tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63100831175232438792024-03-05T19:46:46.251-08:00Mariners Diary IIRamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-46626790892010699042015-09-26T21:01:00.004-07:002015-09-26T23:29:16.453-07:00The Bakasura Files<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am Baku, and I am basically a
foodie, love all kinds – non veg, man veg, cow veg and some veg. And I feel hungry all the time. I stay quite
far from the hustle and bustle of the village, for two reasons. One I would
like to enjoy my meal in peace, without a crowd of giggling children ogling at
my food. Then, I also usually ended up eating more than my share in public that
the village folks pleaded with me to move out, lest they run out of food for
themselves. They said if you stay here, you will continue to eat whatever you
lay your eyes upon, whereas if you stay out on your own, they would ensure
delivery of the right quantity of food at the right time and the food would never run out. I agreed to move out, because my heart beats
my stomach hollow when it comes to being large.</div>
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I was happy in my new surroundings.
I was single, staying alone and getting
food delivered at home. What more could a man wish for! The food cart never
failed to arrive in time, loaded with goodies. It was ingenious! I could just
flip the cart over and devour the goodies. The sight of the flip-cart never
failed to elicit a tune from my heart. I used to hum “I was living in the love
of the common people and far from the heart of the family man” I loved that line.
It described my situation aptly. Maybe sometime
in the future, someone would use it in their song and become famous. The
villagers were generous with the quantity and gracious with the variety. They
never forgot to top up the goodies with a meal-man who was delectable after his
delivery. Life was actually on a roll.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was then that this bloke
turned up from nowhere and settled down in my village. An up-start trying to
start-up his own food business in the village. I heard that he was also a foodie with an appetite
to match mine, the only difference being, that he was a strict veggie! He had
started turning the villagers against me, campaigning against all forms of
meat, to further his own vegetarian food business and getting them to ban meat
from our plates. He posed a serious threat to me. They said his name was Bhim – a hugely
popular guy with the kids and the grownups alike. I knew he would be a fake.
The only Bhim I knew, who was popular, was Chota Bhim who lived in the
neighbouring kingdom of Dholakpur, and as far as I knew, he was not a foodie.
This guy must be a wannabe, who is using a popular name to be popular.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was time to set up a meeting
and sort things out with this guy. It
was either him or me. It was Meat Ban versus Freedom of choice to eat anything. The villagers arranged the meet-up. The next
day, he came in with the delivery cart. I
glanced at it. No meat, only veggies. It was deliberate. I refused to touch it.
We sat facing each other, waiting for the other to blink. My stomach started
growling, putting the rumbling of the dark clouds above, to shame. And then he
burped. I suddenly realized he had come prepared. This was going to be a long
wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The siege continued. I stared at
him hard and long, and as the minutes dragged by, the look turned pleading. His
eyes softened and he laid down two conditions – One, that I would accept the Meat
Ban in the larger interests of the village people and Two, that I should leave the village and head for
the mountains. He said there were not
enough veggies in the village for two foodies to coexist. If I agreed, he would
give access to the cart. It was only a matter of time before I surrendered – a total
and abject surrender. He moved away from
the cart and I pounced on it, gobbling up the veggies. They didn’t taste that
bad after all without the meat. I smiled in content, and burped in gratitude. I
left the village never to return. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am now spending the rest of my life in
the Himalayas, dieting and living on herbs. I have made my peace. History may judge me differently.
After all, history is written by the victors and not the vanquished. The future
generations may read an entirely different tale of Bakasura- but who knows, one
day someone will have the courage to declassify and release this diary to the public.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-42023055004659384512015-09-06T06:35:00.002-07:002015-09-06T06:48:44.137-07:00The Old Man and the Cat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPiWyLGPoxK36jWXyThvqtFOyRg-j0J3hLkMt3mYsfzoZLeBUOqmavLfYyVn1DyxyEX16-J9cjfmv2DvQd12RCPjZn8yTLqtHPj18TdgdMGzBhI52vHhUD84hLCkxTqI6Mj49fDAjGjI/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPiWyLGPoxK36jWXyThvqtFOyRg-j0J3hLkMt3mYsfzoZLeBUOqmavLfYyVn1DyxyEX16-J9cjfmv2DvQd12RCPjZn8yTLqtHPj18TdgdMGzBhI52vHhUD84hLCkxTqI6Mj49fDAjGjI/s320/images.jpg" width="239" /></a></h3>
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He stared at the clock and its
face stared right back at him. The clock’s
hand moved slowly, as if in a trance, playing with the numbers, the rhythmic
sound echoing the pounding of his heart. The old man was biting his nails,
eating into the tender skin of his fingers, oblivious of the pain, and tasting
his own blood, his eyes following the moving hand of the clock. The food on the
table had not been touched for the last hour, lying uncovered and unattended,
turning cold in protest. A few intrepid flies had made their initial advances,
stealing furtive glances at the old man on the chair, as they feasted on the
rice. The old man had anxiety written across his forehead in a series of thin
lines positioned centrally, right above the bridge of his pointed nose.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man shook the cat on his
lap gently. There was no movement. His
fingers gently ran over the soft fur and rested on its belly. He could feel a distant thud, faint and rare,
but yet unmistakably signaling the signs of a fading life. He looked at the
clock again. It was supposed to be
quick. That was what all the internet searches had indicated for the potion. It
had been an hour since he had fed Kitty that deadly morsel of rice soaked in
her favourite fish curry. He had not wanted her to suffer. There would be no one to take care of her
once he was gone, and he did not have much time. Kitty was a lazy and proud
cat, too lazy to get her own food and too proud to beg. Did she suffer, he
wondered, as he patted her. Did she hate him in her last moments? She surely would have realized what was
happening, before she closed her eyes to sleep, one last time. He looked at the
clock again. One hour fifteen minutes!<o:p></o:p></div>
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“God, Let her not feel any pain”,
the old man prayed silently. He continued to bite his nails, as he stroked the
cat with his other hand. Suddenly, he felt Kitty shudder, as she almost slipped
from his lap. He lifted her up gently
and held her close to his face, his cheek pressed against her fur, listening to
that distant thud that had pounded his heart till then. His cheeks met with
defeaning silence. He looked at the clock again. One hour twenty minutes!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Would the effect be same on
humans, the old man pondered for a minute. Or was Kitty special? Had it not yet been her
time to go? Did he act in haste? Maybe, she would have been happier without
him. Maybe she would have found another soul mate. The old man glanced at the
body of fur, coiled in static sleep on the floor. She was gone now. She has
already found her peace. Will I last
that long, he thought to himself. Age
had not taken to him kindly, his body deteriorating, weakening and giving up on
him, much before he gave up on life. He had led a wanton one and it had come at
a price. He had decided not to suffer long. Only one hour twenty minutes!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man looked at the plate
on the table. The number of flies feasting on the mound of rice had gone up
significantly. Will they suffer the same fate as Kitty? He gripped the arms of
the rickety old rocking chair tightly, as he pushed himself to an upright
position and doddered to the table. Swatting the flies away with a weak wave of
his left hand, he picked up the rolled ball of rice held together with ghee and
gravy. He raised the ball, as if in a
toast of unison to Kitty, and stuffed it in his mouth. One hour twenty minutes!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man picked up the cat,
struggled to find his comfortable position in the chair, and placed her on his
lap again. He leaned back and rocked himself, finally at peace, and stared at
the clock as it continued to stare back at him. One hour eighteen minutes!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-26978567923076995592015-06-05T02:49:00.000-07:002015-06-05T03:13:03.098-07:00Party Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKNmq0S35jNQI8bpkX50-2F6dnFJ78Lh_gjK8I2wAWM5n6XOVUScsEv2PjeGHS0jLSCcAmipVVIxVAZs3P9Xv9kB32kPYbjVDb4OKVa0cnr95FmrT-bkI_NnCL5h25tjRWv-HJ4aUD1o/s1600/The-Intorvert-Guy-being-shy-around-a-cute-girl-he-is-sitting-next-to-300x199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKNmq0S35jNQI8bpkX50-2F6dnFJ78Lh_gjK8I2wAWM5n6XOVUScsEv2PjeGHS0jLSCcAmipVVIxVAZs3P9Xv9kB32kPYbjVDb4OKVa0cnr95FmrT-bkI_NnCL5h25tjRWv-HJ4aUD1o/s1600/The-Intorvert-Guy-being-shy-around-a-cute-girl-he-is-sitting-next-to-300x199.jpg" /></a></div>
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Krish was down to the last sip in his whisky glass, which
according to his own standards were fast and furious ever since he laid his
eyes on her. He was taken in by her
simple elegance and radiance and when she had caught him looking at her, guilt
overcame him and forced him to focus on his drink more than what was required,
resulting in the fast and furious sips at intervals far shorter than what would
have been, had he been calmer.
Krish was of a nervous kind, nice but nervous, more so when he had to
face a girl, or rather when a girl faced him, or rather either. When faced with
the prospect of facing the opposite gender, his brain decides to temporarily
and unilaterally stop functioning and his palpitations tends to border on the
audible drawing concerned glances from cohabiters of that moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sush saw the tall lanky guy in the dark blue jeans and grey
checked shirt checking her out and almost stopped breathing. Unassumingly
attractive would be what she would place him as, with his thin rimmed glasses
and fritters of hair scattered on his forehead in rebellious disarray. She quickly looked away, afraid to return the
attention, and could not bring herself to look in that direction again. She had
agreed to come to Hema’s party, assuming a large crowd, since Hema was the
party person and her parties were always well attended with the party tales
doing the rounds until the next one came about, which was usually sooner than
later. She hoped that then she could easily get lost in the crowd and then slip
out early without being noticed. Contrary to her expectations, only a handful
of Hema’s friends had turned up, exposing her to everybody’s view on the large
terrace of the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Krish edged towards the girl, not because he had mustered
the courage to speak to her, but because she was standing next to the bar
counter, and he was standing with an empty glass. It had been only ten minutes since the party
started and he had downed an entire glass of whiskey while there were some, who
were yet to pick up their drink. He had
to quickly get a refill, which could yet pass off as his first drink, and he had
to do it quickly before Hema or his friends had an opportunity to make him
their after party story till the next one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sush caught the movement from the corner of her eye and when
she turned her head, he was already quite close to her. It was the same guy who
was checking her out earlier. Panic
gripped her heart, loosening her grip on the glass in her hand, as it slipped
from her fingers and shattered on the floor next to her feet. She looked up in horror and found herself
staring into the eyes of the guy which mirrored her panic, as she heard another
glass shattering near her feet. The guy had dropped his glass too. There was horror on her face, horror on his
face and as they turned around to look at the others, horror on everybody’s
face as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Krish recovered first, looked at the panic stricken girl in
front of him and said “Sorry, I wanted to get a drink, and the sound of the
breaking glass unnerved me, and I dropped mine too”. Sush looked at him and as his fears melted
some of hers, replied “No, I am sorry. I
don’t know what came over me, I am really embarrassed, the glass just slipped
from my fingers”. She suddenly smiled,
the situation forcing it out of her and then immediately saw his eyes softening
and his lips forming a quivering line.
She said extending her hand, “I am Sushma, Hema’s friend from her school
days”. He smiled more firmly as he took
her hand gently and said “Hi, I am Krishnakanth, Hema’s colleague at work”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“And I am Hema, the owner of these destroyed properties”
announced Hema as she strode upto them and stood with her hands on her hips in mock
anger. “Next time, I will have a bell
placed on the counter here, which you could ring, rather than shattering my
expensive glassware to announce yourselves”. She then burst into laughter, “I
am so glad that you guys met. I organized this party just for you two lovely
but lonely souls to meet and that is the reason I invited just a few friends,
so that you could not have escaped. I
was planning to formally introduce you both, but you managed it just fine
without my help”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Hema turned to her friends and announced “Now that the ice
and a couple of my glasses have been broken, let the party begin”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-40370306056955271232014-11-27T19:23:00.000-08:002014-11-27T19:23:01.079-08:00Manichitrathazhu - from Sirf Indian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Manichithrathazhu – This literally translated meaning “The Ornate
Lock” is an age old traditional lock of Kerala which adorns the doors of
the fabulous Ettukettu & Nalukettu (8 sided & 4 sided mansions)
This is a special lock used in the ancient times to lock doors where
treasures and expensive items are kept. The special feature is, it
rings while locking/unlocking. These locks have now made a come back to
the new Kerala homes, though more from the aesthetic than the securi<span class="text_exposed_show">ty
aspect. A movie by the same name was made which went on to become a
cult movie in Malayalam and then was later remade in almost all Indian
languages ( Bhool Bhulaiyya in Hindi, Chandramukhi in Tamil and so on).
The hero in search of an evil spirit promises that he would lock up the
spirit using the Manichitrathazhu, meaning locked up in the most secure
manner. The pictures show the old and the modern versions. A beautiful
video made by Nipun Chander, shows the actual working of the lock. This is one of the historical artifacts being archived by SirfIndian.com</span><br />
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Watch at <a href="http://youtu.be/EtgMEAy7poI" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://youtu.be/EtgMEAy7poI</a><br />
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Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-4375913176005571752014-09-01T04:00:00.001-07:002014-09-01T04:11:10.298-07:00The Onam Feast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Raj loved aviyal, a rich concoction
of vegetables in a yellow gravy, especially the discrete sourness of curd,
added in good measure, to give it its famed tangy taste. It was his favourite
dish in the assortment, served on a banana leaf during Onam, Raj had always
enjoyed the feast during Onam, the traditional harvest festival of Kerala,
celebrated with culinary cornucopia. Raj wanted this Onam to be special for
special reasons and he had insisted that Riya dish out the entire spread on the
traditional banana leaf. She had complained that she would be too tired to do the
entire cooking after she returned from work and had suggested eating out. But
Raj was adamant that the traditional festival be observed in the manner
reminiscent of his childhood.</div>
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“Why don’t you come and help me
with the cooking. I have also been working during the day. And it is you who
wanted to have this traditional Onam feast for dinner.” Riya yelled from the
kitchen as Raj plopped himself in front of the TV.</div>
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"Cooking is your job. Haven’t
you seen the new Airtel Ad. The woman who is a boss in the office still comes
home and cooks for her husband” Raj retorted. </div>
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“Really”, Riya sounded
incredulous, “You chauvinist men! That ad was supposed to show that women are
now so successful, that they can be right at the top in their careers, and how
you men have distorted it to suit yourselves”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
"Hah”, Raj scoffed, “Ok. Forget
the ad. Lets talk real. Did you not read Indra Nooyi’s interview. How she was
sent out by her own mother to buy milk when she returned home late at night the
day she was declared the boss of PEPSI, because her husband was busy watching a
game on TV. Did you know what her mother told her? You may be the boss at work
dear, but at home, you must first carry out the duties of a wife”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“I know”, Riya sounded angry, “and
she has received much flak for what she said. That statement has done us more
harm and undone all the inspiration that women imbued from her success. “But
Raj”, crooned Riya, segueing deftly to the matter at hand, “Come, help me with
this, if you want your dinner in time. At least grate the coconut, while I make
the Erisseri. I need to cut the pumpkin and boil the red cow peas. I hope I
remember the exact mix.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Raj grudgingly switched off the
TV. Anyway the Englishmen were making a mockery of the match and didn’t make
for great viewing. The regular trudge of the Indian batsmen back to the
pavilion was exasperating. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least he
could grant Riya her wish. Everyone was entitled to a last wish. So, if her
wish was for him to help her in the kitchen, so be it. Tomorrow he would be
alone. And soon Shweta would join him. He loved her cooking, and she never
called him to the kitchen. He could watch TV, and she would wait on him, and do
his biding. Raj had met her at the gym where she had caught him stealing
amorous looks at her well endowed figure. He had learnt that she was a recent
divorcee and had just moved into the city. They had bonded well over work-out
routines and coffee, and soon Raj was staying over at her place, convincing
Riya of important client meetings out of town, which increased in frequency as
the days passed. It was a symbiotic arrangement, till Shweta wanted Riya out
the equation. It was either her or Riya. It was Shweta, who told him about the
new chemical XDN which on entering the body initiates a massive heart attack
after 12 hours, and does not leave a trace in the blood stream. He had planned
to mix the potion in Riya’s food that night, as they feasted. It was a fool
proof plan. He would spend the mandatory month in perceived mourning, after
which Shweta would move in with him. Nobody would suspect anything, as the
death would be due to natural causes, and he, being in his prime, would be
encouraged to begin life anew by one and all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Raj looked at the assortment of
vessels on the kitchen counter. Rice was cooked and was in a large aluminium
container next to the stove. The Sambar, a mix of boiled lentils, potatoes,
beans, drumsticks and carrots looked inviting in a large
Salem steel vessel. The next one contained the Payasam, which was a thick mash of
semolina floating on condensed milk. Pappad was fried and was dumped in the
plastic bucket. A copper bottomed utensil was placed next to the
stove to receive the Erisseri once it was cooked. The banana leaves that they
had bought from the local market were washed and kept ready. The Aviyal
was already done and was in a small Borosil bowl, which he had gifted Riya for her last birthday. He had explained, that he thought, he
should buy her something that she could use everyday, and which he hoped would
make her remember him fondly whenever she used it in the kitchen. The look on
her face, told him, that she did not believe what he said made sense even to
him. But he had spent that evening at Shweta’s house and had only remembered
her birthday, when she called him to say that she was waiting to have dinner
with him. The only thing that he could find then was an unwrapped Borosil bowl
in Shweta’s kitchen, a wedding spoil, which she had brought along with her. The Aviyal in that bowl brought a crooked smile on his lips as he recollected that
night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Raj started grating the coconut.
She needed the coconut to make Ishtoo, the potato stew. He always wondered why
it was called Ishtoo, and not just stew. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the same thing except that this was
made only with potatoes. Riya loved Ishtoo, but Raj stayed away from it because
of all the carbs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had decided that
this would be the ideal dish to add the XDN. Just five drops, Shwetha had
warned. Anything more and the taste would be evident and anything less, would
not have the desired effect.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Raj helped lay out the banana
leaves on the table. The first serving was always salt, which he placed on the
left edge of the leaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next came a few
pieces of banana chips and after that the pappad. Riya brought the rice and
served it on the leaves using a steel ladle. “Get the Sambar and sit down” I
will serve the rest of the dishes”, she said. After they sat down, Riya picked
up the borosil bowl and served him the Aviyal. “. I know how much you love it.
So I made this one just for you. You know that I have never liked it”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Thank You Dear”, Raj smiled. “Here,
let me serve you your favourite dish”, he said as he stirred the bowl of ishtoo
once again and served it next to the rice on her leaf. He had been careful to
add the drops while she was busy with arranging the dishes. And as he watched
her relishing the dish on her leaf, he thought of the freedom that the next
morning would usher in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As he lay on the bed waiting for
Riya to join him after clearing the dishes, he felt the need to make love to
her one last time. He looked at her as she came in wiping her hands with the
pallu of her white set saree. She had always looked good in a saree and this
one with the golden border, the traditional dress of kerala, made her very
desirable, atleast for now. He grabbed her and as she squealed in mock horror,
pinned her down with both his hands. She looked up at his face as he hovered
over her, lust burning through his cold eyes. Desire filled her as she held him
tight but the face that she saw was not Raj’s but that of Shiv, her colleague
at work and recently her soul mate. He had been her only source of comfort ever
since she discovered about Raj’s dalliance with Shweta. It also helped that he
shared her cab and her shift at the call centre, because his strong presence
was a pillar of strength during the initial tumult. He had even followed Raj
one evening and discovered the house where he spent his nights with his
paramour. Riya had all the evidence, but she refused to confront him and play
the victim. She wanted to pay him back in his own coin. She welcomed Shiv ino
her bed and her life and soon discovered, that he had all the qualities that she
had imagined in a partner. Things had progressed to the extent that they could
no longer bear to live without the other. It was Shiv who told her about
XDN.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had recently read about it on
the net and knew someone who could supply it. Riya had not needed much
prompting. She had been filled with revulsion when she opened her birthday gift
in utter disappointment, and discovered the faded words ‘To Shweta” on a corner
of the hardbound cover. She decided that she would serve him the deadly poison
in that very bowl. She had watched, in grim satisfaction, as he savored his
favourite dish for the very last time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And as they lay in bed thrusting
at each other, their hate laced with lust, hoping to end the harvest festival
with a fresh bounty, the taste of their favourite dishes of the Onam feast came
regurgitating back into their mouths. And it tasted like death.</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-71324500623297421442014-06-02T02:32:00.002-07:002014-06-02T02:32:54.878-07:00Patriot Games<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The recent elections brought out
the patriotic fervour amongst the nation’s populace. They fought over the
country, for the country and within the country! The social and other media
threw up quite a few of the ardent patriots who were all extremely concerned
about the future of the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
closer inspection of the various opinions expressed and their modus, by the
patriots of this great nation, revealed quite a few categories into which these
patriots can be classified according to their proclivities.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><u><b>The Cubicle Patriot:</b></u></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the IT wizards who can in a blink
of an eye conjure up an app with a wave of their left hand and simultaneously
code a few bugs with their right. They sit in their 2 x 2 cubicles in
gargantuan, space age, glass façade buildings,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>that shuts out the sun, but lets in the light. They set out to fight the
disbelievers on facebook, chat rooms and similar battlefields in the virtual
world,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>using jingoistic aphorisms and
extreme obscenities as their primary weapons. This patriot does not know fear.
Age, race, size, and six pack abs of the opponent don’t scare them. Their obscurity
is their shield.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><u><b>The Cocktail Circuit
Patriot:</b></u></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the wine glass
clinking, high heeled or leather soled (depending on the gender), elitist,
party hopping patriots, who are hard pressed to serve the society by doing
“social work” during their free time. They move about in the higher echelons of
power, are often visible on visual and print media and their opinions are
bandied about with absolute authority as the defining prognosis for the future.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><i><b>The Activist Patriot:</b></i></u> These are
the foreign /corporate funded, cause-driven or deemed to be driven, activists
whose views are accepted as unbiased, as long as the source of their funds are
unknown. These activists would travel abroad to different countries and speak
about the ills of particular parties/ individuals and their detrimental effects
to world peace if not stopped in time. They would implore upon the world
nations to help the country, scoff at any perceived slight to the national
pride and consider themselves as citizens of the world than being restricted by
boundaries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><i><b>The Google Patriot:</b></i></u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are variants of the cubicle patriots,
but harder working and better informed. They will google and research, facts
and figures, and argue with gusto, about the merits and demerits of the case
that they venture to espouse. Every argument would be well researched with the
help of google and thus helps them to counter even the field specialist in a
particular profession, who would hardly have the time to google past history in
his professional pursuit. These patriots usually win their arguments without
much competition unless faced with the Cubicle patriot who may, at the prospect
of defeat, use his vilest weapon to counter google.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><i><b>The Communist Patriot:</b></i></u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the surviving few of the erstwhile
communist way of life, for whom China
forms the shining example of progress and development and Mao the living God!
(Err dead god….. no… non living god …..er …. whatever) They would find problems
with the national policy of the government in case of any<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>issues with China and if questioned about their
patriotism and loyalty, have the answer ready for any doubting johnnies, “We
don’t have to prove our patriotism to you !”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><i><b>The Intellectual Patriot:</b></i></u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the deemed “intellectuals” of the
country. They could be sleazy film directors who engage in social service by
launching porn stars into mainstream cinema, former bureaucrats currently
engaged in full time sycophancy, litterateurs, theatre artists, song writers,
kitsch novelists, environmentalists, or in some cases even film stars. They are
considered intellectual enough to speak on any subject varying from foreign
policy to internal security and from poverty alleviation to minority
affairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They express their pain at the
marginalized sections of the society, speak about freedom of expression and art,
and even deride promises of development lest it affects the sentiments of a
particular community.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><i><b>The Fauji Patriot:</b></i></u> These are the dumb
patriots. They have strong opinions on the condition of the country but since
as they are governed by an Act which forbids them to discuss politics they go
and drink rum with soda and under conditions of extreme disapproval at the
sorry state of affairs, they drink it neat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then they go about their duty, wondering what the other patriots have in
store for them, keep vigil at the border, get shot, some coming back in body
bags and are immediately replaced by the next lot, who would have, by then,
downed their couple on the rocks, wondering when sense would prevail on the
rest.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><i><b>The Idiot Box Patriot:</b></i></u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They form the majority of the population and
may also be termed as the saas-bahu patriots. They are the ubiquitous middle
class, mango men, who work hard for a better life for themselves and their
children. They are not aware of divisions based on caste, religion or communities
and often wonder what the hullabaloo is all about. Their life after work
revolves around the idiot box, their opinions swaying with the intensity of the
high pitched anchor on prime time. They go about choosing their party with
absolute innocence, maintaining eternal hope as the only factor that decides
their future.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<u><i><b>The Political Patriot</b></i></u> :<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are the public warriors of the country,
generally found wearing white and a collapsible cap on their head, that enables
them to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wear different hats for different
situations. They carry their patriotism on their sleeve. For them the country
is their ‘MAA”. So they profess undying love for their “MAA”,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>professing their salutations, “ Maa, Tujhe
Salaam” and then when elected to power, don’t mind pocketing a few crores
belong to ‘Maa”. After all which mother would deny her child some pocket money
from her purse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“ Tujhe sab hai pata……meri Maa”!</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-80744874463475002142014-05-24T01:33:00.004-07:002014-05-24T01:33:39.038-07:00The Dream Merchants<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The library door opened. Diya and
Jyothi were walking towards me. I quickly rearranged the sheets, and pretended
to make notes from the voluminous encyclopedia of Science, afraid to meet their
gaze. I never wanted to write that letter to Diya. It was my best friend Suraj,
who seeing my forlorn days back at the hostel, goaded me to write the letter
and convey my feelings to her. Diya was like the quintessential dream girl...
the one whom every boy covets secretly but would not dare risk the ridicule of
approach. My courage must perhaps have been influenced by the quarter bottle
that Suraj had smuggled in after dinner and prodded my senses to take his advice. He said ‘Don’t
write to her telling that you love her. It will sound so commonplace and
clichéd. She must be getting such letters dime a dozen everyday. Women like
honesty in men. So tell her, that you lust for her. That, she comes to you in
your dreams everynight and you make passionate love. Your letter must catch her
attention, dude. Only then will she look at you”. Suraj sounded like an evangelist
with a halo after I had downed a peg or two, and seeking his blessings, I had
endeavoured to write a passionate letter dwelling on the intricacies of the
manifestations of my love for her.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
So now, as they walked towards
me, my heart was in my mouth and the sound seemed to reverberate in the empty
library. I could sense that one of them had stopped midway, possible to keep a
watch while the other beats the shit out of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her perfume sent my head into a tizzy before I lifted it and looked at
her. Her eyes penetrated deep stripping me of my layers of clothing before she
even uttered a word. She leaned forward, and brought her lips close to my ears
and whispered. “I liked what you wrote. I think you know exactly what a woman
wants. I am not a prude as you guys think. Let us see now what you can do for
me”. I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked around to see if anybody was present.
I saw Jyothi standing by the door, keeping watch as she motioned us to go
ahead. For a moment, I wondered if she would join us. But then considering the
restricted space and the possible contortions, I decided to keep her away at
that juncture. I could always write another letter.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I stood up and extended my arms
inviting Diya to step into paradise. I saw the shyness in her eyes disappear, as she decided to take a step back and inspect the package. I pulled in my stomach, stuck out my chest and flexed my biceps and prepared myself for her scrutiny. I had read somewhere, that visual stimulation is a prerequisite for a woman, and so i decided to give her all the stimulation that i could. And so, as I stood there in my body builders pose, I saw her eyes gazing into my eyes, and then travel downward, slowly,
taking in my robust physique in the loose pyjama.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Pyjama”!!!!—Why was I
dressed in a pyjama?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, I did not
expect her to consider my proposition with the speed of a hungry hyena, but at least I could have dressed better! Maybe a cargo half pant would have been
decent enough, when you expect your inner feelings to be subjected to close
inspection for its genuineness. The built up bravado seemed to seep away
through the flimsy strings that held the lower pants together. It was then that I
realized, that I had to let go of my feelings. My bladder had swelled with the
tension, that I could no longer hold it under control. My head cleared with a
jerk that sent the pretty damsels scurrying through the door. The library and
the books evaporated into thin air, knocking me on to the ground. I was lying flat
on my back. When I opened my eyes, all I could see were the white ornamental
blades of my Usha fan, moving at the third degree of speed control, fanning my
sweating body. The floor suddenly felt like my own bed, and as I firmly planted
by feet on the floor and padded on to the bathroom to clear my bladder, my mind was still clawing at the fading images, pleading with them to return after the recess. What if I was in my pyjama? It is the inner feeling that mattered as far was Diya was concerned. But by then, I had realized the enormous
power vested in the fluid filled sacs of the male body. They were like the
government…Dreams can wait, get our clearances first!!</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-2287656405900896722014-03-12T21:25:00.000-07:002014-03-12T21:25:40.479-07:00Monsters and Dragons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i><b>The following story has been
written for the World Story Telling Day which is on the 20<sup>th</sup>
of March. The International theme for 2014, is Dragon Tales and Monster
Stories.</b></i> <br />
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The monster lurked in the shadows
waiting for its prey. It had prowled the streets for some time now, hoping to
dig into an unsuspecting victim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
eyes were glazed with the heady concoction of daze and need. The teeth in
putrid decay, emanated a stench that drove away the flies that buzzed around,
hoping to sit on rot and feast for the day. The hair, matted with grime, fell
upon the face in strands like snakes swaying to the motion of music. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The thick skin fell in folds, forming
cylindrical belts around the grotesque body. The monster waited for the
beautiful dragon to walk into its trap.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The dragon walked with a grace
that exuded poetry in its motion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soft
and smooth body in flaming red, carried with it a fragrance of roses, which sent
the bees in confused disarray from their charted path in search of flowery
nectar. The eyes shone with a brightness that lent the moonlit sky, an extravagant
glitter. The golden mane on the head was silken, bouncing in gay abandon at
every trot. The multi coloured wings were a picture in seduction, like a
printed sequin draped on a beautiful bride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The toes were painted in various hues and shades, and the dragon sauntered
along, creating in its gait, a canvas of a spectacular parade. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The monster did not consider the
dragon a match to its raw power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
dragons had for long, cowered under the brute force of the monsters, and had
seemed to lack the will to put up any kind of resistance to the sustained
assault on its clan. They had forgotten that once upon a time, they had ruled
the world and scripted the tenets of existence, before the monsters with their
scheming ways and cunning means had subdued the gentle dragons, reducing them to
mere objects of beauty. They now failed to invoke the fire in their belly, and
breathe it out, striking terror in those who dared to doubt their strength. They
now seemed wary of the prowling monsters and this wariness had emboldened the
brutes with a false sense of superiority.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The monster pounced suddenly in
front of the dragon, baring its teeth, eyes lustful and the claws
extended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It appeared to the monster that
the dragon had painted its wings only to lure it in wanton invitation. The
monster grabbed the golden mane of the dragon as it turned its head away in
disgust at the nauseating sight of the ugly predator. The painful yelp of the
dragon, at the sudden tug, sent a shiver of passionate power in the monster,
and reaffirmed its belief in its own invincibility. It wanted to grab the wings
and mount the dragon, subdue it, possess and own it against its will. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
For a moment, the dragon was
stunned at the ferocity and the speed of the attack. But this time, there would
be retribution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dragon had for long
seen the plight of victims of such monstrous attacks and vowed that such brazen
attacks would be repulsed with equal force. It twisted itself with a speed that
took the monster by surprise, and pushed it down with a strength that was until
then reserved, to suffer in silence, the atrocities of the monsters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The brightly colored toes of the dragon, now
dug into the neck of the monster like sharp knives of steel. The monster,
unable to move under the choking grip of the dragon, lay immobile looking with
terrified eyes at this unexpected sight.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The dragon stood up tall towering
over the shocked monster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gentle
eyes now glowered with a rage, which made them look like hot charcoals from the
bottom of the mines. The colourful wings spread out like a shield of armour,
ready to come down heavily on the enemy, incapacitating it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire rose from the belly like the molten
lava from a long dormant volcano. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
dragon opened its mouth and roared, breathing out the fire in a hot stream, enveloping
the monster, as it fell down in a heap, hollering in pain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The time had come for the
monsters to be put in their place. The oppression could not be allowed to continue.
This was the right time for the dragons, to turn the tables and reclaim the
respect and their rightful place in the order of the world. They had to prove
that they were not just brightly painted objects of beauty and desire, but had
the ability to transform themselves to the feared fire breathing dragon when
the situation demanded. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire in the
belly had started to burn again, ready to set fire and burn, all those who had
oppressed it in the past. The wings had ceased to merely be a vestigial ornament
and had started their mighty flutter powering their being to greater heights. The
fight back had begun. They had a name for the fight. They called it the power
of 49.</div>
<br /></div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-56173352869369295322014-02-24T19:05:00.000-08:002014-02-24T19:09:14.291-08:00The Love Letter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYn4x8HJ7LUVFR79fYpCBVl2m2M3mqRczisPL5sh2omGyK_zcJCMR3Jtx2aikcel16SoqL0wqJuxU7wosUlcJP0QmQUfTKHKpZrKlQ6MhukaQwXKUPGm0b3VJPqEc6RGBaIyy2xvZabZc/s1600/letter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYn4x8HJ7LUVFR79fYpCBVl2m2M3mqRczisPL5sh2omGyK_zcJCMR3Jtx2aikcel16SoqL0wqJuxU7wosUlcJP0QmQUfTKHKpZrKlQ6MhukaQwXKUPGm0b3VJPqEc6RGBaIyy2xvZabZc/s1600/letter.jpg" /></a></div>
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Ram opened the letter and held it
tenderly, peering at it, almost willing it to reply. He wanted to write her the
perfect love letter - a letter, which will reveal his true feelings of love to
her. He didn’t want his letter to get lost in the bin, where he was sure the
scores of letters that she received, finally found its solace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was the prettiest girl in the college, and
he knew that if he had to catch her attention, his letter should be better than
the rest of the suitors. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never
looked at the boys anyway, and he was not sure, if she even knew he existed. The
silver lining was that she was his classmate, and the odds were much narrow,
or so he thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
He asked Sita to read the letter
aloud once more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was grateful to her
for helping him write the letter. She was a kind lady, and seemed to understand
him perfectly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could never remember
her name, but she didn’t seem to mind and would remind him gently. She always
found the right words when he fumbled with framing his feelings and had an
amazing knack of reading his mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
told her all about his pretty classmate, describing in fond recollection the
picture perfect smile, the million curls on her head bunched together in floral
pattern and the oval vermillion over the black bindi on her forehead. He also told
her about the time, when he literally froze as she walked past almost grazing
him in the corridor, giving him his first sense of an invisible touch, while he
breathed in her perfume and took until eternity to breathe it out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then told her about his helplessness, his
disinterest in the activities of his friends, his sleepless nights, as she hung
on to every word with rapt attention. He could see her eyes glaze over as she
transposed herself to the world that he had created.</div>
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He was nervous and wanted to know from Sita, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">whether</span> she would think he was the common place flirt,
if he walked up to her in the canteen and started a conversation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, she had all the boys vying for her
attention. Will she slap him when he gave her the letter or tear it up in front
of her friends? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if she already has
a handsome boy friend? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will he not look
like a fool to write her a love letter now? She may show it to her boyfriend
and both may have a hearty laugh at his misplaced ambition. Her boyfriend may
fail to see the funny side and accost him with his bike buddies, when he is walking
back alone to his hostel room. He knew he was no match for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Sita calmly assuaged all his fears and
assured him, that when she received his letter, she will realize that there was
nobody else in this world, who could love her more than him. So he had to find
the right words. There will never be a second chance.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sita found Leela standing by the
door as she walked out. Leela was wiping a tear from her eye. She hugged Sita
and asked, ‘Mom, How can you? You are helping Dad write a love letter to
another woman.” Don’t you feel angry, hurt, that he is expressing so much love
to another woman in your presence, which he had never expressed to you in your
fifty years of marriage?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sita led Leela to a chair, and
sat down beside her. Her face was devoid of pain or hurt. It was in fact
glowing and the eyes sparkled with a long lost dazzle that had finally found
its way back to where it belonged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
smiled at Leela and said “I am the one in love”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Leela looked at her dumbfounded,
“But Mom, he is writing that letter to his college sweetheart, not to you. You can’t
pretend to be her”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sita smiled. She said, “Leela,
you don’t understand, do you? It is true that we spent fifty years together
without ever being in love. To your father, it was his responsibilities that
ruled his life. He married a woman, whom his parents chose for him. He was a
good son, a good husband, and a great father. He never let any of us feel
neglected or ever shirked his duties. To him, my every wish was a command that
had to be fulfilled. I never could find a fault in his behaviour towards me.
But it is true that I also could never feel the love in any of his actions. They
were always kind, affectionate, caring and passionate, but I always got the
feeling that it was borne out of a sense of duty than anything else. The magic of
selfless love which I yearned for then, and experiencing now, was missing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Mom”, Leela sobbed “Dad is suffering
from Alzheimer’s, He does not recognize you. You and I, no longer exist in his
world. How can you feel happy and loved when he is not even thinking of you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It doesn’t matter”, said Sita calmly patting
her hand, “Today your father does not recognize responsibilities, or remember
relations. Even if I track down and bring that woman here, your father will not
recognize her. So the feelings that he is expressing today is just a state of
mind, a kind of pure love which is emanating from his self, and I feel myself
enveloped in a surreal bliss. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I no
longer care who his love was. There is no person here, in this house, in his
room, in his mind. It is just a heady lightness of the being, floating in a
space, uncluttered by memories, unrestrained by relations and unconcerned about
consequences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I sit with him and
listen to his love, I can feel the fragrance in the air, hear the patter of
rain drops outside the window in this sweltering heat, feel myself swaying to
the lilting tune of the invisible flute and the world around, amazingly cease
to exist. It is this feeling that I had imagined and associated with love when
I was a teenager, but had over time, pawned my imagination to the realities of
the world. I am happy that I am able to finally share this feeling of love, with a man before i die. I have lived my life the way this society demanded, fulfilling my duties to one and all, but now, I want to spend the little time that is left, experiencing this wonderful feeling of Love. I pray to God today, to forgive me, for being thankful to this
dreadful ailment that has afflicted your dad. It has freed him from bondage,
filled the vacuum of thoughts with feelings of love and made him smile in
innocent carelessness.” She added “These are the last vestiges connecting him
to the world and it is a miracle that it happens to be the strings woven with
love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When this dreaded disease finally wipes
his mind clean, I want Love to be the last word that gets erased.”</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-4295311710176191262014-02-05T01:06:00.001-08:002014-02-05T23:28:42.567-08:00My Best Friend's Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was happy for Sam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was my best friend after all, in fact, my
only friend in this whole world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
getting married and seemed all nervous and excited. I looked at him lovingly,
as he fumbled with his tie in child like awkwardness. He considered himself the
luckiest person alive to have found such a beautiful woman as Riya, to be his
bride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She should consider herself lucky to have
found a man with a heart cast in gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Well on second thoughts, she should be credited for her intelligence to
have identified the goodness in him, when most of her ilk would have chased
looks and money, neither of which was generous with Sam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when she finally agreed to marry him, he may
have been justified to treat her as Gods gift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I had known Sam for a year
now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had met when I was going through
a difficult time and was desperately looking for a place to stay. Sam was kind
enough to welcome me to his home and never let me feel even for a moment that I
was an intrusion to his privacy in his one room apartment, or a burden on his
meager resources that he shared with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, I was overwhelmed when he invited me to share the only bed in
the flat. I would have been more than content and happy to sleep on the floor,
but Sam would have nothing of it, and had insisted that I sleep in his bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When Sam first met Riya at his
friends' party, I was the first one with whom he shared his feelings for her. He
had been smitten at first sight, following her the whole evening with his eyes,
without mustering the courage to walk up to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had made eye contact once, which resulted
in him spilling his drink on his pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That evening I had to sit through his emotional ranting and his fears of
how moronic he must have appeared to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the very next day, he came back home and gave me a big hug, which
almost choked me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had been introduced
to Riya by his friend who had invited him for the party. I had a strong feeling
that the introduction may have been orchestrated by Riya, who may have noticed
him during the party, which was confirmed weeks later, when she dropped in at
our place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sam introduced me to her and
as I shook her hand, I saw in her eyes the same tenderness that was in Sam’s,
and immediately knew that Sam’s love will never go unrequited. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The evenings that followed for a
year thereafter, were melodramatic, to say the least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fights would bring in a bottle of Old
Monk Rum from the corner store, and a day in her arms, would bring back to life
the legendary Mohammad Rafi on the Sony CD player late into the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was amused by these swings, but kept him
company, sitting next to him as he put his arm around me, lending a patient
ear to his litany of woes and woos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
to agree to her absolute lack of understanding of his deep feelings, bear
witness to his professing undying love over many births, nod in agreement at
her grave misunderstanding of his innocent acts, hang my head in shame at his
unintentional indiscretions and yet keep a straight face. So when Sam set up
out to propose to her, I could feel the butterflies in my stomach and was not
able to eat a morsel, untill he came back leaping and dancing, announcing her
acceptance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“Hey Pat, How do I Look?” I was
woken up from my reverie by Sam, who I admit was looking absolutely dashing in
his new white tuxedo. We were running late and had to reach the auditorium,
which was booked for the wedding, before the bride arrived. Riya had wanted a
church wedding, but when the priest told Sam that he will not allow me in the
church, she didn’t flinch for a second in shifting the venue to the auditorium
near her house. When Sam told me this, I was choked with emotion. I saw her enter
through the door with her bridesmaids, stunningly beautiful, dazzling in white,
her pearly smile at her dashing beau matching her spotless dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stepped back and waited for the ceremonies
to begin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When finally the priest asked Sam
to kiss the bride, I could not stop myself. I bounded up the steps of the stage
and jumped in their midst. Sam and Riya, broke away laughing. I wanted to hug
them both. My paws left their pug marks on their white dresses, but I was sure
they didn’t mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood on my hind
legs and grabbed Sam by his shoulders and gave him a long wet lick on his face.
I looked at Riya. She was laughing and blew me a kiss. ‘Woof”, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I returned her flying kiss. I was very happy.
I just couldn’t stop wagging my tail.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-2774421930319297852014-01-12T01:29:00.000-08:002014-01-13T01:17:08.956-08:00My Day of Reckoning!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiZXtMOwHVAuu6QhEr50RacjN0OMFJftYrZEv9Jo-W0y3D9Qaybp4qhwjyXA1G2g-GvOGHTIrgNABSjurmPehd7xKMNgHb7N6zwNRMn2gzGt3kzo6ZWwN2E0OaoKZ8ApSPUVdSE3Kmpw/s1600/imagerajni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiZXtMOwHVAuu6QhEr50RacjN0OMFJftYrZEv9Jo-W0y3D9Qaybp4qhwjyXA1G2g-GvOGHTIrgNABSjurmPehd7xKMNgHb7N6zwNRMn2gzGt3kzo6ZWwN2E0OaoKZ8ApSPUVdSE3Kmpw/s1600/imagerajni.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He appeared nonchalant. I felt the anger rising from the pit of my stomach, cruising at mach speed through the upper part of my torso and settling in my eyes leaving them blood red in the wake of the fumes.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He looked harmless and weak though, but the very act of deftly sliding into the wide parking bay outside the Sheraton, while i was pondering the factor of error in my calculations of the visible clearances, seemed to question and even mock my meticulous regimen and penchant for accuracy. The skills i had honed over the years, often driving others crazy while deriving immense satisfaction of self, seemed to be derided by this insouciant old man. The tortoise pen stand, which cradle my multicolored collections, leave no doubt of the virtues i practice, to anyone who cared or dared to see how i lived. I had heard hippies croon 'Money cant buy me love', but I sure believed respect was always available at a premium. The green bucks came in fast and furious, when the bulls and bears charged at regular intervals, and this relentless pursuit had paved the way for the jaguar riding smartly on the bonnet of my car today.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This old man, in a white dhoti and dark glasses, seemed to have a complete lack of trepidation at this visual impact of the beast on the bonnet and the mad as a beast opponent glowering at him, as he approached. I stopped him in his tracks as he sauntered towards the entrance of the hotel. My lips were trembling with rage and the abuses i hurled at him refused to emerge, being violently pushed back by the rapid ingress of air filling my lungs. My hands gesticulated, drawing surreal pictogram's in the air, questioning the audacity of the transgression. He looked at me questioningly as my hands flitted between the car and the recently occupied slot. Understanding seemed to dawn on him as he said "But, I thought that you were waiting by the side, as there was no movement". He smiled as he spoke, confirming my worst fears that he shared the view
of my 1000 facebook friends, who never ever "like" a single post of my
pet lizards, and thought i was a nerd. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I wanted to prove him otherwise. I had to show him the quintessential act of smartness, the act that separated the nerds from the hunks. I slowly took out the cigarette pack from my pocket, tapped the base against my heaving chest. As one cigarette popped out, I tilted my head back at an obtuse angle,as you would do on New Years Eve, to down your first tequila shot. Then in a fluid motion, I dunked the whole pack into my mouth and retrieved it, leaving the cigarette firmly lodged in my mouth. The old man watched in amusement, as I took out my match and lit the cigarette, the glowing end matching the hue of my eye at that instant. He reached out and effortlessly relieved me of the pack and match, as i glared in disbelief. The next couple of seconds were a magical blur. He threw the pack behind his head, keeping his eyes focused on me, and with a swift motion of his left leg, tossed up his white dhoti and kicked the pack high into the air. With his right hand he threw up the match box leaving a burning matchstick in his hand. I followed his glance, as he looked up and the next thing i see was the lit cigarette firmly ensconced between his lips and the pack and match back in my hands.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My blood red eyes turned ghostly white. The heart started pummeling my chest in a desperate bid to escape the being of shame. Sweat dribbled freely by the ear side and my legs turned to stone as the enlightenment sunk in. I resorted to the only movement that i was capable of at that moment. I fell flat on my face, prostrate, my arms extended in reverence and submission at the miracle that i had witnessed. The words that had failed me all this while, finally managed to find their way out, as i intoned "Thalaivaaaaaaaaa......."</div>
<br />
<i><u><b>Statutory Warning</b></u>: Cigarette Smoking is injurious to Health</i></div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-45579554515927406102013-09-24T05:18:00.000-07:002013-09-24T05:20:18.132-07:00TAJ - A LOVE STORY<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The training was hard, the life
harder and the mission impossible. He loved a woman and wanted her, and they
promised him many like her, waiting for him in paradise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The AK 47’s and the explosive ammunition,
evoked his fire prowess and hardened his resolve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mumbai was maximum city, a city of dreams. He
would ensure that the city was awake that night, so that he owned all the
dreams that belonged there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a
broker of death, a trader of dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
city would be painted red, and then he would ride the rainbow of death to
paradise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the lone wolf, the
tiger prawn among the shrimps, assigned to devour the cadavers the night
brought out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of his brothers had
already lit the inferno of death on the lifeline of the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The others ensconced<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in a five star, sent up enough smoke to mask
the remaining in the skies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The circular
dome of power which resembled a space ship was his target.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to travel in his RDX suit in that
space ship to reach his virgins.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
She stood blocking his way in
that deserted street, carrying her unsold roses, all white, none of them red.
He was the knight in armour and she stood staring at him, clutching the white
roses close to her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was her
eyes that took him back to the journey that began in the sleepy valley of
deodar trees. The same eyes that were forbidden to look at him, the eyes that
had set him out to seek more to redeem one was now piercing his heart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As his gaze bore down on her, she didn’t
quiver, the shivers were his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes
didn’t flinch but his heart did a somersault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He felt that Dante could not have expressed it better of a paradise
regained. One for all suddenly made more sense than all for one. He laid the
guns at her feet and she placed the white roses in his hand. Farewell to arms
was in fact a welcome to her arms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As they walked hand in hand, the
guns and roses sinking slowly in the waters, smoke clouding the sky and sirens
wailing for the dead, he looked back at the edifice that would have been his
tomb. It was safe for now. Later when they counted the dead, he would be alive
in her arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would never look for
the one that got away!</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-54613916873429478812013-09-09T05:03:00.000-07:002013-09-09T05:06:33.909-07:00The Deadly Mirror<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmk0nguyzGR0rlMvpM1HZUPsWxqlGq_FxHQXrybRhvZQgHUirBi2cX7mC9-LZaHszQVYdvexAc7_sFDvsg_jtG-tBP355V_F7FWVVrs5Chz4DJo6xhX6oARfAyJNtxfihwUfoCWWxaV8/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMmk0nguyzGR0rlMvpM1HZUPsWxqlGq_FxHQXrybRhvZQgHUirBi2cX7mC9-LZaHszQVYdvexAc7_sFDvsg_jtG-tBP355V_F7FWVVrs5Chz4DJo6xhX6oARfAyJNtxfihwUfoCWWxaV8/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exercise in Creative Writing : To write a small piece
of strikingly similar characteristics in a relationship, where certain
characteristics or actions of the partner is a mirror image of the self and strikes
a chord in the other persons mind revealing a side that they identify as their
own.</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
He watched her cut the
apples.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She seemed to take her time in
going through the motions with the serrated edge of the knife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She appeared to be in a trance staring
fixedly at the glint of the knife, barely mumbling a response to his pointed
question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if the shine of the
steel in her hand had transformed her to an apparition that caressed his memory creating a familiar outline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The motions
of the blade in her hand had an eerie similarity to a practiced rhythm that was
second nature to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The slow passage
started from the top, curving inwards and emerging out from the bottom
effortlessly, dismembering and slicing into parts, what was once a whole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could see himself in the same trance, his
eyes glazed but sharp and shining, and the grip on the knife strong yet loose,
the smile on his face a fixed but lopsided grimace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if his passion for wielding the
knife was mirrored in her motions and he wondered if the apple was just a substitute,
and his vision an unintended glimpse of their alter ego.</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-77081657436917990412013-05-13T09:53:00.004-07:002013-05-13T09:54:38.326-07:00In Defence of Pappu!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When you are deciding the future
of a billion people in a nation where the mind is full of fear, and you have to
choose between pappu and pheku where would you put your money or whatever is
left of it? Detractors of pappu have made a big song and dance about the lack
of experience saying Pappu cant dance saala, but I would remind them of the
wise words of perceptive prognosis from the angry -once young- man who offered
you sweets to proclaim Pappu pass ho gaya!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Pheku can project himself and his
apparition in 3D and Imax 3D all day, but pray what will happen if pheku has to
solve our boundary disputes or even go and get the marines back from Italy to
stand extended trial in our esteemed court. He can’t even discuss the weather
in a conference on climate control. He doesn’t have a visa!!! A Master Card may
be, but no VISA! Our long forgotten patriot brethren on foreign soil will
emerge like a phoenix to deny him that with a flash flood of signatures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, they have been following the
entire progress of pheku on twitter and facebook and with their brilliant
intellectual capabilities have been able to denounce the few million desi’s who
could have been easily misled due to their native ignorance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the guardians of our nation’s conscience
who religiously take part in our Independence Day parades on Fifth Avenue and watch our nation’s
progress on the television will ensure that the ignorant natives are set right.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And do we need such a leader who
is domestically sequestered while his entire cabinet is globe trotting? We have
long suffered in silence at a silent PM, now do we need to feel sorry for a
Home Alone PM?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But the clincher for Pappu is in
our filmy history. When the pheku rattles out facts and figures, thumping his
chest and thundering, Mere state main development hain, progress hain,
investments hain, Mere paas experience hai, tumhare paas kya hai, all pappu has
to say to elicit a collective sigh from the billions and make them bite the
ballot is to reply “Mere Paas Maa hain”.</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-15331644562568368422013-05-05T22:35:00.004-07:002014-01-12T01:30:23.887-08:00The Recalcitrant Star<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsM657nXpFL4_mUaAZgOoMs-XGh0AYmjMOiWidQOHuyMLLxDQWA3YOTfFdbtN9iw1y_lqewLaXTHS-wBdlJb_YjFR_Vla2H6olZQ39llDkoAjplBUR7wMYXbSxlzPU9VRrB9xQxU46iyg/s1600/sailor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsM657nXpFL4_mUaAZgOoMs-XGh0AYmjMOiWidQOHuyMLLxDQWA3YOTfFdbtN9iw1y_lqewLaXTHS-wBdlJb_YjFR_Vla2H6olZQ39llDkoAjplBUR7wMYXbSxlzPU9VRrB9xQxU46iyg/s1600/sailor.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I wish I could recreate the magic
of her fingers ploughing through my hair, my loyal strands parting ways to
ensconce her slender digits, the embrace of the tuft extending to my arms that
held her legs, as I rested my chin in the cradle of her lap. She refused to be
embarrassed by the moon making a full appearance and staring shamelessly at the
wanton display of amour, or the stars mischievously winking at each other
enjoying the spectacle. We had shut out the universe, seeking refuge in each
other’s irises, content in the world that had formed in the circle of our arms.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The stem cut through the dark
waters and the foxle dipped menacingly lower spraying my senses with ice cold
water, snapping me out of my reverie and washing away the magical moment that
never belonged to me. The miles that my ship left behind the port seemed, but a
lazy drift, compared to the distance that we had sailed apart in the last
couple of months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My voyage now had a destination,
my path a charted course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a
brilliant navigator and my eternal friends, the stars never failed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But how did they fail me at my birth? How is
it that I failed to chart their path, which would have convinced her parents,
that the stars never foretold any calamity that would befall them? It would be
sacrilegious to even assume that the stars would not stand us in good stead,
because they were my only true friends? Many a time, they had held my hand and
guided me to safety when the miracles of technology had failed me. Many a
nights we have spent in each others company, talking about the weather and the
swells of the oceans. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But how were we to know that we
would be such great friends when I was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How were they to know that my mother had heralded my arrival and that
they should rally around to welcome their future friend? It is not their fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked at them now, resplendent in their
golden coats, seeking guidance for my current voyage, forgiving them for their
betrayal in my search for a soul mate. I winked back at them, my eyelids
forcing out a tear drop in its effort, my weak smile engaged in replacing
memories with thoughts of a new port.</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-11529874171724235202013-05-01T06:18:00.002-07:002013-05-05T09:47:10.567-07:00CREATIVE WRITING – AN EXERCISE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/ddraw/ddraw0909/ddraw090900024/5516449-fairy-moon-cartoon-and-vector-illustration.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" id="irc_mi" src="http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/ddraw/ddraw0909/ddraw090900024/5516449-fairy-moon-cartoon-and-vector-illustration.jpg" style="margin-top: 39px;" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>This was an exercise conducted at
the write club. The assignment was to create a dialogue between two people with
a time lag, i.e., the conversation is not in real time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For this the following scenario was
created.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>NASA sometime in the future has
selected a teenager from one of the colleges to participate in its manned
mission to the moon, as an observer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
teenager is allowed to communicate with one friend on earth at a
designated time every day, by sending a short message.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He will only receive the reply from his friend at the same time the next day. So there is a waiting period associated with the reply after the message is sent.
Here is what I wrote…..</i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sent: 1200 hrs Day 1</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Dude, Its amazing out here, I am
literally on the moon! The journey was cool and the Space Station is kick ass
man – just out of this world. I am having a ball out here, never gonna come
back man! Just lovin it!!! How’s college dude? Must be boring without me ..</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Received: 1200 hrs Day 2</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
You lucky dude! I should have put
my name on that entry form…anyways happy for you! Enjoy your time there buddy.
College sucks as usual. BTW Meena was asking about you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sent:1200 hrs Day 3</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Meena asked about me!! Dude, all
these days, waiting at the parking lot, canteen, the library (oh, I hate that
place) for a word with her and she asks about me now!! And dude, you know
better than to slip in a statement like that so innocently. What did she ask?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Received: 1200 hrs Day 4</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Hey, Chill Man. Actually, she had been noticing us
following her around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when she saw me
alone, inquired if you were keeping well. I am surprised how she didn’t know
about your selection for the moon mission. She didn’t have change for her
library dues and so I helped her out. She will return the money tomorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sent: 1200 hrs Day 5</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
What!!! You got friendly with
her? She is meeting you tom?? Bro, you know how much I like her, don’t you?
Talk to her about me dude! Man, this space station is getting on my nerves. I
can’t keep the times these people want me to, for everything. Dude, message me
as soon as you get back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think I
can sleep tonight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Received: 1200 hrs Day 6</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Chill, Pal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t get excited and fall off the space
station, it is a long way down! We had coffee today at the canteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is not the snob that we thought she was,
in fact, very down to earth!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are the
one on the moon!! Just kiddin! Do you know, she is a big fan of Shah Rukh Khan.
Will be catching a SRK movie tomorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Sent: 1200 hrs Day 7</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Hey!! Catch a SRK movie?? Who??
You, She or you both?? Buddy you cant do this to me! This space station sucks.
I am gonna ask them for a parachute. I have to get out of this place. Buddy I
can’t take it anymore here. Need to be there!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Received: 1200 hrs Day 8</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Relax Mate. Enjoy your time
there. The movie sucked, she watched SRK and I watched her. Boy, I proposed to
her after the movie and she said YES!!! Sorry Buddy, I was also crazy for her.
You have the moon ride to be proud of, let me have my moon on earth, yeah man,
she means the moon to me!!! Meet you when you are down to earth,
till then take care…..</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-86637882880599969502013-01-10T01:00:00.003-08:002013-01-10T06:28:06.563-08:00Savage Kshetra - An Aman ki Aasha Presentation!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEMbgJ4QIkFTwg_DKbRM53fT8JLtdI2Axb2nre2WZIzEiFHSFVt3DZoNTshUBHU3dOymN9hEXPMFfqjkhFB5DXssGvfgmcG32yo23poIi8Zsi93O_weAICrH7_nn6EuukQp6F4afMMH1M/s400/030712satish.jpg" width="400" /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Once again the barbarians have struck. While the case of Lt Saurabh Kalia is still rankling the conscience of the nation (i sincerely hope it does) and a grieving father doggedly pursues justice for his son, two more brave hearts have been savagely mutilated by the Pakistani soldiers. And what do we do? Condemn it, offer platitudes, and go about organising the next season of Surkshetra, a song and dance show with the Pakistanis!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Pakistani singers and cricketers come to India. We roll out the red carpet, make them win competitions, take some of them in IPL, give them movies, pay them loads of money. They happily make their money here, go back to Pakistan, and pay their taxes to their government from the money they made here. Their government then pay their army from the taxes who then in turn mutilate our soldiers. So are we indirectly sponsoring the mutilation of our soldiers??????</div>
<br />
It is not therefore surprising when Pakistani think tanks have openly proclaimed India as a soft nation and too scared to act in the face of any provocation. We are a peace loving society, with peace loving intellectuals, who make a living out of peace shows and peace talks and would strive hard to mute any talk of a response in equal measure. We would therefore sacrifice any number of dispensable soldiers and offer their heads for the Pakistani soldiers to indulge in a game of football as long as it does not affect our dance and cricket shows. <br />
<br /></div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-61084429480324806872012-12-23T21:29:00.001-08:002012-12-24T02:13:04.255-08:00Delhi Rape - Are we a nation of misogynists?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fp4AwgTKuL5uQTkuZ05J3_DJNU3MG7sNn28pFK1lgQp5iqQJk4csBnLGDEM1bOXYUq0804ZWmPHA8nIJE2vOPb0HWpZozzP_G6eu_seerDc3VftegGCtSkV-7dePvUHJpDMTqt5Vq4s/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fp4AwgTKuL5uQTkuZ05J3_DJNU3MG7sNn28pFK1lgQp5iqQJk4csBnLGDEM1bOXYUq0804ZWmPHA8nIJE2vOPb0HWpZozzP_G6eu_seerDc3VftegGCtSkV-7dePvUHJpDMTqt5Vq4s/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
The shocking incident in Delhi has shaken the morality of the
nation. What was defining in this incident that forced a billion people
out of their slumber and galvanized sections across the nation? Was it
the lack of a chauvinistic explanation by the moral safe keepers
deriding the incident while extolling the need to remain restrained to
the cultural roots? An explanation, of provocative dressing, presence
in an unsuitable place for a woman, meandering alone unescorted by a
male of the species, indulging in acts unbecoming of our culture, or the
act of a sick mind have not been forthcoming from the sentinels of our
society as justifiable arguments in this case. Here was an average
middle class woman, dressed modestly, accompanied by a male friend,
returning after a socially acceptable act of watching a movie, heading
home in a government recognized transport at a decent time, raped by a
gang of hooligans who were looking for some money to buy extra liquor.<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
That
brings me back to the question "Are we a nation of Misogynists"? Though
the dictionary definition of the word means a woman hater, it has
acquired a new meaning ever since Ms Julia Gillard, Australia's first
woman prime minister used it in her fiery speech in the parliament
accusing the opposition leader Tony Abbott, of being a misogynist. The
dictionary meaning is now being changed to also mean "prejudiced to
woman". So are we misogynists?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So can Mr Sanjay <span data-scayt_word="Nirupam" data-scaytid="2">Nirupam</span>, the congress MP be called a misogynist, when he taunted Ms <span data-scayt_word="Smriti" data-scaytid="3">Smriti</span> <span data-scayt_word="Irani" data-scaytid="4">Irani</span> in a TV news debate of being a <span data-scayt_word="nautch" data-scaytid="5">nautch</span> girl who danced to make money and hence should not carry an opinion on national politics? Are Mr <span data-scayt_word="Mulayam" data-scaytid="6">Mulayam</span> Singh <span data-scayt_word="Yadav" data-scaytid="7">Yadav</span> and <span data-scayt_word="Lalu" data-scaytid="9">Lalu</span> Prasad <span data-scayt_word="Yadav" data-scaytid="8">Yadav</span>
misogynists when they oppose the 33 % reservation bill for women? Or is
the entire judicial machinery a herd of misogynists who would examine
the character and past behavior of the woman before putting the accused
on trial?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Medical practices and research have added their bit to subject the woman to further prejudice. Strong voices are already <span data-scayt_word="clamouring" data-scaytid="42">clamouring</span> to do away with the prevalent finger test, which tends to further denigrate a <span data-scayt_word="vicitim" data-scaytid="39">vicitim</span>
after abuse. An appalling research that is being formulated into
acceptance tends to constitute over indulgence of sexual acts as mental
illness. This would only add to the <span data-scayt_word="defence" data-scaytid="98">defence</span> of a rapist and to the repudiation of justice to the victim.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The
laws can to an extent act as a deterrent to this abject paradigm of
gender equality. The true shift can only occur when this culture of
misogyny and condescension evolves into one of respect and a belief that
the woman is a collateral descendent of the same progenitor.</div>
</div>
Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-14705404825229781022012-06-15T00:05:00.000-07:002012-06-15T04:54:31.812-07:00Shall WE tell the President!! - A SWOT analysis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjJRNVfSipZ5QG5fYTxJrm5SvRRx6Dvu9eAgf9n9SkX5lXqCGe1TFls6SqN7zdf7Vm2ZQTy4GIfE_qRlbJWjrUAlSdbU65R8bocJ3hyphenhyphenmkfZHAY-N0A6_8RfAlS55wEElVGMtoTSnxVyE/s1600/150612satish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjJRNVfSipZ5QG5fYTxJrm5SvRRx6Dvu9eAgf9n9SkX5lXqCGe1TFls6SqN7zdf7Vm2ZQTy4GIfE_qRlbJWjrUAlSdbU65R8bocJ3hyphenhyphenmkfZHAY-N0A6_8RfAlS55wEElVGMtoTSnxVyE/s320/150612satish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The IPL Season 5 is over, but the bookies have their hands full with the next big season. There is another exciting match coming up, where quite a windfall awaits them. The bettings are on,in full swing for the next President of this cricketing nation. And here are the contenders.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Dr APJ Abdul Kalam - Chennai Super Kings</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Somnath Chatterjee - Kolkata Knight Riders</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Pranab Mukherjee - Delhi Dare Devils (Dada was never considered by the Kolkata team owner and has always been a part of Delhi Dare Devils, but his heart is in kolkata and still remains a favourite with the ever volatile Kolkata fan)</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Dr Manmohan Singh - Kings XI Punjab</li>
</ul>
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Dr Hamid Ansari and P A Sangma's teams have not been recognized, as yet, by the governing council due to lack of clarity in ownership and funding. They have not been ruled "OUT" and the decision is pending with the Third Umpire (Front).</div>
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The SWOT analysis of the main contenders released by the bookies for public information and participation has been reproduced below.</div>
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1. <b><u>Chennai Super Kings:</u></b></div>
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<b>Strength</b>: Good Technique and strong fundamentals, Experienced. Large fan Base.</div>
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<b>Weakness</b>: Inability to read the Googly, face the bouncer and reply to sledging.</div>
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<b>Opportunity</b>: Previous winner, Opportunity to excel further and leave a lasting impression on young minds.</div>
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<b>Threat</b>: Dominant Opposition, Search by Team Owners for new Talent.</div>
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<br /></div>
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2. <b><u>Kolkata Knight Riders:</u></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Strength</b>: Gentleman Player, Disciplined, Plays by the rules.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Weakness</b>: Inability to play on the "Left" side</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Opportunity: Dark Horse. A chance to establish supremacy over the left attack.</div>
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Threat: Unreliability of the Team owner.</div>
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3.<b><u> Delhi Dare Devils:</u></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Strength</b>: Veteran of many finals, Genuine all rounder. Strong ability to face the bouncer and read the googly</div>
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<b>Weakness</b>: Over dependence by the team affects performance and result</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Opportunity</b>: To cap a long career with crowning glory</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Threat</b>: Emerging Players, Bugs!!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
4. <b><u>Kings XI Punjab:</u></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Strength</b>: Ability to evade the bouncers, ignore spin and remain immune to sledging</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Weakness</b>: Inability to appeal for a wicket even of his own bowling. Lets his team do the batting and prefers to be the runner/twelfth man.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Opportunity</b>: To be able to finally remain Speechless for prolonged duration if elected.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Threat</b>: Unwillingness of Team Owner to relinquish their saving grace.</div>
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<br />
<br /></div>Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-15063498607789038622012-06-09T22:12:00.001-07:002012-06-10T02:49:35.888-07:00A Pricely 'Commode'ty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am surprised at the hullabaloo about the thirty five lakhs spent by the Planning Commission for their toilets. In these hard times of policy drought and the falling rupee, these are the men to whom we look upon to put on their thinking caps and come up with life changing ideas. And then we grudge them, when all they ask for this monumental job, is a decent office where they could shed their clothes and don their thinking caps.</div>
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History has been witness to the fact that great men think hard and find solutions when they are bereft of the burden of garments. Great discoveries have found their origins in the bath or the modern day bathroom. How can we ever forget 'Eureka' - the cry of joy, by a similarly vilified Archimedes who sought refuge in the bathroom when he was facing the same desolateness which the country is facing today. If at that time, the Sicilians had raised a hue and cry about the gold rim around his bath, then neither would there be a 'Eureka' Forbes today, who keep our house clean and give us safe drinking water, nor the spectacle of a thousand ships launched for Helen of Troy.</div>
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It is a well known medical fact that a man thinks best under pressure. And it is also a well kept secret among men, that the maximum pressure ever experienced by a man in his lifetime is during the time spent in private, in his bathroom. So, if we are to expect earth shattering ideas from the very men who we have assigned to plan the destiny of this nation, then it is our duty, as responsible and concerned citizens, that they are provided the best of commode-ties where they could sit and think under pressure. So in the nations interest, I implore my fellow countrymen, that we support this initiative for spending this measly sum of money in the larger interest of creating the right pressure atmosphere for effective functioning of our intellectual politicians.</div>
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After all, it is in these very ornate offices of the Commission, that the members have
an elaborate sitting, followed by noisy exchanges and reports, and finally the entire
matter is released to be served to the nation!!! Like the tag line of Delhi Belly, "(sh) It happens" !</div>
</div>Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-85901447171289659292012-06-06T23:13:00.002-07:002012-06-06T23:13:28.732-07:00Air India - Saare Zameen Par<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was speaking to Arun after a long
time. We had not spoken since we last went on the vacation to Manali
together along with the family. And the vacation was all so sweet
since we were not sure if we could make it together as Arun's leave
from work was not sanctioned till the last minute. Arun was a pilot
with Air India and the school vacations were always a time of great
stress to him. The kids want to go for their vacation to some place, far away from home, the wife needed to take a break from her daily
chores, but getting leave from work during this time was like a war
within. It was during these times that he wished he was a fighter
pilot, or atleast a fighter trained as a pilot, so that he could
advance his case for leave to the management, shooting down the
simultaneous thrusts of his colleagues with deft maneuvers. Everybody
wanted leave during the school vacations, and the management took on
the role of a trapeze artiste delicately balancing the various
vacation plans with the flight plans.</div>
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I was therefore a little pensive when I
called him to plan for the next vacation. I was sure he would come
with work related excuses trying to avoid this one. The kids enjoy
each others company and they were at my throat egging me to coax Arun and his family to join us. So I was a little taken aback when he bellowed into the
phone 'Hey buddy, I was just about to call you, we should plan our
next trip”.” I thought he was pulling my leg. “ Dont you
have to apply for leave? And considering that you had taken leave
during the last school vacations, do you think they will grant you
leave this time around? Arent there other people waiting for their
chance”? I asked incredulously. He guffawed “Ha, we have solved
this perennial problem. The Pilots Union has considered our case
sympathetically and we have reached a consensus. Now on, we do not
have to worry about work during the vacations, the Union will take
care of it”. I was speechless. The Unions taking so much care for
the welfare of their members! I thought they only offered lip
service and shouted slogans. I asked him about the brilliantly
ingenious plan, that the Pilots Union had devised. I was sure that we
could implement it across the sectors, and may also improve worker
productivity by improving their morale and the employee satisfaction
with the establishment. He laughed “ Hey, it is not that ingenious
after all. We have decided that we will go on strike during the
vacations, so that all of us can enjoy time with the family, rather
than a few of us having to sacrifice their happiness in driving
around government servants across the sky. After all, they are the
only people who travel by Air India nowadays, since the government
has left them with no choice but to travel by the national airline.”
I said, “But, What will you strike for? How do you know that you
will have a reason to strike during the school holidays? Isn't that
being over optimistic”? </div>
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He was silent for a while. He sounded surprised. “ Are you serious, Who is
worrying about a valid reason to strike. This is the problem with you
people working in these big MNC's today. You have forgotten the
basics of work life. Remember the good old trade union days, when our
father's used to have regular strikes, lockouts and we would all go on
picnics. We are only reinventing the wheel. We just make an issue of
nothing, go on strike, and then negotiate with the government for returning to work after our vacation. So this way, everybody benefits.
The management do not have to worry about their flight plans. The
Pilots need not fight amongst themselves for leave and can enjoy
their vacations which also helps in building team spirit. The air
hostesses get time to undergo botox treatments or check in at any
ayurvedic treatment centre to treat their ageing knees. The
government servant, can for a change, fly onboard private airlines
and enjoy their excellent service. The media can fill their prime
time slots with inane debates and increase their TRP's. The government also at the end can take the
credit for talking tough and solving the crisis. And we all live
happily ever after, till the next vacation!”</div>
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</div>Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-22147074822803757582012-06-05T23:32:00.001-07:002012-06-05T23:57:26.172-07:00The Unreliable Narrator<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">(This was part of a Write Club exercise, which i found quite interesting. The brief for the exercise is appended at the end of the story)</span></div>
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Arun pleaded with me to accompany him
to the boss's chamber. He was nervous and now when he
confessed to his crime, there was nobody else whom he would want to
be with him, than his best friend. We had grown up together, been to
the same college and even managed to land jobs in the same company.
He still could not come to terms with his unreasonable transgression
and had thanked me profusely for consenting to accompany him. He
knew the worth of the painting that hung on the wall behind the large
ornate desk and the plush leather recliner in the boss's chamber. He was also aware of the
pride of place it held in the heart of Sujoy our temperamental boss, who was gifted
the M F Hussain, by the legendary artist himself, during the award
ceremony for the most enterprising entrepreneur of the year. It was
a regular sight to see him stand and stare at the painting with his
head held high as if to draw inspiration, and then turn around to the cowering subordinates
lined up in front of his desk for the daily harangue, on how unworthy
they were, and extolling his own patience and generosity in tolerating
such incompetence that surrounded him.</div>
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But then, Arun felt Sujoy shouldn’t
have admonished atleast him, the topper of the most
prestigious management institute in the country, who was handpicked
for this job and who was now in line to head the most crucial new business department of the firm. It was humiliating to take the full blame in
such language, when his full team who looked upto him for advice, was
standing along with him, and that too, for a mistake that was
commonplace in the investment sector. He had, after all, helped the company in reaping the windfall profits in the last financial year, and all these cowards, the partners, who now smirked along with the boss had enjoyed the fat bonuses that accrued from his contribution.</div>
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Arun wanted to drown his embarrassment in the depths of his favourite whiskey, and when he beseeched me to join him for the drink in his cabin after work, I couldn't refuse. We sat down at 6 after everybody had left, with the Black Label which Raju,the peon, our Man-Friday had smuggled in, with the pizza boxes. I could see that Arun was emotionally strung and had started viciously bad mouthing Sujoy by the end of his fourth peg. I could also see that he was smarting under the humiliation and desperately wanted to get even. I had reminded him that he was due for his promotion as Vice President in a few days, and that he should not even contemplate doing anything stupid that would put his promotion and career in jeopardy. He had asked me what would hurt Sujoy the most, which would compensate the hurt he had felt in the morning, as i poured him his fifth large peg. The only thing that had come to my mind which Sujoy valued the most and which was within our reach at that moment was the painting. I had seen the evil glint in Arun's eye when i told him this, and heard him muttering "Thats it, I wont let him have this pleasure anymore" . He finished his fifth peg, and then had asked me to pour him a large one on the rocks. He was slurring and incoherent. He downed the sixth peg, neat, in one gulp, had looked me in my eye and said, 'I am going to destroy his most prized possession". Before i could say anything, he had got up, and staggered towards the boss's chamber.</div>
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Sujoy stared at us, but words failed to escape his frothing mouth. Arun had confessed and had told him he was willing to bear the consequences. Seething with rage, Sujoy barely managed to say "You are fired, now get out. I dont want to see you in this office anymore". As we turned to leave, Sujoy gestured me to stay back. I patted Arun on his back and whispered that i will join him outside, as soon as i finished with Sujoy, and help him with packing his belongings. After Arun had left the room, Sujoy shook his head, looked at me and asked "Why did he do it? And the timing? I was planning to give him the good news today, that he had been promoted to vice president, and he had to spoil it". I kept silent. He continued, "Anyway, work has to go on, and this new business cant afford any delays. And right now, the only person, who can fill in this new position of Vice President for this business is you. I want to you to start immediately and give me a presentation by the end of the day on the current status". I shook his hand, smiled a thanks and walked out.</div>
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Arun was waiting by his table for me. He had already packed his things and was ready to move. I walked silently with him to the front door and hugged him. I could see the tears in his eyes. I could not bring myself to tell him, that I had been promoted in his place, and the position for which he had worked so hard was now mine. I could not tell him how i had secretly envied him for his brilliance and had always wished that i had his talents. I could not tell him that I had always desired the popularity he enjoyed, the power he wielded, and the attention he garnered. I could not tell him, that though he was my best friend, how i wished that we had not joined the same company after college, where i would be constantly compared with him. </div>
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I would also never have the courage to tell him, that he had stumbled and blacked out in the corridor just outside his cabin that evening, when he staggered out with the intention of vandalizing the painting.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">(The theme of this exercise at the Write Club, was "The Unreliable Narrator". The wikipedia entry is at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unreliable_narrator" style="text-align: left;">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unreliable_narrator</a>. In this style of narration, the author carries his reader along with him, gaining his trust in his narrative and finally breaks that trust. He makes him believe the narrator, only to discover in the end that he had been deceived. So the exercise was to write a short story as an unreliable narrator and this was my submission. The time allotted was 20 minutes.)</span></div>
</div>Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-37192608352660442562012-05-24T22:04:00.001-07:002012-06-07T06:48:21.899-07:00Petrol Carticide - A societal menace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I wish i too had a diesel car like the next door IT guy. Every day, i would watch my neighbour, religiously bathe it in the morning, and towel dry till it sparkles, and its metallic armour reflects the glint of envy from my prying eye. All those who own a petrol car can understand this angst, we the unfortunate feel, who have been selected by the almighty to bear the burden in this life for the sins committed in their past lives. The discrimination is embedded in our society, and the bias deep rooted, where a diesel car owner struts about displaying his prize, while the petrol car owner, walks with his head hung low in shame and his shoulders drooping with the burden of a lifetime. The petrol car owner faces a life of humiliation and is an outcast within their home and community. He has to face the nagging at home for the monumental blunder committed after a carefully researched analysis and the condescending pats from his friends, on his back with a reassurance that 'God only selects the most brave to bear his heaviest burden'. </div>
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The social fabric has also disintegrated. The cases of Petrol Carticide is now rampant in the society, with the law cracking its whip on the losers who could no longer take the burden and had taken the easy way out of their misery by taking their car to the crusher and watching the painful destruction. There were some, according to unconfirmed reports, who couldnt even manage a decent crusher and had gone to a deserted field in a nearby village, doused their painful possession with diesel (oh, how cruel can that be!) and put a match to it. </div>
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This is atrocious. We have to educate our society of this evil, and create awareness, that taking the easy way out is not the only option. A petrol car should not be considered as a burden and is in no way inferior to the diesel car. Whatever a diesel car can do, the petrol car can do and sometimes even better. We could explore alternate ways to ease the burden, like, asking the illegal immigrants from Bangladesh to carry petrol from their country whenever they sneak in, where it is available at a measly 43.50 per litre. We could even marry them into our households wherein you can demand it as a right. We could then sponsor their distant and not so distant relatives and hide them in our various cellars, thereby increasing our quota. A new organisation has also come up called 'Save the Petrol Car'' which is now doing yeoman service in creating this awareness. Amir Khan has recorded the latest episode of Satyameva Jayate, which talks about the travails of a petrol car owner, and will prod the government to enact a law to provide 30 percent reservation to petrol car owners not only in government jobs but also in the private sector (for the first time in independent India). He will appeal on his programme to the viewers to sign the letter and send it to their respective MLA's. This will then be passed in the next Parliament session. </div>
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I have already put in my papers in my current job!!<br />
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</div>Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-66135753924109624262012-05-23T23:09:00.003-07:002012-06-05T23:48:40.436-07:00Butt Seriously!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYQ7VtPwLVoxGrkXHi4gPQ1X8U40DxI02Itx6-KwdxtrUY1zOf8nbIQcxkE2soF7Y_7ziyX9r_rxF0GSj1CsorMezq1mzkXGlEMbThtAkg90wH5eQ8O-SAC3W28WFSUNqO_esHu5cp9U/s1600/ashtray2shrunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYQ7VtPwLVoxGrkXHi4gPQ1X8U40DxI02Itx6-KwdxtrUY1zOf8nbIQcxkE2soF7Y_7ziyX9r_rxF0GSj1CsorMezq1mzkXGlEMbThtAkg90wH5eQ8O-SAC3W28WFSUNqO_esHu5cp9U/s320/ashtray2shrunk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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While I celebrated my sequel, created to tide over my bouts of intransigence, by visiting the nearest Ganesh mandir and breaking a coconut (gathering the pieces carefully later), the UPA decided to celebrate the anniversary of their sequel by having a 'Dine and Dias' show (they decided against a sound and light show due to austerity measures). So I had the opportunity to watch the glee on Arnab's face while Navika was incessantly driveling on the position of Mulayam's Butt at various time lines during the show (a la the new profile page of Facebook). She screamed into the camera, that at the beginning it was next to Chidambaram, and then voila, during dinner it was next to Sonia! (I happened to catch Arnab just managing to sit back after he had fallen of his chair in excitement, when the camera panned onto him)</div>
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Now, I must confess, that though I am not an intellectual, who being a song writer or sports journalist, could come on Arnabs show and comment on multifarious subjects ranging from the new BPL benchmark to India's preparedness of the nuclear triad as a deterrant, I do understand the importance of Tashreef Rakhiye in Lucknow parlance. But what i failed to understand was that, how the tashreef, which Mulayam had so graciously brought from Lucknow, was a matter of national importance and interest, and how its position in the national capital during an event, which the whole nation was following with bated breath would decide the fate of this great nation.</div>
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I was then enlightened by the intellectuals on the panel, that this tashreef assumed great significance as it was carefully positioned as a countermeasure to a bong who had gone bonkers (now i thought bongs dont have to go bonkers, they are just manufactured that way, but that is another story). I was also informed by this elite panel that it even had the powers to decide the next President of India! </div>
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(Now this reminded me of an old joke, where the different parts of the body argued as to who should be the Boss. The brain said that since he controlled the entire operations, he should be the boss. The heart said that since he ensured regular supply of blood to the brain, he should be the boss. The stomach said that since he provided the energy for both the earlier contestants to perform he should be the boss. The lungs argued that since they are the ones who decided whether the entity should be alive, they should be Boss. The asshole wanted to contest, but then the others laughed at him so much that he felt offended and decided not to function any more. In no time, the stomach couldn't do his job, the brain got clogged, the heart felt weak and the lungs found the going difficult. So they all decided to let the asshole decide the future course of action and anointed him as the Boss.)<br />
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So we now have a Tashreef who will decide the Head of this poor Nation!!!!</div>
</div>Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6310083117523243879.post-4382618910345136162012-05-22T23:29:00.000-07:002012-06-05T23:43:36.574-07:00UPA II :Three Years of Kitsch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The UPA anniversary celebrations has provided us with an interesting insight. A peek at a partner change. A whiff of displaced loyalties. I thought Ekta Kapoor had a copyright to this plot. A meaningless charade that never ends with an overdose of overt and covert flings, surreptitiously changing partners, dalliances with the villain who would then support the heroine to seek revenge on her boyfriend, blackmail.....all woven together by a "K"! She would call it KKKahani UPA II ki. How do i know all this? Aha, you see, when i have been raving to my friends how i enjoyed watching the recordings of the ULFA cup or the Ryder cup, I was secretly watching prime time Ekta ( Now this would be a scandal if it comes out and so i would appreciate if you could keep it a secret)</div>
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Let me now see what we have in common. I am doing this as a favour to Ekta, so that she can use this carefully researched data to sue UPA II for stealing her ideas. (and maybe offer me a role in her next project)</div>
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<li style="text-align: justify;">An elderly head of the family who hardly gets to speak and when he speaks nobody listens, for the house is controlled by the all powerful Saas.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">A daughter-in-law who has found refuge in the house after her father had been thrown out for criticizing the saas of the house. She is now torn between the love for her sasural and devotion to her father who desperately needs the support of the Saas for becoming the headman of the village.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">An educated 'Swami' who is the villain, who keeps digging up dirt on all the past affairs of the household and then publicly releases them making falooda of the khandaan ki izzat.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"> A revenge of the spurned loyalist who had faithfully amassed wealth for his masters and is then unceremoniously thrown out of the House.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">A social crusader and an idealist with a band of young followers, who tries to put some sense into the family by encouraging them to mend their evil ways and follow khandaan ki maryaada.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">A couple of loud mouthed, arrogant and vocally polluting damaads who berate all and sundry, who would dare question the Khandaan. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">A total stranger knocking on the doors one fine day and claiming that one of the grand old chachas is actually his father and the patriarch refusing to prove his paternity claiming it as a plot to usurp the khandaans wealth. </li>
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I think that these similarities are enough for Ekta to claim intellectual (!!!) property rights. Chetan Bhagat had done it with far less for Three Idiots!<br />
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</div>Ramshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14665475737048839004noreply@blogger.com0