Last Post

I am saying good-bye to blogging. I won't be posting any new stuff here anymore. Just wanted to say thanks to everyone who visited, read and commented here. Wish you all a great life and many more years of blogging.

Bye!

Readings

I have been reading and writing a lot these days. From "Functional Specs" to "Tech Specs"... From flowcharts to algorithms... From "Business" communications to "Technical" understandings... From one form of English to another form... From words to symbols... From symbols to words... From English to something that only a Computer or a nerdy looking (mostly bespectacled) person can understand...

 But, that's not what I want to talk about in this post. What I want to talk about are a couple of books I managed to read and admire during the aforementioned activities. 

 Both the books are written by the same author (Rohinton Mistry) and are wound around Parsi characters. While "Tales from Firozsha Baag" (1987) is a collection of intersecting short stories, "A Fine Balance" (1995) is a novel. Though they are all separate stories in "Tales..." but they all mostly relate to the residents of a Parsi locality in Mumbai. The book details the lives and times of these set of people with great compassion and in an amusingly touching way. It sometimes brought a smile, sometimes a frown and sometimes a deep sense of pity on my face. It gives a good insight into lives of middle class Parsi community (which is considered to be the richest community in India). The lives of young boys, old moms & dads, uncles & aunts, relatives and servants is so beautifully captured that you almost feel attached to them in one way or other. Anyone who wants to read a good Indian fiction, shouldn’t miss this book.

 "A Fine Balance" is a story of how "Emergency" affected the lives of four people in India. The corrupt government and the insensitive public sector & government officials of the country in those days are depicted in the most subtle ways. The then prevalent caste system and the helplessness of a common man are detailed so vividly that it brings tears to your eyes. The book is too depressing, especially the later part in which the author has gone too far to irreversibly sadden the lives of characters and readers. Before this happens, however, the book is actually quite promising. If you sometimes feel you are not leading a quality life, not having a decent job, not owning a comfortable home, not possessing any luxuries then this book is for you. It will bring you face-to-face with some of the poorest people and their miserable lives; it will make you recalculate the difference between luxury and comfort, requirements and necessities, hunger and starvation, life and death.

 Did I say "requirements"? That reminds me that I have to go through one more "Business Requirements Document" and no points for guessing what it's gonna be like. Life is tooooo... well good :)

Slow Melodious and Soulful Songs

Destination Infinity tagged me to list down at least 10 slow melodious and soulful songs. I pretty much wanted to post about some of my favorite songs from quite some time, so this was a welcome tag. So, here goes my list:

1. Khamosh Raat from the movie Thakshak - This song creates an amazing tranquility and stillness in me. Watch it on YouTube

2. Bandhane Lagi from the movie Naach - The video of this song is unexpectedly & unnecessarily too hot, so, just to focus on music Listen it here

3. Barfaan from The Blue Umbrella - A melodious song composed by Vishal Bhardwaj and sung by Sukhwinder Singh. Every time I listen to it, it takes me to far-off snow-peaked mountains. Listen it here.

4. Tu Bin Bataye from Rang De Basanti - A R Rahman's magic can't be put into words. Watch it on YouTube

5. Dholna from Thakshak - A lovely Punjabi song. I love the use of flute in this song and Sukhwinder Singh's voice is just superb. Brilliant composition by A R Rahman. Listen it here.

6. Beloved by Anoushka Shankar - This one's a spiritual, mystic and haunting song. Again the use of flute and bass guitar is wonderful. Play it on YouTube.

7. Piya Baawari By Abhijit Pohankar - It's a great fusion song recreating the longing of a lover in absolute perfect way. The video again is a little too glamorous, for commercial reasons, probably. Watch it on YouTube.

8. Dil Mera Ektara from 16 December - A simple song capturing the intricacies of love and longing. Watch it on YouTube.

9. Ek Wo Din Bhi Thhey - The absent-mindedness and the nostalgia of a confused mind is captured beautifully in this song. The music is by Vishal Bhardwaj and penned by Gulzar, the intoxicating voice is of Rekha Bhardwaj. Watch it on YouTube. This is not the original video, though.

10. Jane Kya Chahe Mann from Pyar ke Side Effects - It's a brilliant composition - great lyrics, melodious vocals and the overall blue mood that it creates is just undefinable. Watch it on YouTube.

Hope you enjoyed the songs.

Update: I forgot to tag people. Here I go:

1. Alok

2. Vagabond

3. Rolling

4. Rakhi

5. Vikas Madan

6. Renu

7. Vishius

Some Weird Things About Me...

So, I am tagged by Vagabond (and I hate her for this), to tell you 8 weird things about me. Not a motivating thing to do, I swear. It's difficult to first know and then accept the weirdness one has within.

I think I am a plain vanilla guy, very average in all aspects. Pretty boring and pretty normal. Finding out 8 weird things in my character is like searching things of appreciation in Ram Gopal Verma ki Aag.

I don't promise 8, but, let me try and jot down as many as I could, so here I go:

1. I don't use nail-cutters to cut my nails. No, I don't use my teeth for this, I use my other nails instead.

2. I am afraid of using the pressure cooker, everytime it buzzes I just walk-away and hide somewhere as I feel its gonna burst.

3. I hate when people whisper, I find the sound too disgusting.

4. Lot of guys of my age consider it weird, so I am jotting down this - I don't drink, or smoke or do any drugs.

5. I feel sleepy after drinking coffee or tea.

6. I hate tagging people, so whoever wants to take this tag, please feel free to do so.

Well, I almost made it!

Vikas

It was a lovely winter morning. The festival of colors - Holi - was fast approaching. It would be my first Holi away from my family and due to all the nostalgia of festive spirit I was feeling very home-sick. The atmosphere in the city was gleeful but my mood was somber. My exams were near and I was quite short of preparations. I was studying day and night but was still quite unsure if I would pass the exams.

Because of studying all through the previous night, I was feeling very sleepy. Expecting that things would be better after I take some rest, I fell on my bed and slipped to slumber almost instantaneously. Through out the sleep, I had strange dreams, full of my friends and family. When I woke up, after 3 hours or so, my condition was even worse. I was feeling lousier and a lot more home-sick. In an instant I decided to end it all by going to my home town and study there till exams. I packed my bag with a few clothes but with all my course books and left for home without telling anyone.

It was already 4 PM and as such it was only 3 hours journey by bus, so was hopeful of reaching home by 7 PM. I was already feeling better after boarding the bus. Suspended in my own thoughts I soon fell asleep, only to be awaked by loud noises which appeared to be some sort of quarrel. I found that the bus was standing still on the middle of nowhere and all the passengers were on the road, gathered around the bus driver and conductor. On enquiring I came to know that the bus won't go ahead because it had a flat tyre and the driver hadn't bothered to carry a spare one for such a short journey. The fellow passengers were fighting to get the refund of the journey fair. I checked my watch, it was 6:15 PM, and it was strange that it was already quite dark. Before I could think anymore, I saw another bus for my city and got a paid lift in the passing vehicle. I reached my city bus-stand at about 8 PM. It was pitch-dark, probably due to the usual load-shedding, but what was peculiar was the eerie silence on the streets. It was never so quiet in that part of the town at that hour. Or was my watch moving too slow? There were very few people around and I tried asking time to a couple of them, but no one seemed to notice. The bag I was carrying was heavy and to reach home I needed to walk for at least 10 minutes. I tried hard to get an auto-rickshaw but there was none. As there was no other option, I started walking towards my home in the darkness. I didn't saw a single soul all through my walk. It was compelling to believe that my watch also slept just like me on the bus and thus was showing wrong time. As soon as I entered my colony, I was pleasantly surprised to see light on the street. On moving forward, I found kids playing and people chatting casually. It restored my faith in my watch and I walked on. My smile growing gradually as I walked each step, I waved "hellos" to the acquaintances and touched the hair of a small kid passing by.

Just before my house, I saw Vikas standing with his "Hero Ranger" bicycle. Vikas was my best friend and of all the things I missed about my hometown, Vikas was the most. We hadn't seen each other for 4-5 months, hadn't talked either. We smiled, laughed, shouted, greeted and hugged each other. He told me that he was going in a fair in a near by village on his bicycle and invited me to join him in another 10 minutes or so. I pulled my luggage and told him to wait for me.

Mummy opened the door and was almost shocked to see me on the door. Same was Papa's state. I could already see their effort to frame a dozen questions about my unexpected arrival, and to avoid that taking advantage of the situation, I casually informed my parents that I am going out with Vikas and will be back shortly. Before they could comprehend the whole situation and speak anything, I already sat on Vikas' bicycle and waved "bye-bye" to them.

Vikas and I had a lot to catch up. We had a million things to tell each other and a billion things to ask. And before it all starts, Vikas quickly informed me that it's a 30 minutes ride and he is going to ride the cycle to the fair, but, I would have to ride it on our way back. I agreed and we flew off. Time passed so fast while we talked about all that happened in the last few months that we reached the fair in a jiffy.

We were greeted by a group of villagers who were rubbing gulaal on people's forehead. They were quite happy to see us and in their enthusiasm rubbed the gulaal all over our faces. We thanked them and started exploring the fair. It was a crowded place with scores of small shacks in parallel lines. There were talking-robots, merry-go-rounds, a miniature circus, a toy train, some animal shows, food stalls and all the hustle bustle of a typical Indian fair. The shacks were selling home made toys, domestic use articles, electric goods, music cassettes, inexpensive cameras and what not. We ate the spicy paani-puris and the super crispy pakode. After enjoying the fair for about 2 hours, we decided to go back. Vikas handed the cycle keys to me and sat on the pillion.

I started riding the bicycle. Vikas had maintained his cycle really well. It was a pleasure to pedal it fast and it took to speed within no time. We chatted for some time and then all of a sudden I realized that I am the only person talking. I asked Vikas why is he so silent, but there was no reply. I asked him again, this time little louder, but again didn't get any reply. I turned back and was petrified to see that there was no one on the pillion. After a moment, I decided that Vikas must have slept and fallen, so I did a U-turn and started riding slowly towards the fair. The only light on the road was coming from the far away Moon. I rode back till the fair, but there was no sign of Vikas. I rode back and forth a couple of times, but couldn't find him. It was horrible, how could he just disappear? Even if he fell down, how was it that I didn’t heard him fall? Or he had not fallen at all but had deliberately left the seat cautiously? Was he again playing some sort of prank on me? Oh yeah, that seemed quite possible. He always did such things. Feeling stupid and angered by this I thought of teaching him a lesson. I decided not to look for him anymore and ride straight-away to home, without stopping even if he appears mid-way. He would then need to walk-back and only then he would stop doing such non-sense things. So, I rode back in the fastest possible speed and reached home within a few minutes. All through the ride, there was no light on the road. I didn’t see a single soul and needless to say Vikas was no-where to be seen. My heart sank when I thought what if he was not playing any prank at all? I had no strength left to ponder over it anymore. I parked his cycle at the steps of his house and silently left for mine. I just wanted to go to bed and wanted to find everything ok the next day.

I pressed the door bell of my house at least four times when my mother sleepily opened the door. She was frightened for a second but then realized that it was her son’s face behind all that gulaal.

“Hmmm, already played Holi”.
“Ummm…”
“Which bus comes to the city at such a late hour? You should have at least called us before leaving. You had your dinner?”
“Yes, yes had it with Vikas in the fair.”
“Vikas? Fair? Seems like you are quite tired. Wash your self. Change and then go to sleep. We will talk in the morning. OK?” I thought she was still in her sleep and had certainly forgotten about my surprise arrival in the evening.

Next morning, as soon as I woke up, I started for Vikas’ house to know about the state of things, only to be confronted by my mother at the door.

“Where are you going?” my mother enquired.
“Oh, umm, I want to go and see Vikas”
“What is this Vikas-thing; you said that last night also that you had dinner with him and all. Are you in your senses? Don’t you know his father got retired and they moved back to their home town 2 months ago?”
“But, he didn’t say it yesterday at the fair.”
“Which fair?”
“Arrey! Don’t you remember, I came in the evening and then immediately left for the fair on his bicycle?”
“What evening? You came at 2 O’ clock in the night.”
“That was after returning from the fair. Don’t you remember I was having gulaal all over my face? The villagers had applied it on mine and Vikas’ face while entering the fair. Tell me where it came from.”
“I am not getting anything. Let me call your father.”

I tried explaining everything to Papa – the sequence of events, the fair, and the disappearance of Vikas. He listened patiently and on my insistence enquired with the neighbors but found that Vikas or his family hasn’t come back once since they left. He enquired about any ongoing fairs near by and found that there’s no such fair organized any where near our city.

I was shocked and shattered. I ran towards Vikas’ house. A chill ran down my spine when I found a big lock on the front gate. There was no bicycle on the steps.

Papa further enquired and found that there were no late night bus services in operation for our town.

Innocent Times

Those were different times. Very different. Simpler times. Much simpler than these words can ever become. Except the family members, everyone I knew or could talk to was either an uncle or aunty or a dost. There names - often not important. Surnames - mostly useless. My own surname's only use was for writing it on the name-chits of my school notebooks.

School was the place that I loved and hated. Loved for my friends - my dosts. Hated because I had to get up in the morning just for going to school. Mummy would try to wake me and didi for the tenth time. But, she also knew that we would only get up when Papa would moan. With a mouthful of tobacco, Papa would be lying beside us, continously shaking his legs, engrossed completely in reading the newspaper. He would just slightly grumble when the time is right and we would spring to action.

Mukesh bhaiya would pick me and didi up to school and would drop us home on his bicycle for 5 rupees a month. His cycle was a black, full-sized, gent's bicycle. I and didi would constantly fight as to whose turn was it to sit on the front rod. It was hardly a 10 minutes ride. We would normally reach the school about 30 minutes earlier than the "first bell". All the tempos and tangas would have reached by then. Didi would then disappear in her own group, while, me and my dosts would play football with a stone piece on the cemented basket-ball court for half an hour or so. As a result of the game, by the time I would reach my classroom, all the efforts of Mummy of dressing me and combing me for the school had gone in vain. I had no idea how Mummy used to tuck-in my shirt inside my shorts, or how she combed my difficult hair. So I would desperately search didi. I would run up to her and she would know, without exchanging a word, what to do.

During the recess, I would munch and swallow big pieces of my tiffin-food as fast as possible, so that I could get the maximum time for playing. Mummy had stopped giving me achaar (pickle) because in all the hurry of finishing the food fast, I had often dirtied my shirt with the achaar oil.

At the stroke of the "last bell" all kids would stand up and join their hands and scream loudly the "Thank you" prayer. After the prayer, all hell would break loose. Kids would run out of the classrooms in the most wildly way. The teachers would shout and scream but that would stop no one. Others would go and sit in their tempos and tangas, while I and didi would find each other in spite of all the commotion and would run to Mukesh bhaiya and would start fighting for a seat on the front rod of the bicycle.

Business As Usual...

There was no reason... no intention... no insistence... to stop blogging... or was there any...? I don't really know, how it happened... but it happened & happened quite suddenly and completely... It seems such a long time that I feel forgetful. Frankly, it seems like many years have passed, when in reality it's not more than six months...

It seems like such a big time, because so many things changed in so little time... So many lives changed so fast... My life too... I was working for 'The' investment bank which collapsed in Mid-September... the place where I spent such a long time, the place where I found such good friends, the place where I learnt so many lessons of my life, was gone... gone forever over a weekend... Being in the midst of all that chaos, something really changed in me forever... But, did that stopped me from writing? Probably not, as I had all the time in world, and all the material to fill post-after-post-after-post of this blog...

Soon after, I got another job. And that job brought me to Singapore. A new job, a new country, a new environment, a whole new experience, and my new pair of eyes... While, I was busy adjusting myself for the new lights and sounds, I wasn't too busy to write a post for the life of my dieing blog...

Meanwhile there were bomb-blasts here and there, and the fierce gun battles and blood-bath in Mumbai hotels, which enervated every thoughtful soul... All this had presented enough opportunities to use all of my vocabulary of expletives to cuss out those who may or may not have deserved it... At the very least, I could have posted a deeply melancholic tribute to those who lost their lives... But, nothing came out...

I was certain, no body will notice... dead sure no one will care... It was a disappointing thought, but it was promising... And, then, one fine day, I noticed this post from Vagabond. She noticed. I don't know what, but I am certain that after reading her post something changed in me forever. It seems, I got one more reason to blog... or rather a reason not to stop blogging... I want to write and I will write to say things that mattered and to say that didn't... because I know someone is reading!

Why this blog?

When I started this blog, I knew it would not be bearing my real name. I knew this blog would be my medium to express those innumerable emotions that I am afraid to accept publicly as my own, to put forth the infinite questions that I would never be able to ask anyone, to write all those myriad things that I firmly believe in but with my real name would never dare to write, to blurt out the countless thoughts and feelings that can not be classified sane, to ridicule the world as if I am not a part of it, to tell the world this is how I am without telling who I am.

Is it because I am a timid, cowardly person? Or because I don't want to expose myself to everyone? Or a mix of both? To be honest, I took the covers of anonymity so that when I write, I just focus on my writing and not on giving explanations to anyone about why I wrote this or that. So that, not any Tom, Dick or Harry may come and look in my eyes, as if knowing all my secrets, and then ask unpleasant, uncomfortable questions. So that, I could freely exhibit my virtues as well as my vices without any judgemental blackmails. And most importantly, so that, if I fail, the world doesn't come to know that I failed myself, as a writer, too...

Remembering A Long Lost Friend...

Dinesh was a cobbler's son. In fact, the cobbler's only son. His father's small shack was near the zoo of the town. Earlier his father had no shack. He used to sit under an umbrella on the roadside. There, he used to mend shoes, chappals and polish them for a livelihood. Times changed and they got this shack by the government on the basis of their caste. And he started making shoes, chappals and other footwear in this shack. I never bought any footwear from his father, in fact, I never went to the shanty, not even that day. I watched from a distance. There was always a distance.

Dinesh was a lean, brown boy and looked taller than other boys of his age. He had thin brownish hair on the head of his almost circular face. In winters, his cheeks wore mottled brown spots indicating pigmentation due to sitting in sunlight and dust for long hours. He studied with me in my school - town's best school. His father's meagre income must have been insufficient to pay for the school fees, uniform, books, and other essentials of a good school, but thanks to his caste, he used to get a fee waiver and some scholarship from town's collector to fulfill his educational requirements.

Dinesh was a very bright kid in the primary school and used to top his class - our class. He was the quickest in our class in solving maths problems. He was a gifted painter. His sketches looked so alive even to my 10-year-old eyes. We became friends quickly. We played football and cricket together. Whatever little poverty I'd seen in those days, was through Dinesh. His torn, stitched and restitched clothes, his "Control" notebooks, his "mini" meals, his faded "micro-mini" pants, his wiry built used to leave me depressed and speechless. Through Dinesh, I learned about the social and economic disparity among people. But during that time, I never felt that he got affected at all with any of these. He never looked awkward while answering about his father's occupation and never looked embarrassed while saying no to a picnic contribution.

But, in the middle school, things changed drastically. Everyone started feeling the sinking of Dinesh. He mostly stayed quiet and dull. His grades began to fall and so was his attendance to school. He would live alone in his own world and would never open up to anyone. He stopped playing all games with me. Whenever I asked "what's wrong", he would always say "nothing". The differences began to fall in place. His eyes suddenly started looking different to me. They didn't remain those of a friend, they looked like those of a stranger, a known stranger. His voice started sounding more conscious of his conditions - his poverty - it became weak, feeble and gradually silenced. It became difficult to make him talk. He would only respond by nodding or humming. There were no sentences, mostly nods or hmmmms or some monosyllables.

One day he gave me a sketch on crumpled piece of paper. What a beautiful sketch it was! I still remember each and every details. The sketch was of a young boy - a footballer. The boy was wearing a torn t-shirt and a wrinkled short. He wore no socks but a dirty set of shoes. He was slightly leaning forward so that his left palm lie rested on his slightly raised left knee. There was a football beneath his left leg. The boy was smiling - it was a victorious smile and it looked as if he had won the evening match. On the bottom right hand side of the paper, Dinesh had put his signature. I loved the sketch and it was with me for a long time.

Soon after, I moved to another city for higher studies. In the beginning, I used to meet Dinesh whenever I visited the town. And during those visits, he always looked leaner and weaker than the previous meeting. He would smile. It used to be the smile of a person in pain. He would talk, but only about me - my studies, my new friends, my experience in new city, but never about himself. I always wanted to know how he is progressing, but afraid of getting bad news, never really asked him. Gradually, with increasing study-load, the frequency of my visits to the town decreased and our meetings vanished. I lost contact with him. When I was in my college, I came to know that he got married. I was so happy for him.

One day, on a Paan shop near my college, I was chatting with my friends and was just skimming through the columns of an evening newspaper, when I read the news of his suicide. Dinesh hanged himself from his wife's Sari tied to the ceiling fan.

After many years, I went to the town. I went near the zoo to catch a glimpse of Dinesh's father, and saw him working in his small shanty. He had grown old over the years and was wearing thick framed glasses. I started moving towards the shack & felt a sudden lump in my throat moving upwards. I suddenly started feeling the pain this father had undergone while lighting his only son's funeral pyre. I felt how the whole world of hopes might have shattered in front of his old, ageing eyes when he had seen his dead son. And then, there must have been questions... Lots of questions... Being asked to him by his friends... by relatives... by police... and by himself. There must have been people around, who had given him solace... who had called it a God's wish... and had told him to be strong and to look after his son's widow, to look after the family.... And there must have been people, who had called Dinesh "a looser", "a quitter" in front of him or behind his back and how many deaths this old man had died while suffering all this. I feel, the last thing a father would want to hear about his son "a quitter", "a looser".

The whirlpool of my thoughts started choking me. I felt a strong urge to go and talk to him. To tell him, "Uncle, your son Dinesh, fought many matches with his destiny. He tried his best & he played fair, yet he failed to win. He fought all his life with his life. A life, which gave him nothing but misery and ridicule, which gave him failure wherever he desired success, which put him down every time he wanted to stand. But uncle, he is no looser, he is a warrior - a victor and he is standing slightly leaning forward so that his left palm is rested on his raised left knee. The whole Earth is beneath his left leg and he is smiling a victorious smile and despite loosing everything, we know he has won the final match with his life and has got rid of all the miseries & distress..."

Togetherness

People come in and go out of our lives.
But they existed before they came, and would continue to, after they are gone.
Till the time they meet us, their lives always went parallel to ours, and, it's those brief intersections which lead to togetherness.
And after that they occupy their own space, in the already overcrowded memory lanes.
They are remembered, and sometimes even missed, at some or the other juncture of our life.
But at times we crave for them. We go down our memory lanes, dig them up from there, behold them, talk to them, listen to them, plead to them to come back, but they are not there to listen to us.
They are already gone too far in their lives...