every event, parched and deprived of lunch. Do not add to my misery by seeking description of events witnessed.

Always backup/never lose your cellular contacts. People matter.

PS: Have actually started playing guessing games over SMS now. Works with some people while others think it is fun to piss me off the night before third internals. Let that backup software work..we’ll see. B-)

Don't piss me off. I know where you live.

2010-01-06T11:00:00.008+04:00

This educative article requires some amount of 'build up' which may be modeled thus:

It is a wonderful feeling to commemorate eleven years on the internet, marked by 'cherished' milestones - lurking in chat rooms at age 11 (circa 2000 AD), owning a web page at age 13 (Geocities closed else I'd link you to it), moderating forums by age 15 and the pseudonym cursedsoul gaining veteran status by age 16. But the peak of elation occurs when you tell kids you've been online since the 90's, witnessing the birth of Wikipedia, growth of Google, fall of innumerable biggies or that you were among the first few broadband users in the whole goddamn country. Pre-release, yes.

Point of bragging : An Introduction to Internet Etiquette for Dummies. Somebody HAD to churn this out.

Subsequent paragraphs are directed at you, you and you.

So you thought you'd go spewing stuff on the internet because the poor souls that constitute your friends list never tell you they think you suck. None of them probably even got the point of you uploading those 289 pictures - 16 with your (insert well-chosen adjective) boyfriend pouting against a dark backdrop, 54 identical shots of three people and alcohol, the rest a collage of solo shots - your eyes, fake tattoos, nostrils, ear pinnae and toe nails. Anyone with a life would be pained to see even Farcebook being abused that way.

Your pictorial abuse may be pardoned because it is not impossible to ignore the 'pics uploaded!!!!11one' notification. But then you choose to stalk GTalk with status messages piled up over a span of months (seriously, dustbin!). Hate to break this to you but nobody cares if you '3 Idiotsss | aal izz welll| Bacardi rocks | Clinic + shampoo!|' or cannot distinguish between the terms status message and profile description. Oh wait if you thought these messages were conversation starters then the junta just obtained adequate material to induce mirthless laughter till Diwali 2010.

And then the concept of Twitter. The whole point of the site, I believe, is to socialize, keep in touch, etcetera. This implies that while your 'followers' would pay rapt attention to events like you winning the lottery, giving away free food, wine or money, they might go on to wish you on your birthday or extend polite condolence upon tragedy. It would hardly matter to them if you 'woke up nw gting l8 gotta go'. Kindly stop Tweeting about your coughs, sneezes and farts. Nobody cares.

Summary:

Etiquette in the virtual world is not different from that in the real one. Try to not repel people without intending to. If you see a 'busy' icon beside a name, chances are it wasn't placed there by accident and it surely isn't the time to issue a 400 word unsolicited review on Avatar. Kindly refrain from SMS and phone notifications to your photo albums or blog updates because nobody is that keen on seeing your Photoshopped grin. May your status messages not reveal your mother's maiden name or make you assume that aura of 'mystery'. Help keep the virtual world clean. Recycle plastic, use water judiciously and brush twice a day.

PS: If you were linked to this post by an email, do drop in and say hello. :) Chances are we haven't corresponded in years

Out of place

2009-11-07T18:12:00.002+04:00

Have you ever lived an outcast's life? If affirmative, mail me now with vivid description. We can talk.

When you have been encouraged to disagree all your life, it seems suffocating to trek eighteen miles in a straight line of conservative, shallow, intellectually impotent humans starting one cloudy morning. My cloudy morning has lasted longer than two years with several indefinitely procrastinated trips to a mental health facility not far away. Soon, I might be a permanent resident in the aforementioned facility.

Mortals who knew this author in her formative years would remember her as an extrovert who wouldn't spare a moment's silence. Couldn't spare a moment's silence, rather. The trek has flipped things. She now hunches in a chair from dawn to dusk, light years away from mortals of her species, pursuing a much-detested activity that would soon be her means of eking out a living. In absolute quiet.

Every dawn, she stirs with the hope of a pleasant conversation with enjoyable company at her workplace, even if it lasts only minutes, that could kill the frustration of being compelled to pursue something she passionately disliked. A chat, a laugh, a friend.

Hope.

(Had she not found a pet hamster, she wouldn't sustain the head injury.)

Penultimate dream

2009-07-17T15:49:00.000+04:00

Two days straight
I stayed quiet
Lost in thought
All yours.
On the third,
I thought not of you
And since then
I have not thought.

Of those days we laughed
Shared and cared
And loved.
Of the time we spent
On grass, in water
In the moonlight together
I have not thought.

I shall not dwell
On when you'll be here
For you will be here
Tomorrow.
And then we shall live
All those days
Again, those evenings
Together.

F.I.E.N.D.S -3 : Burglar alarm!

2009-07-12T18:27:00.004+04:00

Yeah. So. Some schmucks thought it would be funny to break into my residence when my parents were out of town.

It happened on the 9th of July, 2009. After a memorable day out, this blogger returned home to find the front door of her residence left open, door locks duly broken. Although panic stricken, I managed to grab the handle of the door with a leaf of tissue (the fingerprints, yo!) , latch it externally and run to the dwelling next door, dialing dad on speed dial 3. Jayashree Aunty and her hubby proved instrumental in subsiding mine adrenalin with a generous dose of caffeine while dad worked in the background to alert the local police.

Guilt overpowered as random thoughts of letting folks down crept my mind until the caffeine suggested that a bunch of vagabonds on a door-breaking rampage was beyond my control. With a curious urge to examine indoor damage, I followed the neighbors to explore the plunderers' path, armed with a broken curtain rod and Baygon spray. The weapons must have scared away those criminals who had thought of hiding indoors. Heh. B-)

It was quite evident that the entire house had been searched for gold and cash: cabinets and lockers were broken, their contents scattered pell-mell; mattresses shifted, pillow cases torn and grocery containers in the kitchen open (yahaha :D). Surprisingly, electronic gadgets were left to themselves as were artefacts even remotely related to god and religion, only to instill an image of a god-fearing burglar in the observer. A quick conversation with parents later, the cops arrived: a Hoysala van, a police jeep and two tigers, totalling ten policemen, as if to investigate murder.

Exhibit A: Indoors

As the cops examined each room, an officer applauded mom's security measure of storing even minor valuables in bank lockers due to which the estimated amount stolen was not far from 0 INR. While detectives drew sketch upon sketch, the forensic team reported that the burglars had performed their course of action with gloved hands, making them hard to trace. They did take a record of my fingerprints though, probably aware of my previous and potential bank-robbing sketches.

Exhibit B: The kitchen

About ten people had to be fed dinner from a burgled house. Neighbour aunties volunteered to cook in their own kitchens during BESCOM's load shedding and the resultant was surprisingly tasty. They even volunteered to stay over with me overnight and they did! This is when I began to appreciate India's know-thy-neighbour way of life. :)

Exhibit C: The street

The arrival of cops created a stir in the eternally peaceful neighbourhood with no history of crime. Most citizens even suspected an arrest and emerged from respective residences to watch me being bombarded with questions at the gate. Soon, I was narrating the incident to strangers for the sixth time, including one Narmada Aunty who stays about eight miles away. The sympathy received was heartwarming and I received adequate material to compose a seven-series saga about instances of crime in Bangalore.

Mom arrived at 03:45 the next morning and burst into laughter. The Hindu tradition apparently frowns upon empty jewelry cases stored at home which prompted her to place 1 and 2 INR coins in each box..a factor that incensed the thieves who had thrown boxes about in angst. One of them must have hit the mirror and shattered it. To top it off, the forty-two pairs of earrings I own were scattered on the floor, with a snide hint to invest an entire vacation rearranging them in pairs. Passport, bank documents, CDs, books and everything else untouched. :)

What you must learn from the above narration:

When you leave home for a couple of days, tell few or none about it if you are new to a locality and trust nobody.
Alternately, inform trustworthy neigbours of your excursion and plead them to keep a watch/respond to abnormal happenings in your absence. Bribe them with a box of sweets..its that simple.
Invest on an iron grill door. More importantly, keep it locked.
Stuff all your valuables in a bank locker near your residence. Place expensive gadgets and art in it when you will be away from home. Indian thieves are 'high-class' now. The ones that attacked my dwelling, sadly, weren't but may that not lead to lax security.

Elementary instructions given, I shall now consume medication against possible swine flu/other harmful virus attack and continue rearranging stuff.

And pursue chanting curses against the rascals who ruined half a week of vacation.

Alright it was a little exciting.

I dream a dream

2009-06-12T17:30:00.002+04:00

I have a glow-in-the-dark bedspread now. It gave me quite a fright when I turned out the lights at 23:52 last night. What makes it more qzxfjyi is the fact that it comes with matching pillow cases. The sheet set is ocean blue in colour which looks qzxfjyi in mine room with olive green walls, chocolate brown doors and VTU textbooks.

There's more. I have been dreaming questionable content since the bedspread was welcomed into our family. This afternoon, for instance, a gorilla in a black tux held out a wedding ring to me. Yesterday, the gorilla had only smiled. I could swear I had smoked nothing, with no intoxicating substance existing in a 200m radius (couldn't speak on behalf of that techie nearby though..he plays Vengaboys on full bass past 22:00).

Ah. Nights will be exciting.

That day

2009-05-02T15:58:00.007+04:00

That day, he showed me art. He placed portrait after portrait and I looked at them. Somewhere mid-session, I learnt that when you see art, you react verbally: talk high of it or not. It did not happen with me, I only looked. And then I picked the ones I liked.

...

The parchment was quite like canvas. It sucked in paint, more paint. It absorbed nearly everything I blotted it with and then it could not.

It dried by morning next. I was up every other hour to check if it had.
A little cotton swab held as much red as it could and gave it all to the parchment.
Soon, my hands weren't just black.

I only had two colours.

F.I.E.N.D.S - 2

2009-04-03T17:12:00.005+04:00

Hopped I, off another eatery clutching edibles of the sweet kind. Before you judge me a merciless binger, I'd like to hear what you know about three day long sugarless survival with four hours' sleep a day (night?). Not that sleeping longer would aid the XX chromosome's sugarless existence.

Yeah. So. The aroma of baked and frozen edibles from the 50 micron polythene bag was quite overpowering. With deliberate, quick footsteps of constant measure, I was estimated to reach residence in about 500 seconds. A sense of strange calmness possessed my being, as against the general anxiety observed in the last few months while manually transporting food under human surveillance. The polythene bag could sense it too; its contents moved about in an inharmonious fashion and I was forced to invest several seconds in relocating them during which my shoes chose to tread on something that wasn't tar or stone.

*crunch*

"Ey! Stop!"

Shoes chose to stop.

"You cannot see on what you are walking? It is not even dark."

I inclined pi/2 radians towards the ground to observe the trodden object: a visual aid with one of the elongated levers that rest on one's ears nearly separated from the rest of the frame. The object was picked up, handed over to its owner with a hurried apology: the frozen edibles came with a 'meltable' warning!

"What sorry? You know how much this spectacles is costing?"

I see you in a spectacle! But then I'm half blind..

Another apology. And an offer to manually re-fit the frame. It only required a few screw driver twirls anyway.

"I am getting only 2 paisa from every tablet I sale. With that I should buy everything for family members. You youngsters think everything is easy.."

Elementary analysis placed subject as a chemist. My grey cells have been programmed to fear humans clutching syringes and/or ingestible medication. But then irony had ordered the incident to occur in visible vicinity of 'Sharp Eye Care and Contant Lens Clinic'. Ignoring an adjective to a popular syringe attachment in the very title of the establishment's nomenclature, I darted in, invested limited finance in repair of the visual aid while its owner stood breathing on mine neck.

The frozen edibles had formed an emulsion with the baked edibles at 21 minutes past their time of expiration. The concoction, however, was consumed with glee. I hence urge you to not watch what you step on, particularly if you like consuming exotica that also provides food for business-idea related fantasy.

Crappy New Ear

2009-01-07T19:17:00.004+04:00

I remember looking forward to 1/1/09 on 1/1/08 while attempting to solve a numerical on Heisenberg's relation at approximately 21:00 hrs (+5:30 GMT). Even sang (that's right) to myself a little resolution.
"I swear to Lucifer to do everything that can be done to make the year all spluxoroni (don't bother looking the term up)."
The resolution lasted eleven hours.

31/12/08, 23:50 hrs (+5:30 GMT). Iron-fisted subject called Failed Theory the next morning, with a state average pass percentage nearly equal to the minimum rickshaw fare in Bengaluru. Yet I sat sipping caffeine..slow, deliberate sips, parallely adding humour to vector analytical diagrams (a memory technique which eventually did more harm than help). A new song, a new resolution. You don't want to know.

The next day, a rag flaunting eight questions ripped my will to survive.

A lunch session with Ze-Worry including awesomeawesome chocolate mousse kept chanting 'Guilty! Muhahahaha'. The incident left a scar behind, as have many others..I am now forced to wear a veil. Little human offsprings call me Ninja.

...

PS1: The title? Yeah I know..

PS2: $%#@%@&^%)*&!!!!!

The test

2008-11-21T18:21:00.004+04:00

Flustered, irate, confused.
Love it isn't, too obtuse.
Heartstopping? Not.
More of an excuse..
Confounded, I stand
Try and seek you in stars
Then turn back
To desolate, ignored yards.

Winding roads before me
Too big a quest.
Praying as I walk
I will not
Should not
Pass this test..

F.I.E.N.D.S

2008-08-18T16:18:00.008+04:00

They are everywhere. They roam in light as majestically they strut around after dusk, ears on constant alert, sly eyes gauging profit 365/24 and hands..those hands seasoned with a raven’s clasp, prepared to snatch, to rob! Nay, I speak not of professional muggers or miscellaneous con-men but of those silent assassins, those amateur plunderers in sheep’s guise.

Yeah. So. I was on one of those blah-you-men-I-date-myself frenzies and chose to treat self at a popular fast food joint in the city. A slight drizzle through clear Saint Gobains and Bryan Adams tuned to perfection only placed life at perfect peace with the world, perturbed not even by pesky little siblings (twins, by the looks of it) engaged in belligerent tugging of a toy the joint gives away with certain edibles.

My burger and fries were soon gone, like most other good things in life that quietly make their way out of the cat flap when you’re out buying cat food and..never mind. So yeah..I’d eaten all of the burger and fries when mine eyes noticed another joint in the vicinity that sold great donuts, which when clubbed with the choco shake I clasped could conclude lunch on a very merry note. Off I skipped towards the donut store, choco shake in one hand, baggage in the other...when I was *gasps* ROBBED!

Pesky kid from the set of two described earlier sat at the entrance of the joint, looking all gloomy. The XX chromosome that governs most of mine thought, word and action quickly (and involuntarily) triggered its maternity gene, which happens to bear the trait of being nice to biotic offsprings. Gave the little creature a /*warm*/ smile and said, “Grab the toy next time, OK?”.
Species showed no visible reaction.

“Where is the other individual of your kind? And the biotic system governed by XX chromosome that parents you?”

“He spilled ketchup on his shirt. She’s getting him cleaned.”

The creature’s eyes slowly moved and fixed on the beverage in my hand. They brightened, almost as instantaneously as my reflexes triggered to grip the container firmer.

“Can I have that?”

“Umm..my lunch..”

“Its chocolate no?”

“Yeah well..”

I didn’t affirm the request, OK? I didn’t!
Off the choco shake went zooming towards the restrooms, to cause more stain (pain?) or to be gloated on, I know not..

*angst* Why me?
Again, why me? */angst*

You might want to take a note or two off this narration though, specially the implication of not displaying in public edibles crucial for existence and a mental note to not resort to unsolicited conversation with pestilential human offsprings.

*sniff*

Tangled Waves

2008-06-13T12:51:00.005+04:00

Finally, frustration levels have reached high enough to blog again. Without citing an excuse for temporary absence from this vent-bin, I choose to start off with the root of frustration - A 10 station FM tuner I painstakingly constructed is in coma, as is the family radio and a similar functioning unit on my cellular device. They were poisoned with sub-standard FM waves.

The advent of FM radio in India, particularly in erstwhile Bangalore was to bring back the charm of 70's and 80's radio - serve humanity with knowledge and quality entertainment, mainly good music. For a while, it did look promising to sapien species from both Vividh Bharati and Playstation eras until extortionate cloning of radio stations took charge (what competition at that!), initiating a large percentage of junta to divert their finance, attention as well as gifting trend towards a new investment - the humble mp3 player. This gizmo was such a hit that even radio set and cellular phone manufacturers included its modular version in their merchandise, fearing its possible dominance would otherwise make their products obsolete. I do not complain.

A few days ago though, out of sheer joblessness, I decided to re-examine the previously defined detritus cruising the city over FM waves and risked turning on the radio. However, just when I thought the world was forever rid of Dard-e-disco and miscellaneous Himesh Reshammiya chants, a simple channel surf revealed thus:

...Zara zara hold me hold me hold me, zara zara..

...Haaaaaaaai, neev kelta idira Radio XYZ. Sakkat hot maga! (Ah, wishful thinking.. :D)

...Oh vary happy in mai haart dil dance maare..

..the relief stop for banking and investments. Call..

...Whitu whitu whitu whitu..whitu Rajnikanthu neenu.. (Blatant racism! Ennada rascal! :X)

...Idu Bengaloorina hottest radio station.. (by far the most popular claim, placed by a minimum of 3 stations at once)

...and eef you want that goody bag, message meeee. The highest number aaf 'messager' wins! (God save the queen)

How did 'music' on Radio dearest perish? And those fluent, charming RJs who once made radio great 'human' company..did they give up jockeying to turn Motivational Speakers for the Royally Challenged? More importantly, what happened to the purpose of allotting a plethora of stations - VARIETY!? A chorus of 'Chaliya Chaliya' on alternate stations 4 times an hour surely demands a better definition of the aforementioned purpose. If anything is certain, it is the fact that the spirit of radio has drifted away to grace a funeral.

Not that all is lost, for inches of the sail are still visible. There seem to have emerged innovations which are quite endearing, albeit only a few such. The breakfast show on Radio City, a hilarious feature called Ghanta Singh that plays randomly on Radio One, nearly everything on Indigo, and the Western Music Hour on good old Akashvani seem lifting. But that alone won't do, will it? We want 'Radio' back!

Post abandoning the attempt to re-examine FM waves, I choose to get busy with a C programming manual, only to hear a station feebly calling out a last resort, 'Kolle nannanne' (Kill me, girl).

Second door to your left. Be my guest.

Festive spirit

2008-03-25T18:39:00.004+04:00

And how charming it is to get hit with a fish (in public!) amidst water-colour balloons, bhang, gulal et al! To obtain the needful, execute the following conversation with an arbit, multi-coloured yeediyat (nothing racist, nay) around the premises of a certain college in Bangalore notorious for its 'extravagant' Holi celebrations. Telepathy, please.

Him: Tomato?

You: Scoot in the other direction, snot rag.

Him: Egg?

You: Scoot in the other direction, snot rag.

Him: Vokay then, happy hole-ey!

You: Spank you very much. Shame to you.

And then..

PHAT!

SPLASH!

The side of mine shoulder still smelleth rotten. *sniff*
Mine tresses still drip purple. *grrr*
And the coward attacked me from behind before 'scooting' away quite literally, dodging a second look.

But this will not go unsettled, will it, Dowdy? The street will be stalked till thou art paid back in kind. Vengeance is sweet.

Consequence

2008-03-02T12:00:00.009+04:00

The Nikon on the display shelf was the best bet ever, a fully loaded DSLR. I did not have the heart to look at its price tag as it would probably take months of fasting for me to afford it. Heart heavy, I walked into the store to buy new earphones for my wreck of a music player, with an unwilling glance at the Nikon while the clerk billed my order.

Wish it were mine..

'Ma'am, excuse me. Ma'am?'
The clerk was shouting.
'Congrats. You are our hundred thousandth customer and you get that beauty there absolutely free. All yours.'

All mine..

He kept beaming at me with an obvious mistranslation of the shock my face showed.

Minutes later, however, I was marveling at the pseudo-physical entity christened 'dumb luck' as I hobbled to work, clutching safe the Nikon. On the way to my cubicle, I cast half a look at Samuel, our team leader, the post I was once considered for. Boss never told me why I had not made it..he probably hadn't been able to come up with a good reason or didn't want to tell me about the call he had received from Sam's influential uncle. The promotion would have relieved me from most of my financial tight-knot..the student loan for graduation, the rented single bedroom flat..

I deserve it.

A call from Boss. 'To my cabin, please.'
When I came back to my cubicle, I was vaguely gathering what he had said. 'Samuel posted to Gurgaon..team leader..we thought you were best for the vacant post..'
Numbness.

I found my way back home alright, taking a triple extra cheese pizza and chocolate mousse to celebrate. Just as I smacked clean the last vestiges of mousse and readied for a take on the Nikon, my room mate Molly messaged.
'Hey I wont be coming tonight. He's taking me out for dinner and we'll be staying over at his place. I have the spare key. 'Night. :-)'
She seemed excited. He was my unrequited love.

Bitch. You stole him from me. BITCH.

At 2am, I heard Molly sobbing on the sofa.
'He never did love me, you know. Told me he had been using me to get to you.'
Spasm. What in Christ's name was going on?

In a matter of hours, I woke up feeling maniacal. If what seemed to me was true, I had just been activated to control nearly everything that happened to me. To put this theory to test, I stood before the mirror, closed my eyes and began concentrating hard.

Turn my eyes green. Turn my eyes green..I want green eyes..

Nothing happened. Probably only involuntary thoughts and emotional surges became real. That still remained unbelievable.

The day had more surprises. On my way back home, I humoured upon a list of self-centered thoughts, stopping for a quick bite at Carter's. The air outside was thick with cigarette smoke and drunk revelers lingered on the street although it was only 9pm. Choosing to ignore their catcalls, I pretended to be busy texting on my phone when one of the losers shouted a nasty remark across the street. My fist clenched; a surge of anger swept past like never before..

Kutte ki maut marega saale!

And..

Viva woes

2008-01-19T14:00:00.000+04:00

There is a lot we do not understand. Most of what we do not understand at one point of time gets clear at some other point of time but there still would remain sediments of disbelief or vague hints of the past lack of understanding post the (un)specified time of understanding. If you were wondering whether I started busying myself with Ludlum's philosophy, you probably have never stepped into an engine-erring workshop lab.

For newbies: Workshop (06WSL18) is a compulsory subject in the first year of any engineering course in Karnataka (and in IITs too, I think) with the exception of a certain autonomous college in Bangalore. The syllabus includes designing fitting models which extract physical labour in alarming quantities and welding models which demand a fumbling freshie risk his looks. The warsht that could happen was probably this particular subject carrying 75 marks for the semester exams which includes a 10 mark viva voce (rapid fire question-answer session with the examiner). Why workshop was made compulsory for all branches despite it having least application in our chosen career stream has bounced over every taker's head from time immemorial.

Circa 2008, January the 18th. We yawn our way to the college workshop at 8:15 am in half tucked hideous khaki uniforms and leather shoes, carrying a 4 Rupee hacksaw blade which serves the purpose of cutting steel (yes, solid steel!). The instructor stands smirking like he has been nominated the next Ivan the horrible (or is it Hagar the terrible?) with the sneaky HOD and the wispy Vice Principal (VP) whom I last remember seeing on the first day of college. After a 'cordial' welcome of instruction shouting, we are made to take down the model supposed to be made - a quadrant of a circle which fits neatly into its hollow counterpart, both made from two steel pieces, for 30 marks; a welding joint for 10 marks and viva for 10 marks, all to be added to our internal assessment marks to total it to 75.

VP adds as an afterthought, 'Time limit ees 2 avars, that is exactly 120 minutes.'

Hue and cry greets this announcement.

Assuming his words could make things better, he states with a grin, 'See 2 avars more than yenaf if you have a good breakfast and come. You will get full 120 minutes for your work and nobody can take these 120 minutes from you'. His version of a certain 'Sattar Minute' speech that made waves last year.

Thus, we get to work; marking, punching, cutting (the thin blade wobbling dangerously, extracting a work of 317.55 joule/second from yours truly), filing and then welding. I choose to do away with the details because after all the effort, it looked like my strategy paid off and I got soopar looking models. ;) Just when I thought those marks were in the bag, I hear Hagar call, ' Roll numbar threeeeee. Viva'. I walk nervously to the external examiner, a man in mid-thirties in a crisp white shirt and sit down when asked.

Ex: Hmm. So roll number three. So what is your name?

Isn't that on the register next to the roll number, you near-sighted warp?

Me: Akshata, Sir.

Ex: Hmm. So which branch?

Me: Electronics.

Ex: Hmm. Aap kidhar se aaya hai?

Was prepared for this, considering five out of three people take me for a Northie. Took a second to debate between continued amusement in inducing more broken Hindi or get down to business and finish early for my regular dose of caffeine in the canteen.

Me: From Bangalore sir.

Ex: Oh. Originally from where?

Me: Coastal Karnataka. Karwar.

Ex: Ees eet? So Akshata, can you introduce yourself?

Me: Here's an alternative: Why don't you just scroll above and apply simple summation of finite series?
I am Akshata, branch electronics, from Bangalore, roots in Karwar.

Ex: Goooood. So, can you identify this device? (points to a lethal looking tonged instrument)

Me: Loading..27%..89%. Image of Dad using it to unseal a cough syrup bottle.
Cutting plyer, sir.

Ex: *grins* Six yellowish white teeth on each jaw visible.
See ma, in engineering level, we expect certain amount of technicality from you. Of course, you are right but even a 3rd standard child can tell me that no?

Me: Sir, it is a snipe. Used in sheet metal work. It has two movable jaws attached to the handle and the jaws are shaped for pinpoint precision cutting. Usually made of hardened steel, grade 4. Specification given by size of jaws in mm. No operator skill is required. Even a third standard child can handle it. (Without pause. Mujhse panga lega?)

Ex: *looks impressed* Good good. But I just asked you name no?

Me: Grrr.

Ex: So, can you identify and yexplain about this device? (points to a divider from a school kid's geometry set)

Me: What technicality do you expect from this, human? Sir, that is a screw-turn marker. Precision measuring instrument which can be used to measure distance between two separated planes, draw parallel lines or locate the center of a circle. It is made of mild steel, has sharp edges and movable legs. Specified by maximum separation measurable in mm. (Now talk about technicality).

Ex: Full Hajara Choudhary manual tip of your tongue aa? *laughs* See ma, in engineering level, simplification is the key. Why so much technicality for such a simple device? It is a simple divider which children yooze.

Me: Fuming. Yes sir. But you said yexplain so.. (yes, with the sarcasm and my best smile)

Ex: Vokay vokay. *looks at VP* This is the interest we expect in the subject, sir. So Akshata, what ees yoovar ambition?

Me: Law will sound out of track and might lead to more questions, making me late for coffee. Think..something big and complicated.
Research in satellite ranging and nano technology, sir.

Ex: Oho. What is that?

Me: Erm..adopting electronics for research in satellite ranging and nano technology. (source: Elementary Explanation Guide for External Examiners).

Ex: Ees eet? All the best. *takes register* Roll number three..three..three. *scribbles what looks like a nine* You may go.

Yay! Thanked him and fled. And it was only after I reached the canteen that I received this SMS forward:

'Trying to convince your examiner in viva is like fighting with a pig in mud. After a while, you realize that you are getting dirty and the pig is enjoying it'.

Bystander at the lychgate

2008-01-04T14:53:00.000+04:00

And He made me a river, a tempest, a tide,
Coerced to run, night and day,
I lash'd at rock, flooded thicket,
Ached for sedation, yearn'd parole,

Bystander at the lychgate, I see you sob
Beloved departed, crypted, cremated.
I reach out to you, take my arm,
Alas but I only am a swift tide of water.

I bargain with Him, 'Let me stop
For a moment of solace, a word, a pat;
To comfort him with an 'all will be well',
And then I shall resume my vault to the sea'.

Yet He said, 'Slow down, not halt,
And haul his tear to the sea.
I steer fate; you run, he weeps
For you are a river, he a lover'.

Twinhood

2007-11-20T14:25:00.000+04:00

This afternoon, there was a stampede in the cafeteria, caught in which I was almost killed but I managed to emerge out of it in a single piece, triumphantly clasping my catch -- a double chocolate cone for me and a double raspberry for Angel, because I like chocolate and she likes pink. She must like raspberry too, its pink.. I dunno..

And then we sat on the lawn. After we lunched on the ice cream, we lunched on more ice cream and then on soda with ice cream. Angel kept hers untouched till the ice cream merged into a homogeneous pink soda-ice cream solution. She did not tell me why, probably because she could not fit that into anything she talked this afternoon.

Angel talked and talked about how good she felt when the days were warm and sunny, like today. 'Because its only now that we'd enjoy all the ice cream', she said. And then she told me about how she wanted to fly. I tried to picture the two of us in a glider, against the springtime sky. It seemed a little obsolete. And I don't know how many seconds had drifted before I heard her sob.

Angel was crying and nothing I said whatsoever seemed to make a difference. I wished I'd be able to hug her or at the least look into her eyes just this once but that would not happen. As a matter of fact, I have never looked into her eyes ever. Angel and I are an oppositely directed Siamese pair, with the back of her head nearly joining the back of mine. This means that while we have each other to talk to all day, we can never lie down on our backs on the lawn and watch clouds, birds or air planes, among other tiny compromises that come along.

But we don't mind being this way, probably because we are used to it. Dad reckons medical science will evolve in a few years and we could be separated to lead normal lives but Angel always retorts that we are normal. At this, someone around always remarks about who would marry us. I then lose my cool and ask them to keep their fat mouth shut.

Angel's sobs had become more rhythmic. She would still not tell me what was bothering her. But I knew what had to be done, that simple trick which always set out world right. I patted her shoulder with my right hand and said, 'Angel, stop crying. No matter what comes, I'm always with you.'

She choked midway down a sob, paused and then giggled. All was well. Then she said, 'Thanks Esme. And no matter what I think all day, you are always on the back of my head.'

Credits: Sa, for 'Esme'. :)

The silver line

2007-10-09T17:14:00.000+04:00

Bang on 8, she knocks at the door. For a reason unfigurable, she has never used the doorbell. And for a different reason altogether, she has never been late. Introducing Jaya, our domestic help, role model for multitasking and an icon in time management.

Jayamma's day starts ticking at 4 am (ouch) when she rises to offer prayers, cook for a family of four and attend to a household whose keepers leave for work by 7am. She then hurries back home, gets her kids ready for school and does not turn her back on them till they are well inside the school gate. When ridiculed of being overprotective of a 10 year old and a 12 year old, she replies, 'If they skip school, they will also be washing and sweeping like me, Amma.'

Past noon, Jaya goes home for a frugal lunch, having attended to not less than six households, followed by a siesta. Confirming her children return home on time, she insists on them completing school work before play and watches over them not wandering away in bad company. But her true woes begin after dusk when her slob of a husband returns home to beat her up and grab a greater part of the couple of thousands she makes a month. The meager remainder post thrashing manages family expenses and should also be saved to realize Jaya's dream of sending her kids to college. Owing to the inavailability of cheap liquor due to the Government-imposed ban, poor Jaya is fleeced more than ever for money which her husband places on gamble, only to afford branded liquor. Talk about investments.

However, despite being a victim of multi-dimensional harassment (all of which is too long to describe, even for an epic of woe), Jaya goes about her business as usual, pretending all is well with the world, humming a catchy Tamil number as she mops the floor clean. When asked why she has been looking peaky for a while now, she replies, 'I have stopped resting in the afternoon, Amma. The Malayali lady next road is teaching us to read and write. I am going there.'

Jaya he!

Captive

2007-09-10T19:00:00.001+04:00

Past noon and I am awaken to hunger by a construction truck thundering outside. With a momentary shake to senses, I cast a sharp look around, just in case you know. Ensuring I'm the only living being for yards around (not counting pests, plants, insects and ol' spidy), I take wing to the lunch table.

I am formally served food on a white plastic table in the family's dining room. The people here take care to supply me with atleast three variants of food a mealtime, something I call good thinking because I'm quite picky, see. On landing, I have half a second to look at what's on offer before I hear a snatch of conversation through the living room window. Three voices chinwagging, flying past my dwelling, I suppose. Three voices of my kind!

Voice 1: Excellent. I see a mango tree. That should do for lunch.
Voice 2: But we've had it just yesterday. And they're off season!
Voice 3: Notch down, sonnova dawg. We've flown nine miles breakfastless.

I struggle to hold back the natural impulse to call out that I'm at lunch, that I have sufficient food for four of us (with dessert too!) before being slapped to the reality of living in a closed space the others cannot enter. As the voices fade, I begin to reflect-- on the freedom I never had, my bargain for confinement with the breeze that never ruffled my feathers..

However, 'confinement' is a strong word to call my existence, as I'm at reasonable comfort for a domestic pet. I am allowed to rise and retire at will, fed with the choicest of food (an extensive list derived from little mistress's prolonged research, which happens to consist more of her fancies than mine.. never mind) and left to my own for most of the day, much to everybody's good. My temper tantrums are humoured upon; I am fondled more than a newborn, grab more attention from guests than mistress's prized wall piece and have never been starved or abused. Instances of me hopping on the computer keyboard, perching on assignment files and snuggling into the black helmet on a cold day are treated perfectly normal, as are my attempts to sing (although I do get an occasional reprimand when they disrupt phone calls).

Not that I have no escape. I can flee at sunrise when the good lady opens the door to collect milk, or later when the good man leaves to work or even when the good (!) girl leaves the window open while draining cups of some brown liquid. But to what would I flee, pray, when I already have a life of comfort on hand with no threat to existence, when I'm not caged or trim-winged like my counterparts and when procuring food is a mere two second flight? The only thing I have not is the company of my kind for which I'm surely not fool enough to risk the world outside, mortgaging this freedom.

I may not soar high among tree tops or have tales of adventure to brag. I may have not gone places or dated and mated but I never, too, have flown nine miles in search of an unassured meal or lived and moved in stealth dodging predating eyes. My life may be predictable, listless, yes, but it is atleast definite.

Four plunges at the rice bowl, a bite of groundnut before I grab the sweet brown chunk and fly to the window..for a solitary gaze on the mango tree.

Captive, am I?

Mirror

2007-09-02T14:00:00.000+04:00

On the marble case
A mirror gleaming spotless
Reflects, unasked, as vision
Shows all bare.

By blow it falls,
A thousand sharp pieces
Gleaming, bloodstained, shattered
Each piece, a face.

Spite, love, envy,
Triumph, plot. Blood.
Each piece, a tale
Still shows all, bare.

Branded blunder

2007-08-18T17:00:00.003+04:00

Aksie's guide on how NOT to spend a mighty two grand INR.

For most of us non-earning students who need to to survive on a monthly allowance for 'material comfort', two thousand INR is a reasonably big amount. We alone know the labour it consumes to save up the dough by thrift expenditure, cutting on junk food, entertainment and other bare necessities to acquire a grand possession which our guardians refuse to sponsor. Hear then, my tale of woe with a warm heart and be sure to learn what I did. *sniff*

It all started off with my cousin telling me how happy she was in her 10 year old jeans which she has been wearing atleast twice a week from her college days and is still in perfect condition. Cutting short her chatter on plans of making it family heirloom, I inquired its brand. Levi's, she answered. Levi Strauss. I was politely disappointed, as I rarely do find right-fitting jeans and Lee was the sole brand my loyalty lay in, having invested on a lovely new pair the previous week. I was however tempted to possess (by her description) a snug, never wearing pair of denim clothing and decided on Levi's.

Then began the grueling, for Mum flatly refused to sponsor the novelty, her argument being most of my clothes never came out of their closet hiding and that I already owned too much denim anyway. Without losing heart, I began saving up moolah for grand Levi's, saying no to unsponsored junk and being my best at home for good bucks. At the end of several weeks, I had a slightly smaller waistline and more importantly, two grand!

The prospect of shopping for dream Levi's lifted my post exam-results gloom and Mum was glad to accompany me to the store, provided I stayed shut while she invested two hours on selecting a saree. Vokay then, off we went to Brigade's Levi Square. While Mum amused herself seeing the well arranged mannequins, I told the cheeky store girl what I wanted. 'Grey, light-flare and no elephant eared kinds please', I smiled. She was obviously too dumb for the joke, I guessed, as she rummaged around, suggesting me to go for skinny jeans (or whatever it sounded like, sickly clothing that clings to your legs) which were apparently in fashion. 'Try straight fit ma'am, more formal look'. Are you right in the head, girl? Are jeans even supposed to be formal? Finally she pulled it out, a possible ugly duckling, grey (thankfully not faded) but much to my displeasure, highly flared, elephant ear sorts I dreaded. Mum was pleased though as it stirred memories of 'bell bottoms' in her college days and asked me to try it on while she recollected what colours she had owned.

Trial woes. The 'regular waist' didn't even come up to my waist and forced dieting had put me between two sizes. It was nearly revolting, sliding down at the waist and flapping at the bottom. Mummeee. I look like a pheelaawar pot! Minutes later however, I was trying to hide my displeasure and buying it with grit teeth because I didn't want the trouble I took to earn it go waste, plus it carried some offer and with my dextrous skills at the sewing machine, I could be able to make it 'Aksie's Pair' (not to mention the joy of hipping around a Levi tag). Well, a week later I finally decided it could not be put to perfection. Gave up rebelling and agreed to wear it the way it was.

That day I learnt that something should never be settled for if its simply not right. That day I learnt that decisions should not be pressured upon but reasoned with. That day I learnt to give an ear to what Mum says, think on it for seconds atleast instead of flat rejection and then act because grownups get it right most of the time.

Finally, a few things I want to sort out with Levi Strauss & co.

Not every denim loving woman is a fashionista. Most of us are sensible mortals and still take jeans as comfort wear which we can leisure in. What do you have for us? Nothing! If key comfort is replaced by overpriced, hip revealing, clingy, flappy stuff, the brand will soon cease to exist because we pay you for quality. Keep a section with proper waisted, well fitting trousers and with sensible store people around else I may be forced to change my career path to teach you a thing or two.

PS: Dearest cousin, the next time you think something is good, please get it for me. :)

Who we are and what we do.

2007-08-10T14:37:00.000+04:00

Tears (quite literally) in Bangalore following the sad demise of the historical MG Road boluevard and an 80-something year old building which housed the equally ancient photoshop GK Vale and Lakeview ice cream parlour. Another instance of a fragment of history, of time itself being amputated to welcome its modern counterpart. This time, the underground Metro.

Why tears, you ask? Alas, any heart would stir at an ambush, more so because it involves a century old green showcase dismantled. Because it is a quiet rendezvous invaded. Because it brings back memories, happy ones. Tear would then be little tribute to something as revered as a cherished memory, that lost love, the sole ambient light, dying melody. A farewell note.
Desperation. Frustration.

Who are we and what are we doing? Why are we treating inanimate-yet-truly-alive structures worse than parents being thrown in old age homes? Is it because some faceless visionary thought loss makes the heart grow fonder, that loss teaches us values? That, I gather, is the philosophical pretext debating with the anthropological pretext of modernization to obtain a reason to destroy; a debate which will not find a judge for eternity, both being lost causes. Philosophy does not teach mankind. It only makes visionaries. And destroys.

Why do we even create captions like 'live and let live' if adopting them was out of question before their creation? We are blinded hypocrites and happily so. This is probably the only conclusion drawn from the want of a subway station precisely under century old green boulevards (no, replanting trees elsewhere cannot replace the original), antique buildings and not a few walkable yards away. If non-livings are shown such 'mercy', one can only imagine the value life carries and what it would fetch in times to come..

The old man is dead. He will not return. Others are dying. We cannot save them. Many more will die. We will not take trouble saving them but indulge with grandeur on their graves.

May our dreams of evolving into another US or UK rest in peace.

(note the sarcasm)

Orkut's tale

2007-08-01T15:00:00.000+04:00

You must have come across this blog through the aforementioned 'socializing' site, thus enabling its author to casually place you in the ranks of 'blog hunters' on Orkut, the activity being among the few eventful things that struggle to keep the site's 'charm' (I kid you) alive these days. Presenting, then, a brief piece exclusively on the long list of Orkut's messed up things and more importantly, people.

First things first. Orkut's beginning to stink. With a senior citizenish air, I'd narrate to you about times two years ago when joining Orkut was possible through invites alone. With less than 20% of today's populace, it housed a haven for intellectual discussions, interactions between activity partners, friends and purposeful communities. Long before the site's 'nobility' was starting to be admired happened a choking population explosion! Every Tom, Dick and Bihari who got wind of the site's existence had begun Orkutting on competition, delightfully hopeful of the profile feature titled Dating (women) and their female counterparts pooh-poohing at the supposedly kewlest online gather. Thanks to their active 'participation' in thumping numbers, Orkut's server suffered from an incurable Multiple Disability Disorder.

Then came the uber-kewlies, (more popular as Fraandship Scrappers with the average Orkut woman) who chose to stay warm and cozy within the boundaries of intellectual nothingness, SMS lingo and the sole approach line 'hiiiiiiiiii wnt 2 b frnd wid u plzzz', gleeful as long as they came across enough female profiles to try their luck, a motto the author wonders is adapted from the countless Brazilians on the site. With their signature style, desperate manner and approach, they take due responsibility for most fumes and irritability on the site. Soon, other genres were born. The spamming losers, fake profile lunatics, sex starved maniacs and their female counterparts (swearing removed in final edit, after debating). More degradation of the site's purpose.

That leaves out the normal populace who cherish the true spirit of Orkutting - catching up with friends, finding long lost ones, seeking true activity partners, participating in intellectual and evolved community discussions, conversing in 'understandable lingo' if not the Queen's English and more often than not cribbing about Orkut's lost demeanour. They keep the site's purpose alive with their effortless ability to outshine the rotten eggs in all manner, a feat that deserves standing ovation on the hour. Although this section seems to grow smaller in number by the day the author's assurance stands that it will not be wiped out, for a lone harp's note imparts bliss to all heaven, masking hell's despair (yes, highly philosophical indeed :P).

PS: Edited 14 times.

PS 2: Didn't want to repeat this after most definitions. So here it is, triggered to reach out to the needy and deserving:

WHACK!

Appointment with love -- The conclusion

2007-05-16T14:55:00.002+04:00

Kindly read the following plot first:

http://cursed-soul.blogspot.com/2006/06/appointment-with-love.html

My version of its end:

Blandford stood stunned for a moment before reality came rushing to him. He felt he was being made to live someone else's life. Without waiting to register the happiest moment he had yet lived, Blandford dashed out of the Central, forgetting to thank the smiling woman and parting his way roughly through the crowd on the platform. Swifter than any aircraft he had worked with, Blandford ran in the direction he had seen Hollis go, temples pounding in excitement, adrenalin rushing to paralyze his senses. No, he could not hear, feel or see.. All he wanted was to get to Hollis.. fast.. faster and then he would decide what to do next. In a few seconds, he was out of the Grand Central.

Four minutes past six. The smiling waiter seated Hollis on the two seater table facing the huge glass window through which Hollis could see nearly the entire main crossing. Cars following each other, probably carrying people heading home after a day's work. The outside was slowly being bathed in gold as the sun bid adieu.. Had the woman told him yet? Had Blandford backed out like any other man would do, when he believed the old woman was Hollis? Every part of her wanted him to get through the test, seek her, come to her and the rest of the evening would be magical. If things went right, so would the rest of their lives..

He could see the restaurant outside the gate. Darting on the pavement, Blandford reached the main crossing. Cars were plying by.. the usual evening traffic. Now, fifty yards separated Hollis and him, fifty longest yards he had walked. 'God make this fast', he prayed.

And then he saw Hollis. Seated behind a glass window facing the crossing, she was looking directly at him. Blandford felt blood prick as it flowed along his temples and his throat went dry. Almost constantly, they smiled. He could feel Hollis' eyes gripping him, pleading him to climax the seeming endless wait. Finally, the signal on the crossing changed and Blandford took three steps across the road, the eye contact unbroken. He had barely managed to see the big black blur from nowhere speeding his way, when he felt his insides freeze. The smile had not quite left his lips... his eyes still open, Lieutenant Blanford fell.

Forty nine seconds later, Hollis saw Blandford's eyes close. In the few moments they had together, he had managed to mutter, 'I love you'.

The completion

2007-04-20T14:11:00.000+04:00

Dear someone,

I wish I never see you again or correspond by any means. All your presence reminds me of is falling into a bottomless pit and every stroke of thought in which you feature gives me a sinking feeling. True, after meeting you, I haven't been the same. I never thought I could dislike a person to an extent that I would be forced into disowning him/her/it/you, but I was proved wrong.

How I wish our tracks never crossed.My life would be better then.I wouldn't have wasted endless hours in thinking up ways to let you know everything I meant in the first paragraph and dodging your response. Ah, now the burden seems to have lightened. After all those lies, pretence, deceipt and backstabbing I had to endure, this comes as a relief. And yes, I waste no time in blaming you for everything that went wrong (and taking due credit for the few things that seemed ok in the past). Mark me, not again, for I dread you.

Sometimes I pity your worthless existence, completely ignorant that your social circle you pride over completely detests you. Not a single friend you have for they all know how fake you are. Aye, Aksie knows best. Just count the number of people you have lost and you will know too. Gather your wits and throw the mask you wear else you'll lose the sole casket of trust you have. Come on, you don't need me telling you what the casket contains. Oh yes, this advice is offered only out of sympathy. Don't be lead into thinking I still care for you. That, I wrapped up the day I saw the corners of your mask twitch beneath your fake adulating grin.

The parting of ways. I have no regrets. Hope you happen to read this and get the message. Until then, if at all I respond to you, it is not by will. May Christ never cross our ways again.

No thanks,
Aksie.

PS: If the one concerned does not pick up the reference, I will find it funny.

PS 2: The others, ask me no questions and I will not lie.

A random line

2007-03-19T15:55:00.000+04:00

I believe winning by a margin of unity is, if possible, the greatest of all wins.

Tomorrow's tale

2007-02-20T12:06:00.000+04:00

It will be tomorrow in some time. I should re-live usual monotony. I can only hope that the 'usual monotony' is atleast packed in an appealing package. Things would then be pleasant. I can probably exercise 1,18,622 neurons in the centre-right region of my cerebrum thinking what the package would contain, whether it would lead me away from clockwork tracks, offer a blissful retreat or impart a lesson or two that would change my life forever...

I'm afraid, that's just Part One. Unraveling the package would perhaps follow with a series of involuntary workout for the 1,18,622 neurons. Pleasant surprise, shock, heart break, disgust, euphoria. Just about anything. A fiasco of emotion, mental exhaustion and temporary sensuory paralysis. And then rolling incidents, placing myself back on track and pinching myself to accept the happenings as 'normal'. I may then dread to see another tomorrow, unravel another package and re-live another unexpected emotion, the weakling that I am.

No thanks. I'm content with the monotony. Bring it on!

Pain

2007-01-20T09:12:00.000+04:00

Pain is the force that makes me feel the air with an illusion of hope and face disappointment. Pain is the monster that makes me see the world beneath a mask of truth. Pain is what awaits me behind every door I unlock, compelling me to acknowledge its right over me. Pain is the dominance to which I have to surrender.

Pain is the stitch in my side, the tears that well up behind my eyes. Pain is what prevents those tears from flowing down but dry into nothing in the lump of my throat. Pain is knowing I mean nothing to the ones I care for. Pain is loving someone who forgets me. Pain is the injustice that goes unnoticed, pretending everything's fine, dreading what would come tomorrow. Pain is what fades my smile the instant it is born.

Pain is a bird with a broken wing, a fish trying to live on land, my dreams fading to oblivion. Pain is a music that was never enjoyed, a miracle which earned no reward, an achievement that will never be recognised. Pain is not knowing and having to wonder. Pain is that endless wait for a loving gesture. Pain is a tear in my mother's eye. Pain is witnessing an emotional goodbye. Pain is having to say goodbye. Pain is not being able to say goodbye.

Pain is knowing words can kill. Pain is knowing I will die soon. Pain is knowing I will die before I accomplish. Pain is knowing I was not born to accomplish. Pain is someone telling me I'm not good enough. Pain is nobody loving me as much as I need to be loved. Pain is nobody wanting my love. Pain is wanting to die. Pain is someone saving me when I want to die. Pain is all that is there in my life. Pain is life.

PS: I am one of the strongest persons I have not known.

An evening with you

2007-01-08T09:54:00.000+04:00

Lets sit by the window of our top floor apartment. Turn off those lights and let the room be bathed in the light of the candle I hold. I see your face.. your eyes that mean the world to me.

Blow out the candle.

Darkness for a moment. Then, light from the far-away-yet-so-close skyscrapers seeps in and I see your eyes again..those brown eyes.. Shania Twain playing in the background.

Looks like we made it
Look how far we've come my baby
We mighta took the long way
We knew we'd get there someday

I look down at the minscule people walking back home at this hour, possibly drunk after a night of clubbing. The fact that they stay up past 11 just to get drunk always went over me. But do I care? I have better reasons to stay up till dawn.

A momentary shrug and I look back into those eyes. Who cares what the world does when I have you by my side? The light still dim, a blanket warming us..

You're still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You're the one I want for life

And the blown out candle still in my hand..the clubbers still walking by..

Of Black and White

2007-01-05T08:42:00.000+04:00

I blame the seven colours in Newton's disc for mutating White's existence. They compete, one with the other to influence White, who sits by herself, helpless, fearing uncertainty. Harmony lost. Nasty influence.

White and Black form grey.

Grey symbolises evil in dramaturgy.

Our brain has grey matter.

We are evil.

White is good.

But too much of a good thing is bad.

White makes us evil.

The colours that influence White make us evil.

White is losing her colour. White is losing her relevance. Why aren't we becoming less evil then? Should we infer white does not make us evil? Were we evil to begin with?

Of good and evil.

Did Black turn us bad?

Streaked

2007-01-02T15:01:00.000+04:00

A streak across the horizon. A sheet of paper.

Both white. Silver and white.
One inked. The other gets brighter.
One I crumple.
With the other, I rise.

A streak across the horizon.

A Prayer

2006-12-05T16:02:00.000+04:00

Here, I came, young and teared,
She took me in her arms.
That warded tear and fear
For I was in thy arms.

I stalked path of thorn and stone
Million moments of life.
I knew I wouldn't fall
For thou backed up my strife.

I pray to thee, night and day,
My hope, friend and peer.
Confession, expression finds thy way
All seasons a year.

Thou art, Almighty, one of
The nine reasons I live.
The other eight, unimportant,
Those I'd rather leave.

Words fail, as I behold
The good I got in alms.
And if death call, I'd embrace
For I'd still be in thy arms.

Living in an evil world

2006-10-02T09:06:00.000+04:00

Fear, I bury
In that four chambered grave,
Lashing its walls
Seventy two times
Of every minute I dwell,
In this pupa
Covering from light,
In an evil world.

Light tempts me out
Yet I choose this hiding
For I venture,
Death will bless.
This evil world,
Knows no mercy.
Christ has let it be
As he feasts in heaven.
Lesser mortals forsaken
All in a pupa,in smaller worlds
They venture out,
Life will cease
And this evil world,
Would be left void.

How long can I cover
Myself from light?
I'm bound to be found
My pupa, they will shatter,
Drain me of life,
With little mercy
And never will I turn back,
To this evil world.

The wait

2006-09-02T12:23:00.000+04:00

For aeons I wait,
At the mark that writes
Dawn from dusk,
Hope from dark,
Glee from tear,
Thee from me.

Too long a day
My love, I wait,
Bring soon the meet
Almighty I pray.

Fire, flood all around,
In panic, folks rush.
Yet, my love, I still stand,
For thee, I still wait..

Twinhood

2006-08-20T16:03:00.000+04:00

How do I tell you what you mean to me?

Words fail me as I see darkness combine with its twin to form light. In your presence, I refind myself. I get from you my dose of strength and inspiration, solely due to which I write this, as I close my eyes and recollect those sleepless nights I spend wondering if I hold a place in your world..in your heart. Those days, those nights..

Again, I fear I seek too much from Christ, for a place in your world is too much to ask for.

Wouldn't you like the care you offer, concern you display to be reciprocated? Give me a chance, to God I pray..

Irate, I dwell
Within these walls of stone,
Silent,I live, silent I die.
An epitome of hope,
You are to me,
My strength, my weakness,
Nay, I do not lie.

At the end of it all, I still cannot tell you what you mean to me. Well, its your fault you are perfect. Just work out what I try to express..

Disclamier : All characters and emotions involved in the article are purely ficticious.

Untitled

2006-08-15T09:44:00.001+04:00

Two notes,
Chorous,
Melody,
And refrain.

Three notes,
Chorus,
More melody
And music.

More than words..

2006-08-02T12:35:00.000+04:00

To me, you mean every dimension...

Yet your silence scares me.

I fear your silence not because it exists but because of what it may mean. You may , silently, be forming an opinion, an image of me unguided by myself. Or it may mean you are worried, occupied with something that bothers, hurts or both. My concern extended may sound to you an undeserved sympathy, a feeling inferior to any other I have known. That, I fear.

But silence can also mean you appreciate the fact that you are you and I am me. This silence just affirms that we are already together as one, yet differently so. If words could mean I seek you as a friend, silence would just mean I accept your already being one. It is more than a relationship that binds us..an illusion ever changing.

To me, you still mean every dimension.

And your silence, I still fear..

Get off the bench

2006-07-08T20:02:00.000+04:00

Once, I was pointed at. My version of a theory was put away without sufficient proof. I was told I was wrong. My sole defence:

I am wrong does not mean I am wrong. It implies you do not see what I see. It means you are not seeing everything there is to be seen. I'm wrong doesn't necessarily mean I'm wrong. I am just incapable of putting the scrambled bits of truth together, to give the already found measure a new definition. There's nothing wrong with me. To prove that, I will get off the bench.

The next day, I gave the subject a deeper thought. I arrived at the conclusion that I have not done a mistake in making a mistake, in living upto being a human. Wouldn't I grow by listening to the mistake? I then realised I have earned two kinds of wisdom. One is the knowledge from experience which will make no difference to the existing world. The other is the same experience with which I can change the world. To do that, I shall get off the bench.

A second ago, I realised I am no wiser than the others around me. Did this very thought make me better?

To verify, I need to get off the bench.

Appointment with love

2006-06-20T13:50:00.000+04:00

The following is a piece from the 'Chicken Soup for the Soul' series. This one just moved me. It made me feel love almost exists. Read on..

Appointment With Love

Six minutes to six, said the clock over the information booth in New York's Grand Central Station. The tall young Army officer lifted his sunburned face and narrowed his eyes to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that choked him. In six minutes he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 18 months,the woman he had never seen yet whose words had sustained him unfailingly.

Lt. Blandford remembered one day in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of enemy planes. In one of those letters, he had confessed to her that often he felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her answer: "Of course you fear...all brave men do." Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: 'Yeah, though I walk through the valley of Death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.'.... He had remembered that and it renewed his strength.

He was going to hear her voice now. Four minutes to six. A girl passed closer to him, and Lt.Blandford started. She was wearing a flower, but it wasnot the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was only about 18, and Hollis Maynel had told him she was 30. "What of it?" he had answered, "I'm 32." He was 29. His mind went back to that book he had read in the training camp. "Of Human Bondage" it was and throughout the book were notes in a woman's handwriting. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Maynell. He got a hold of a New York City telephone book and found her address. He had written , she had answered. Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing.

For thirteen months she had faithfully replied. When his letters did not arrive, she wrote anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him. But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. She had explained: "If your feeling for me had no reality, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I am beautiful. I'd always be haunted that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose that I'm plain, (and you must admit that this is more likely), then I'd always fear that you were only going on writing because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall make your own decision."

One minute to six... He flipped the pages of the book he held. Then Lt. Blandford's heart lept. A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from delicate ears. Her eyes were blue as flowers, her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her pale-green suit, she was like springtime come alive. He started toward her, forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small, provacative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, soldier?" she murmured.

He made one step closer to her. Then he saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump. Her thick-ankled feet were thrust into low-heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose on her crumpled coat. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. Blandford felt as though he were being split in two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his own, and there she stood.

He could see her pale face was gentle and sensible; her gray eyes had a warm twinkle. Lt. Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the worn copy of "Of Human Bondage" which was to identify him to her. This would not be love, but it would be something special, a friendship for which he had been and must be ever grateful... He squared his shoulders, saluted, and held the book out toward the woman, although even while he spoke he felt the bitterness of his disappointment.

"I'm Lt. Blandford, and you're Miss Maynell. I'm so glad you could meet me. "May, may I take you to dinner?" The woman's face broadened in a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is all about, son," she answered. "That young lady in the greensuit, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if you asked me to go out with you, I should tell you she's waiting for you in that restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test."

- S.I. Kishor

Her Grace

2006-06-06T11:16:00.000+04:00

She cared for me all my life,
Gave me love no matter what.
Her grace, an arabesque,
Her warmth..arcane..

The deluge of tear, she dried,
With many a loving gesture.
Her heart, she instilled,
Backed me up and made me tall.

A mystery by herself,
She is extortionate.
Perfection incarnated,
She is Christ in a woman.

Never got round to reciprocate
Everything she offered.
The affection, the caress,
My life, I owe her.

Here I lie now, uncared and unloved,
Heart bleeding, gasping for breath.
Few seconds I might live,
Mother, where are you?

Few moments we can share,
Before I'm hauled away.
Here is my chance
To tell you I love you.

Why the tear? Who's departing?
For I'd still dwell within you.
From the skies, I'd look down,
Your angel will love you.

Fly away

2006-05-01T08:51:00.000+04:00

Fly away to the land of no return.
Sink to the sea-bed, never turn,
Leave the world behind, care no less,
It offered no warmth, no caress.

Relationships de-bond from within,
Religion fails to justify life's life,
Nature disowns the heart that loved her,
The future overcast with stormy dreams.

All else is lost, life is spiked;
Nothing to live and none to care for
You might as well die.

Remember the last sunrise,
Remember the last drizzle
Before you get the call and drift away.

The gates of life close behind.

Success and Failure

2006-04-03T10:50:00.000+04:00

I stand, savouring the triumph
That is mine alone
After endless dreaming and scheming
A harrowing journey,
Beginning at the start, ending here
I walked alone, yes, alone,
Maimed, disdained, maddened,
Betrayed, friendless, unloved,
Mocked at, when i tripped over,
Did that refrain me from ascending further?
Nay, I'm at the top, the top of the world,
No longer conceited, they surround me,
Singing my praise,
Waiting on my will and won't
Which leaves me wondering why
Success has many fathers,
Failure is an orphan.

The vision

2006-04-03T09:18:00.000+04:00

A day like any other day of summer. The blazing sun burning my back as I prune a shrub in the small green patch - a favourite part of home. A bad gardener by birth, I work slower than usual, blame it on the sun or the rusting pair of 'garden scissors' (I still don't know what that scrap of a thing is called). Then, an errand. To fetch a pack of tea leaves from a shop not far away. A 50 rupee note pressed into my hand. I quickly tie up my hair and strut away to the store, marvelling at the neighbour's hibiscus shrub flaunting several red flowers, a feat the one back home never accomplished.

I walk straight, take a right and soon another right. A bunch of kids playing with a frisbee. A smile appears on my face as I recollect my exploitation of the summer vacation as a kid, vandalising the house, chopping Barbie's hair and smearing the doll with Mother's make-up. I smile again as a particularly chubby kid manages a difficult catch. There's something about that little boy that draws me towards him. He returns my smile, which makes me, if possible, more elated. I try to shake away the feeling, proceed to the shop and emerge a minute later, clutching a bag of lea leaves and the change.

A sudden increase in my heartbeat and a momentary gasp. I hear tyres screech to a halt and a piercing cry. A kid's voice. The kid's voice.

I go over, half running to the place i found the kids playing. The kids are chattering as though nothing has happened. It takes a moment for me to register the little boy jumping with joy. He has won a point for his team. What was it I heard then? Was the sun playing tricks on me? I take slow steps towards home. Slow but deliberate.

A minute later, I hear tyres screech to a halt. A thud. A pircing cry. A kid's voice. The kid's voice.

An utter state of shock and helplessness. I am immobilized. I do not have the courage to turn back. The sound of a car door being opened.

"You are not hurt, are you?". A shrill, worried voice. "You shouldn't play on the road like this. You could have got hurt". The same voice.

I turn back to see the boy standing still. There is a two-inch gap between a car and the boy. A lady gets into the car and zooms away. The boy picks up the frisbee and the game goes on, unaffected by the incident that just shook me.

The screech, the kid, the cry.

The vision. Am I psychic?

As I reach home lost in thought, it would be just like my mother to point out that I had bought the wrong brand of tea leaves.

The chapel

2006-03-20T22:57:00.000+04:00

Math exam. As I gather sheets with hastily scribbled formulae for a last minute cram, gulit overpowers me. Guilt. I start to panic. Funny, isn't it? A mere exam does that to me. Guilt. It's all my mistake..

Give it an hour.

I am at perfect peace with the world. Silence prevails. I place my bag on the bench and kneel on the wooden plank below. The room, I observe, has two other girls doing the same. With a glimpse of the cross before me, I close my eyes.What a pleasant feeling! I am drifting away. Where, I know not. I see nothing but the cross..Christ nailed to the cross. I dare not look at him. I do not have the right to ask a favour. It was my mistake. A whole year spent in frolic. Guilty again.

With a sudden rush of understanding, I take my bag and walk away, stopping only for a sprinkle of the Holy Water placed in a corner, a sheet of formulae crumpled in my fist. Christ had given me a message. Guilt cannot be washed away in the church.

I know what I have to do to get rid of the guilt before my next exam. Alas, as I walk towards the exam room, I can only hope that the one night stand with my textbook will fetch me a neat little 60.

Moral : Never visit the chapel on the day of your exam.

Remember me

2006-03-20T22:40:00.000+04:00

Another day. I wake up with the sun and utter a small prayer. Then the usual brush,wash and rush. I miss the 8 am bus. Been missing it as long as I can remember. Alas, if only I had known I would miss it even today, these few minutes could be spent for a decent breakfast than waiting for the next bus. I move over to the bus stop. Three schoolgirls and a middle aged lady seated on one of the three slabs, engaged in conversation.Without warning, my cellphone starts buzzing. I take out the damn thing from my bag..'damn' because the vibration makes my hand numb, as I sit on a slab clutching tight my jacket. A cold day. Oh, the alarm buzzing. November 15, 2005. Today. Why did I mark this day on my calendar? The image changes.

I see a teenager bending over something,her fingers on her temples,frowning..concentrating. An old man sits before her. He is as calm as the girl is tensed. I should've guessed. It's a game of chess they are playing. Minutes pass in silence. Two moves from both sides and a quick third move by the old man. I see the White Queen being taken out.

"Oh no. One chance, Grandpa. Just one more chance. I didn't see the queen there."
"No Chinu. I already gave you a chance. How else would you learn?"
"Yeah OK..but stop calling me that. You know I don't like that name. Call me by my name."

For a moment, their eyes meet. One moment. Eternity.

"Your name...your.."

The man goes blank.

Two months later, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. Gradual loss of memory. A silent assasin.

I see the old man again, this time on the bed. His eyes lie unfocused on the ceiling. A dull clunk of a glass of something being placed on the table. His eyes shift to the girl beside him, now hastily smoothening the sheets on his bed. He continues to look at her with a slight frown, as if trying to remember something. She seeks a smile on his face. A smile..that sign of recognition.

Did she get one, I do not know.

A thump on my back. "Hey, what are you thinking?"
Huh? Where am I? How did I get here? The man..the girl..where are they?

The schoolgirls must have gone. I dont see the lady either. I look at the person on my right. The sudden smile on my face must have alarmed her.

"Happy birthday", I say, trying hard not to sound breathless.
Her face lights up. "Oh! You remember. How nice!"

Yes..I remember..I remember..

The temptress

2006-03-20T22:15:00.000+04:00

Moonlight calls,
Waves slap the rocks,
A cool breeze sweeps away my tresses.
Midnight blue sky,
Stars wink at me,
A seeming temptress, the sea..the sea..

Ah! The pleasure of solitude,
Waves scurry back, back and forth.
The surf tickles my toes.
A game of hide and seek,
Moon with the clouds.
And a drizzle to perfect
This date with the temptress.

The drizzle turns to rain
Yet I stand still,
A part of me sanguine
To merge with the rising tide,
To be carried away
To the land of no return.

A message

2006-03-20T22:00:00.000+04:00

Dear friend,

I do not expect to be the most important person of your life or even a significant bit of your day. Thats way too much to ask. I would be happy if you ever hear my name, you say with a smile, "Hey, that's my friend!"

We may take different paths in life but no matter where we go, we take a little of each other with us.

Creative Commons Copyright

2006-03-20T08:47:00.000+04:00

This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

2006-03-20T06:01:00.000+04:00

Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used elsewhere without the author's permission. If that goes over your head, legal notices might, too. I don't hope much. Just don't 'lift' anything from here.