Claw, Crawl, Climb

For The ERO (Eternal Romantic Optimist), the choice is not difficult, its those everyday steps in the darkness that takes it toll. He knows what he wants, his destination never sways, he keeps the snippets of memory flashing across his vision, as he keeps looking for the next step. When all his friends shouts from the other side for him to step into the light, he smiles back. This is not the light he dreams of. His light is much brighter, yet calm. It doesn’t burn but nurtures your vision.

 

He remembers that smile and a faint hint of smile emerges at the corner of his lips, unnoticed by all; and he starts crawling ahead again. Just one prayer in mind, “God please keep her safe and happy till I reach!” He pauses only to gather few drops of life, stored deep inside his eternally optimistic heart.

 

People keeps laughing at him, looking at his improbable journey, they declare him a madman. They laugh at his decision. They laugh at the path he chose. They cant see the destination he keeps looking at. He knows he has made mistakes. He knows he has swayed away from his path. He knows coming back to his chosen path has become harder. Yet he knows that’s the only way forward.

 

“Double or Nothing !”

My opinion on “Your Opinion On: Good Deeds” – Paolo Cohelho’s Blog

My Grandmom used to say, when you give someone, your right hand should not know what your left has done. Essentially meaning, when you do good, dont remember that, or mention that to anyone, as it turns into boasting and that eventually defeats the idea of doing good.

 

Besides when you dont remember when you did the last good deed, you will always feel the urge to do it, as you feel you have not done enough.

 

On the opposite note, one act of kindness in the sea of inhumane actions… does it have any effect? Does a single rose plant in a huge garbage dump has any effect? Or do we need to clean the garbage first and plant the rose only after we have cleaned?

I always said, hope is good, expectations are not. Is it ok to hope (without expecting after every good deed!), that someday, all the good act done will be rewarded by someone somewhere? Will it be too late?

 

What if the deed you did with a good intention and hoping to benefit someone turns out to be something totaly unwanted by the person you did it to?

 

What will the "Warrior of Light" do if he keeps seeing that his good deeds are having no effect whatsoever? so much so that people have started telling him not to think of doing good to others? So many questions.. so less satisfactory answers!

BBRR is Back

Hi Folks!!

Its BBRR times once more. After deliberating and procrastinating for quite some times, finally I have put together the BBRR in a way I always wanted. Take some time out and have a look. And let those bouquets and brickbats rain freely.. waiting to see all of you there..

BBRRIndia

Buzz, Din and Blabber

 Why cant the things be simple anymore? Remember those days
of childhood, when you always looked forward to the days when all the cousins will come together. You play, you share, you quarrel and you reconcile again. So easy! When you are angry you could thrash all those bushes and shrubs with your wooden sword; or pierce the hapless banana tree trunk with all the arrows you have; spin the snakes by their tail, pick n throw the frogs at will and chase the shadow of cloud through the open fields.

 That buzz in the head, just cant keep it down. As soon as the commercials appear, it grows into a roar from the din. So many thoughts; but they remain just at that. The moment I thi8nk of putting them together – swoosh… thin air. Thought of jumping up to the keyboard and hit them as fast as I can to trap them before they pull up their Houdini act.

 Never thought I will catch up so many movies. Hmm .. can call it a true sabbatical. Only if I could junk the feeling that keeps nibbling and those uncontrollable showers. Last time I caught so many movies of my like
was after the higher secondary and before the college. In those two months, partnering with the tall guy, who was my best friend, (and am sure still is!) But they were not one tenth as many mush flick as I do now. Someone changed it, and vanished. But I keep watching them and keep feeding the din n buzz in the head.

There you go; the rain comes again. And I am not talking about the ongoing shower that’s indoors. Why is it this year, its raining so much? Or is it that I am seeing it more this time around? May be it always rained this way, and I never noticed? Or is it telling me that no matter what, some things will never change? Like my longing; like the fragrance I keep smelling behind my back, and the hand that kept clutching mine in the darkness
of night.

 

Whatever! So what I was saying? Why aint it that easy anymore? When you knew if your eyes were moist, sooner or later someone will come up, hug you and ask, and tell you that everything will be fine. That time, when you know, that if you miserably lost the match or got beaten up by the bully, or all the friends were angry on you and didn’t take you in their same, you can always run back to you mom, sink your head in that soft cotton sari covered lap, and cry your heart out. And nobody will scold you, no body shout back at you and explain you, show you the way out of the dark.

 

Ya ya, I know, I have been told enough times now, that I have not kept my side of the promises; SO I need to live this one out. So the green bottle with blue and white pills can only come out from the pocket to the hand, and no further. Whtaever may be the situation, I need to show, how strong men are supposed to be, and fight it out. SO what if it takes the entire life, fighting. Always be just there, but never actually. Good enough just to see it. And be told how envious I am, and not fit for anything and all that. But I still need to survive, may be just to show that, after all I did keep my side
of the words, and expected the same on the other side. Yeah that’s my fault, expectations, and hopes and dreams. Let kill some dreams tonight…

I do believe, I do – I do

 

Yes I do believe. I believe in fairies, I believe in Santa Clause, in Peter Pan, Elves, Prayers and all that gives hope. Sitting in this chair, watching the incessant rain outside my window, that’s my only hope. I want to belive that when it rains, someone, somewhere IS there who is feeling something good about me. Someone loves me. Anyone who is a believer can not be unloved.

 

I do not know the wrongs that I have done; I sincerely have never tried to deceive or bring any harm to anyone. Have always trusted my granny when she told me the stories of “madhusudan dada”, the little Krishna; I always believed that if I do good things, someday, might take some time, but still someday I will be rewarded. I know when I want to talk to her, she does listen. May be I am yet to learn her language to know what she tells me back, but she talks.

 

Its my only ray of hope; a light that can take me away from this little plastic bottle I hold in my hand; from the ever lasting darkness, the despair and the incessant impregnable wall of black all around. I do not
know how long I can, but I genuinely want to believe that there must be some hope. There must be some hope of my dreams. I sincerely want to believe that if I keep shouting – “I believe in fairies, I do, I do,” somewhere a fairy will live, and she will grant me my wish. Just one wish – that’s what I always wanted from god.

 

Yep, can do with a real warm, cozy, genuine hug! The nights have become really prickly and tricky. But I still desperately want to believe. Want to see the phoenix rise once more! Will it be able to d it this time…

Eclipse! and its marketing in India

So even the Reuters bungles and that too about such a big event!! The article in Reuters about yesterdays solar eclipse, and its coverage in IBN Live states the next solar eclipse on July 22, 2009. However the solar eclipse calendars in BBC and NASA states otherwise; as per these two the next solar eclipse in on Jan 26, 2009. The fact is that the next total solar eclipse is on July 22, 2009 and the one on Jan 26, 2009 is a Annular Eclipse.It was fun watching its pre-event coverage on the Hindi news channels. They have this amazing control on the language, by which they can state the same statement and sentence in 20 different ways, and one after the another; and when they get something as interesting as solar eclipse, they go on overdrive to cover how its going to effect our lives. Amazingly watching all those channels covering a scientific – astronomical event, makes one wonder if they live in 21st century or mid of 16th! They state everything except the facts. The trick is to captivate unsuspecting Indian audience, and as always the weapon is terror. Marketing the woes and suffering, rather than anything remotely related to positivity.

On that note, did anyone note the next date with the sun and moons I-spy game? Yep, its the republic day, 26th January 2009. SO I am sure all of them will be licking their paws in anticipation. They must be already preparing their bytes and copies, how bad its going to be for India. Also note that it will be an election year. Wow! double whammy! and icing on the cake? Its a Annular Solar Eclipse. Long live India! Long live Indian television!! and longer live Hindi News Channels in them!!

=====================================================================

On another note.. for all those who have written the obituary and engraved the tombstone of Horus.. the ERO can not die.. never ever. You can subdue, pin down or even make him buckle.. but Horus can not be killed. He lives and will live for his dream. Everyone dies, and I might die one day too – anyday (who knows about tomorrow? the crystal ball gazers has always gone wrong for me), but till then, its one battle after another. And the stakes are always – as ever -
“Double or Nothing”.

 

R.I.P.

As on today.. this space of some who claimed to be "Eternal Optimistic" gets lost in Space…

May be in some other space and time…
May be in some parallel world..
May be…
May be…

May 2008

Dreams of a Single Father!

61% of all child abuse is committed by biological mothers

25% of all child abuse is committed by natural fathers

Statistical Source: Current DHHS report on nationwide Child Abuse79.6% of custodial mothers receive a support award

29.9% of custodial fathers receive a support award

46.9% of non-custodial mothers totally default on support

26.9% of non-custodial fathers totally default on support

66.2% of single custodial mothers work less than full-time

10.2% of single custodial fathers work less than full-time

7.0% of single custodial mothers work more than 44 hours weekly

24.5% of single custodial fathers work more than 44 hours weekly

Statistical Source: Technical Analysis Paper No. 42 – U.S. Dept. of Health & Human Services – Office of Income Security Policy

44.5% of fathers with no visitation pay all the support due

37.9% of fathers are denied any visitation

66.0% of all support not paid by non-custodial fathers is due to inability to pay

Statistical Source: 1988 Census “Child Support and Alimony: 1989 Series P-60, No. 173 p. 6-7. and U.S. General Accounting Office Report” GAO/HRD-92-39FS January, 1992
40% of mothers reported that they had interfered with the father’s visitation to punish their ex-spouse.

–See “Frequency of Visitation….” by Stanford Braver, American Journal of Orthopsychiatry

The  data is from here

“Unmarried and just 33 years old, Sandip recently adopted Arjun, the first in the country to do so in almost a decade.
… Sandip had applied for the adoption with Bal Darshan four years ago.  “I did get frustrated at times,” he admits. “I had to answer weird queries like ‘why would a tall, good looking young man like me want to adopt a child?’ Or I would be asked to get letters from people who I had absolutely no association with. For instance, the builder who was bringing down our bungalow in Mumbai to construct a building,” recalls Sandip.”

Source
“In the country’s first case of a surrogate child conceived for a single father, a city-based infertility clinic handed over the infant to its proud parent in Kolkata Sunday evening.… “The pre-requisite for single parenthood through ART is marriage, which Banerjee fulfilled,” the doctor, who is a member of the national committee set up to frame guidelines for ART clinics in India, said.”

 

Source

Each of the report one comes across shows how much a male wants to be blessed with fatherhood. How much importance a father gives to the feeling of being with his kid, yet, its always the mother who is given prominence. I have always maintained that just because of the pain a mother felt, the child should always be grateful. Yet, isn’t a father equally giving and feel in his own way, the emotions attached with parenthood? Doesn’t he spend sleepless nights looking at his little angel? Doesn’t he toil those extra hours just to have those extra pennies for the future of his child? Doesn’t he go through the same, excitement, anxiety, pain and ecstasy that a mother feels? Why is the society then so much bent towards mother then?

So much so, that its so hard for a male to be a father, when he is bootstrapped? He is dependant upon the lady’s consent to bring his own offspring to earth. And if he cant have one biologically, and wants to adopt one – regulations galore; until he has a wife at home, or lives in a joint family or of a particular age, he can’t even adopt. And even if he somehow meets all the criteria, the point (j) of 1.1.10 from the regulations termed by CARA (Central Adoption Resource Agency), is a killer. By the way, that’s one of the “safeguards”. And it states – “Placement of girls with a single male is not allowed as also placement of children with same sex couples.” Poooof!! There goes the dream. A single father can never adopt a girl child!! Though a female can. And even if a male is a widower, he can! And there are examples galore that how caring those fathers are. Yet…

Well it doesn’t “term” any guideline for a single father who is divorced or separated, who knows, when a hapless one embarks on a journey, some over-enthusiastic “babu” (or “bibi” – it might be) might interpret some of the guidelines which asks him to hang from the cliff in one hand and take out money from his pocket and count it, to show that he is capable of becoming a father. And I am not even worrying about the remarks, expressions, and reactions he has to face. As if the separation was something that he has charted in his own terms and will. Why is it so difficult? Why is the society so much biased towards females? Even when it comes to the question of maintaining a relationship, till such time that the relationship exist but in doldrums, in some case the woman will be termed guilty and in others the man; but when it ends, it will always be the man’s fault. Why so much prejudice? Why so much predefined conceptions? Why can an individual be treated as an individual?

So you are free to give! Anything! Whether its your blood, eyes, other organs or hard earned money, you can give it to the society. But the moment a man asks for something in return, the society arms itself to its teeth. The males are the one who has to be strong, who needs to earn the bread, who has to be one of superlative moral character, who has to be caring, giving and forgiving, who needs to be loyal, and has to be understanding. Yet he is not someone who should be understood as an individual. On the other hand, the females are the enigma! They are the one who needs to be protected and ..  Each of the statistics collected shows what  men do, and contrary to the  popular and safe beliefs, yet, they are bound and gagged and labeled  for life.  Life alone is  a  real  tough alley my friend! Why cant a single male be allowed to dream and live his dreams?  

The Battle That Was

 

It was the fiercest battle ever. The battle of chaos and order; the battle of day and night; the battle of storm and sky; the war between Seth and Horus. They were related, or were they the part of the same duality? The evil and the good? The two sides of the same coin? Castor and Pollux? Whoever they were – the war didn’t spare anyone. All those were around were sucked into the vortex. All those wanted to remain on the horizon were fighting with their life to stay away. Even the gods were forced out of their abode to witness the war of odds.

 

Seth was powerful, knew the world and magic and Horus was just a child, learning to see the world, attracted by the light. It was a battle of deceit and just. It was a battle between the master of chaos and the pupil of hope. While the darkness rose and covered the world, the little kid sought help from even the tiniest of hope floating around. Tried to grab all that he knew to be his. Called for all those he thought to be beside him. The roar of the raging dark waves submerged his cries. The impregnable veil of confusion shielded the visions of his nearest one. And he lifted his fist in despair.

 

Red flames of cremation ground outlined the deep dark sea. The sky broke loose and was raining fire. The dry parched land was covered with poisonous crawlers. All the oasis has turned into bubbling muck of mud and grime. The cries of dying hearts were shredding the notes of pianist. The painter’s brush was only spewing red, brown and black. The shoulder bearer’s eyes told it all – he was all but lost. Child king knew, now is the time of death. May be one, may be all of them – will surely not see the glimpse of the days to come. They were midst of a battle of survival. The fight till death – the fight to live.

 

The battle was to create order after the chaos. The war subsided only to raise his head with renewed vigor. It raged and rotting smell of corpses kept filling the atmosphere. As it was destined may be, Horus won, killing Seth on the command of Isis. He drag the beheaded body of Seth on the dust filled path. Yet he lost his left eye, the eye of dreams. As the gods have decided, the evils of Seth were removed from the face of the world. Or is it? Isn’t that great snake lurking underground is the same Seth, preparing to strike again in time?

 

The dust was settling down; a bleak pale sun was trying hard to pierce the cover of the smokes. The wintry chill of the air was freezing the bubbling earth under the feet. And there was silence. Silence of death. Child King raised his head, using his palms to shield his eyes, he was searching for survivors. He couldn’t hear the notes of the pianist. He couldn’t find the colors of the Painter in the haze. The whiff of air brought a mild fragrance and he knew. He was searching among the ruins, looking for remnants that he knew so well. He found the brush of the painter. Held close to his chest, the painter was fighting the death. Picking him up he searched for others. There, behind the ruins of the broken piano lied the pianist with his fingers smashed. Further down he found the shoulders. Only the shoulders of the bearer, buried under the weight of fallen heads. He searched for his remain, and searched, without success. He picked it up. He knew the pianist might heal his fingers, which will dance on the reeds again. He knew the painter will collect the colors from the sky once the dust settles down. He also knew the fragrance has already told him that some still wants to rest her head. Now the shoulders will support again; but not as the shoulder bearer. The shoulders will wait for the fragrance to get spread someday, anyday. The dust will settle down; the sun will shine again. The clouds will cover the sky. The rain will soothe the battered earth. Butterflies will dance again, the garden will blossom in time. But the time wont be the same again. The battle looks to be over for now. He just waits for the fog to lift, for a new day, just beyond the horizon.

 

And Horus? He lost the eye with which he dream. His left eye was no more with him. The dreams and colors and hopes may not be seen again. The eye that absorbed energy will never open again. The eye buried in the sands of Sahara, will remain lost forever. He is the king, one who can perceive the time better without the conscious non-stop interference of the un-worldly visions of that left eye. He will be more righteous king, one who has no dreams, who cant dream. Who can only do the right, and strive to take on the reign of life.

 

 

 

 

Twists and Turns

 

When Newton came out with its theory of gravitation people
first didn’t believe; and then were mesmerized. So happened with Einstein’s
theory of relativity. Then the theories and mysteries of science kept on
coming. Weather it quantum mechanics, string theory or the now coming of age –
Chaos theory, all of them had the classical content to mesmerize people. Amaze
them and make them sit and think at awe. But they are still not the match.

 

Chemistry has its own set of puzzles. Materials reacting
with each other, some taking in energy, while some throwing them out with fury.
While some chemicals present you with most valuable of gifts, some others
simply corrodes them off. And we even use their corrosive power to our use. But
still can they match the reactions happening elsewhere?

 

Freud, Maslow, Pavlov, Adler and others kept on raking their
brain to get a glimpse of what is happening on most of the human (and not so
human) brains. Theories, and hypothesis kept flowing. People kept on debating and
discussing possibilities and realities. From dreams to conscious, sub-conscious
and unconscious all were dissected, and the followers kept on gazing
mesmerized. They still are – as still lot is left in this fathomless pit. Yet
it can only become a second best in terms of ability to amaze.

 

When I was thinking about it, I tried comparing it with a
game of 20-Twenty cricket. With all the twists and turns. Or should it be the
game of snakes and ladders; no – may be the giant wheel? When I tried to see
the maximum amount of twists and turns a game can offer – the Net suggested a
game from Hasbro – “Life twist and Turns”. Now these guys seems to have got a
whiff of actual things. Still it’s a game. And I am sure even the Holyfield –
Tyson match cant compare with it. Not a match between McEnroe and Byon Borg
either.

 

People keep saying its boring, and nothing much happens. Yet
writers and philosophers keep saying its more dramatic than any drama. And I
fully support it. At least my three decades tells me so. And I also strongly
believe nothing is more constant than the change. So many changes, so many
nooks and corners; so many blind lanes and blinding lights of traffic. How can
anything even dare to be compared with life in terms of twist and turns and
surprises? Some get baffled, most gets fatigued. Some leave the game half way
through, and a few keep playing. Its not the plot but the climax on the last
page that keep most going. And so do I. Sometime the events are so much close
to each other that they can hardly be distinguished from each other. Yet one
knows that the overlapping payers are part of unique experiences of life.

 

The only words that come to my mind are few borrowed one
from Robert Frost,

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

Heaps to get before I sleep

Heaps to give before I sleep

 

Miles to go before I sleep

Miles to go before I sleep…

So – Whats Up?

 

So what is happening? That’s a question I was being asked by people and in turn I was asking me. It looks its pretty much the same story that’s all around. So many things happening, pulling in all different directions that’s its difficult to state which direction its moving or what is actually happening.

 

In one side I am daily looking at Sensex gaining acceleration. The speed at which its scaling new heights is mind boggling. And people at every corner seems to be watching with wonder the progress of Indian economy. Sensex at 18000, India’s plan to achieve annual growth rate of 9% and foreign investments and forex reserve leapfrogging. Indian Rupee gaining steadily against the US Dollar. All seems pretty cool. Or is it? A closer look shows that the market movements are primarily because of FII money. Most of the money pumped in are by foreigners in the stock market. What happens if they pull out? What happens if there is a shift in economic policy or parameter change in their country? The Dollar and the Pounds flying back, the FIIs will certainly book their profits. And then? A magnanimous crash and Indian investors again getting the short side of the stick?

 

Well one may say, its not the Sensex which is the only parameter. Look at Indian economy. Hmmmm! A good point. So what’s happening there? Again lots of foreign investment. But in select sectors. So lots of companies are preferring other locations like China and even Malaysia and Philippines instead of us. The currency gaining ground, and the imports going strong. The Exporters, IT and BPO sector getting hit by rising Rupee, rising salaries, attrition and lack of trained manpower. The deficit in trade balance and budget bulging. Whoa!  We still lack the infrastructure and basic facilities. Government still in a tight spot in deciding whether to open up these sectors for foreign and private investment. The friends from the left tightening the noose, to stop it. And even the strategic problem of having private or even foreign companies owning basic infrastructure. A threat to security and sovereignty? We need to find a balance somewhere.

 

Balance! Ok – how do we find that? In the same way we are doing it for our food grain stock? At one side we are having more than 26 million tones of food grain, some of its rotting and getting devoured by rodents. On the other side we are either having none for the people living below poverty line or grains supplied by our “efficient” PDS system that has been procured from Australia. Australia was planning to sell it as animal fodder and it has been bought with high prices for our socially active government for the poor. Why can we use the grains in stock? Because firstly we need to maintain a buffer stock for rainy days. Secondly if that is let loose in the open market it will send the food grain prices crashing down – hurting the large stockers and big-rich farmers; amazingly – that may also drive the minimum procurement prices of the harvest that are about to come – and in turn hit the poor farmers too. So a big big game of economic balance. And even if we do let those grains to the poor – they cant just survive on grains. They need money to buy fuel to cook them and other food items to have a balanced nutrition. So we save our food stock, gift it to our neighbors and famine stricken African countries and buy additional stock from Australia.

 

Australia – the thunders from down under are booming once more. The Dhoni dhamaka, seems to be fizzling out already. The villain from Oz, Mr. Chappell is back as coach in India (not for the Indian team though!). The Indian mood is going to dumps again. And more and more Indians queuing up to emigrate to that country, whose government’s latest slogan is – “One for mom, one for dad and one for country!” No they are not asking to raise a toast, but to raise a kid. They are severely sort of population it seems. And I guess that’s the right thing we can export. We need to search more such countries and products that we can export with confidence.

 

Search! Just saw the advert on TV. Google and Airtel have done it before with the Eskimo stint; but this time they presented a full-length story in three minutes flat. Made all wonder what it is all about till the very end. That was fun. And so was the one from Idea. An idea can really change the world. No one using names but numbers – and eliminating the barriers and class divide. Hmm! That’s a food for thought! Well still watching a lot of adverts every now and then, but not being able to track them, or a having that feeling of deluge. Might be that I am missing some of them!

 

And that’s more or less what’s happening with me too. Worrying about my economy and future; trying to maintain a balance of physical and mental status; a bit of roller coaster moods; trying to find out a place and job to move on; and searching for life. Yep! Someone recently told me that I don’t have a life, so I should go and get it. Don’t know what is life that I don’t have or what exactly I should go and get. Well I tried to search it the way we do now a days. And google told me to get a 1994 album by Anders Edenroth. Tried to look for it around and found life teeming all around, but none of it is something I can get for myself. Tried to look inside and found that I am coming alive after a long long time. And looked at future and found  - “A Life for Me!” So moving on towards it. Amen!!

 

 

Passion and the Passionate…

  

Off late I keep on remembering about this friend of mine, a childhood friend, who still remains one because of a special characteristics he has. Most of us has at least one characteristics, that makes us an individual – a different person from the others. Some have physical ones – some have intellectual characteristics. This guy had something, which he could associate with anything. It is his passion. Passion to immerse himself in anything he got involved into.

 

Ya, ya ya! So what? Lots of us are passionate; we can easily find a passionate sports-lover, a passionate partner or even a passionate foody. Hmmm – but how about someone who is just passionate, about anything he chooses for. When he learned to take the first step on two feet, he became passionate about walking; and so he wandered off his house on the deathly silence of a summer afternoon, away from his father’s state government quarter, leaving a unsuspecting mother sleeping, crossed the village farms and reached the highway, on his two and a half year old feet. And never ever liked to be denied the option of not using his feet. Isn’t that passion?

 

Then when he was hardly able to manage the amar chitra kathas and chandamamas, he suddenly gets his hand on a translated novel on Tarzan, and finishes all of the 200 pages at one go. And then kept on reading all he could lay his hands on; novels, comics, short stories and even original volumes of Ramayana and Mahabharat. Isn’t that again a passion, this time about reading? What about his mastering the art of hiding, with a carefully developed hideout in the middle of the unkempt groves, with entrances only known to his friends. Or cutting all the joints of his index and middle finger of the right hand, trying to learn flying a kite in the shortest possible time, till he had one flying high on a clear blue Benaras sky, unchallenged.

 

He took his passion to new heights on his games. To play Carrom, his board had notches, and lines showing angles of deflection all over it, because he wanted to master the art of striking from impossible angles. He spend nights after nights to learn the best moves in chess to device a blitzing opening game that can check mate a unsuspecting person in first 7 moves. Or spending long evenings with his partner to master the calls of contract bridge, to converse freely and knowing the exact cards in each other’s hand. Or running, on hazy winter mornings and drizzly July dawns; running the 4-kilometer stretch, sometime with his best friend, and sometime only his breathe as partner. People thought him to be crazy, but his passion was for himself, not to show off, hence he always kept his tries under wraps, it was something only to be shared with himself or those very very close to his heart.

 

It was his passion to learn, that saw him learn all the tricks of the trade he wanted. No one to guide, except his passion to know, and he spent those hours alone, to fiddle and learn the software’s. He didn’t have any certificate to prove his knowledge, but people knew what he is capable of by the works he did. Bosses came down to congratulate, but he knew he has only done it for his passion.

 

He carried his passion to his love. He loved someone so dearly that forgot the world around. He was ready to loose all he had. He knew the lurking problems. But his passion for the loved one believed that he could treat them all. He went in headfirst, dived and tried with all his might, for fifteen long years. And after he thought that it’s the end of life, and again found a candle burning for him, he raised his passion once more. The way he loves is only because of his passion. As always, some might think, that he masters his moves to showoff his capability, even when loving. Some seems to think that his ability to love stems from the words and tricks that he has mastered. Some will keep thinking that his craziness for love is a carefully cultivated skill that he uses on others. But he knew it’s just his passion. Passionate about life, passionate about love, and passionate about those he loves. His passion for life means he cannot kill himself. His passion for his loved ones means he will keep doing all in his control to see them happy. His passion about love means he will keep being that incurable romantic optimist.

 

Just wondering, when will his passion die?

 

 

 

  

The Unavoidable Eventuality

 

Two sides of the same coin, yet birth and death triggers a
set of strong emotional quest in lot of minds. Some see death as end of an era,
some passing of the baton, while to some its just one of the myriads of
incidents that for the part of ones life. Which means there is thin chance that
the way someone’s death affects my life and thinking is going to be the case
when I am the person to die. Death is an unavoidable eventuality, but its
resultant reactions are not. It is not necessary that there will be same
reactions that are unfolding now, will be re-enacted when the eventuality
knocks my door.

 

Single child of pre-independence era, a persona living the
life to its hilt, a character that could have fit any famous adventures fiction
series, ending in the nervous nineties. A life that has seen, life as a banker,
as well as a press journalist; a life that has enjoyed the life behind an
accountant’s desk, and seen it through the motion photography lenses of  New Theaters Studio; it was a life that
connected to so many during its 94 year tenure and then gasped to hold on to a
handful.

 

Sitting on that mortuary van, passing through the busy
Kolkata streets, my eyes kept brushing on the faces of the onlookers. A lot of
them actually noticed the van carrying the body, and responded with the
single-handed “pranam”. It might be the social conditioning, or may be the
inherent quality of the local mass, but there were still quite a few who
acknowledged. I could very well recall similar scene on the streets of Delhi
and Bangalore. The van will go practically unnoticed in the busy streets; if it
is accompanied by a procession, some might have had noticed, which would have
also included those who would have felt disturbed by the obstruction to traffic
it caused. The noisy and elaborate procession would not let the people around
go it un-noticed in Bangalore, but rarely I have seen any one responding it
with respect. Multicultural society? Or is it again the inherent social
conditioning?

 

A bunch of guys in their early twenties would happily gather
around a man in his late seventies, just to get engrossed in his words that
captured just a few weeks of his life. The weeks on which he managed to reach
Manas Sarovar on his feet, without food, and being offered goat’s milk by the
‘pujari’; or the week when he along with his four friends dared to cross
numbers of pre-independence princely states, braving dacoits, wild dogs and
state armies to reach Bombay from Allahabad – on bicycles. The umpteen stories
– or should we say real life accounts, just showed all of us, how ordinary a
life can be.

 

Lying there on slabs of ice in his room’s floor, he was
waiting for a few people to arrive. A few people who thought actually matters
to him; some managed to reach, others managed to find reasons, “not to reach”.
A body that once challenged the “gwala’s” of Benares, in their own game of
wrestling, to learn it in a month and win, lying listless. While removing his
deathbed clothes and putting on one of his silken kurta and dhoti, the voice of
his lady echoed in the mind. He used to wear clothes tailored in England, and
perfumes from Paris. The only perfumes that were accompanying him in his last
journey were a small bottle of sandalwood essence, and a half filled bottle of
Park Avenue lovingly being sprayed by his surviving son. And something broke
loose – the streams locked behind iron safe kept flowing, noiselessly.

 

The same guy in his early seventies, used to laugh at his
peers wearing jackets on top of the pullovers with a monkey cap covering their
head from weak Kolkata winter; while he used to cover all of 4 kilometers daily
in his half sleeve sweater with the hands clasped behind his back. He would
come back with a packet of “telebhaja” or “singara”, to share with his
grandchildren and occasionally the friends of his grandchildren too, over the
stories of how he killed the tiger sitting beside the maharaja of Ramnagar, or
how he managed to take the pictures of Queen Victoria on her maiden visit to
India.

 

Was looking at the body on the glass enclosure of the van
ready to speed off. The person lying inside have been witness to many such
scene, couple of them too close for anyone’s comfort, yet never saw to shed a
drop. The scene of his own son, nearly 30 years younger, lying in there – or
the lady 10 years younger, who chose to spend her life beside him, ready for a
final journey, he saw both. And amazingly he chose the same day, his partner
chose to depart, 10 years ago – is that coincidence? Or is the strength of
love?

 

Will it be similar, 20 – 25 years from now? Will there be
even these many people? Will even these many eyes be wet then? Will so many
people be aware of the event? Will there still be some not related people
joining in the cemetery to recall a life? Will there still be some passerby’s
moving their busy heads to watch a body being taken on his last journey? Lots
of doubts, some evident and obvious, some foreseen as circumstantial and
situational, while some showing a future with a chill down the spine. A day
that is nothing but an unavoidable eventuality, but I am sure the resultant
reactions will be much much more different… may be milder or even obscure!

 

 

Across His Hilltop

 

If you look up, towards the hilltop, you might see him. His tiny body, covered in a shirt with half the buttons, a trouser rolled half way up, a stick in one hand, while the other shielding his vision from the sunrays peeking from the dark cloud covers. He checked the cloud forming on the valley of dreams. Everyday he would send the dreams he collected the night before and check the dream clouds grow a bit more. He awaits it to get delivered. The cloud will shower his dreams when they are ready.

 

 

Knowing that it’s still sometime before the cloud becomes full, he turns around. He has a swing behind him, on which he swings daily and tries to catch the tree on other side of the deep gorge. That tree has all the flowers he needs for his temple. Everyday, he swings closer and closer, yet can’t be close enough to be there. From where he stands, it seems just a few hands away, yet…

 

Does the tree choose to move away, just when he starts to swing? Otherwise even after swinging more, why can he reach it? Or does the swing choose to get shorter when he is just about to reach?

 

No one knew him as he was. No one ever saw, the dreams he kept seeing. No one, except the tree on the other side, that is. She was his only companion. He came to this hilltop, to just sit till eternity, with nothing to do, but thrash his way with the stick in his hand. Once he came here, and looked below, he even wondered how it would be to try and jump off the hilltop. Will he reality have wings coming out, as his grandmother said, long long time back? He was judging the flow of the wind to decide his next move, when he looked aside and saw the smiling tree. A tree amazingly with flowers of all colors and smell, yet no one can see either the tree or the flowers on it from anywhere except where he stood. Did the tree choose to bear all those flowers just for him? Otherwise why are they just like the flowers he saw in his temple in the dreams?

 

And then there were days, when he saw, a golden bridge, made for him to cross the gorge. He crossed and hugged the tree; or was it he was hugged by her – melting all that was unwanted in him, invigorating and electric. Charging every pour of his body with that will to live and fight, those were missing. He would dance around, play with her flowers, decorate her with his dreams and fairy-dust, and keep looking at her. He lied down with his head on her lap and kept listening to her through the day. And she allowed putting his hand through her stony rough outside and touching those parts, which no one including her knew existed. Touching caressing and feeling the ripples; both were afraid to batter their eyelids, not to miss a moment of togetherness. To treasure each second as they unfolded – each having a story of their own. They were one, till the hands of the clock woke them up – reminding that there is still some more moon-less and moon-lit nights to pass. Still a few more seasons to unfold before the gorge can get filled. As he comes back through the gorge, he can see the drooping branches from the corner of his eye, and he starts blowing his flute, to make her know – its not the end.

 

Next day, the legs covered in rolled up trousers will again reach the hilltop, to look across and greet her. He knows, what ails her. He knows where she needs to be touched and cared. He knew his swing would only take him to that smelling distance. And he starts swinging, to move close to her, and whisper. Please stay alive, for me – to let me come close to you again, take care of those flower laden branches, caress the roots you keep hidden and hold your hand till eternity. He knows the day is not far, he just needs to dream a bit more hard, make her believe a bit longer, and the cloud will come, it will rain, and gorge will get washed away, the distance will vanish. The day will come – till then the dream-breather will keep dreaming and child-king will keep looking after his hilltop.

 

 

  

On the way back

On the way
back

Red sneaking
under the red fabric

Sprinkled
vermilion on reddened nose

Crimson lips
matching the twelve-yard border

Evening sky
didn’t turn to them for color

It was
connected to the gray inside

How much is enough

 

The maddening running around, the constant pounding and
dizzying blindness – can leave even the toughest nuts a bit numb. And I thought
I was tough. Lost in the narrow shady alley, I was wondering if it’s a blind
alley? With no way out? Not being able to decide if I should resign and sit
away the rest of the time left, or bang my head on th dark wall blocking my way
till it breaks down.

 

May be deep in my heart I was praying for a divine light
from somewhere showing me way; or may be a soft yet firm hand holding me up and
guide me out. May be they did, – in their own loving way. I was shocked! Me who
despised any form of pitiful help from any quarter ‘expecting’ assistance? Me,
who always knew the route map like the back of his hand, lost in a blind alley?
Me, who snorted at the nomads resting at night, thinking of resigning from the
journey? But then – may be that’s what happens to those choosing to fight it
out, at some time or the other.

 

Sitting and sulking at my own corner of the world, I was
waiting to rise. Time and again reaching for that support, to grab and pull
myself up, only to find either the support itself crumbling, or a new deluge
gushing in to sink me. Just when I was gasping for a breath, just when I was
planning to hammer in the last nail myself, a voice gave me a reason… a soul
gave me a light.. someone was trying to create a space for me – which I am
supposedly deserve.

 

Thinking and planning and thinking till the brain cant take
any longer, I realized world is not perfect, “I” am not perfect – there will be
slips and mistakes. And that’s because there is always a room for improvement.
We are not in Utopia, and you “do not” get what you want. But what you might
get can be hundred times better than what you have, and can be a reason itself
to keep moving ahead.

 

So as the life kept thinking that it has softened me, got me
by my neck, I let it feel good thinking so. Coz’ I know – down here I am not
retracting or retreating. I am recoiling, like a spring, to jump forward a
thousand paces, when I am ready. The cloud is giving me cover, the winds
soothing battered nerves, and the raindrops – touching me lightly, caressing,
loving – making me long for more. As I lay here, waiting, a soft yet firm voice
keeps reverberating in my ears, giving me the reason – just one word, to keep
living. Glimpses that a pair of eyes has captured keeps coming back – reminding
me of a possibility, however bleak it might look like, to make me silently sit
up, and smile back at life. Just wait – till I am back…

Midsummer Haiku

 

gift of two evenings

opening eyes from its slumber

         dream breathing songbird

 

 

B h o o o o – k a a t t e e e e e e y!!

 

First the flight :-

The kite soared slowly towards the blue sky, riding on the cool breeze from the river. It climbed up, up and up, knowing that the string is in firm control of that hand that’s flying it. Knowing that the string is also tied securely to the reel. With the air on its delicate paper wings, it soared high into the sky to challenge those birds. Those bird, that one day mocked at the flimsy paper for its wish to fly. Now here he was, among the clouds, steady and watching down onto the vast city, the roof tops and the coconut trees, the mango grove and that little girl with a rough Chinese cut hair, with world of dream in her eyes; crinkled and with the shade of the hand blocking the sunlight. She watches it with amaze, and the right end of her lips curls up in a absent minded smile.

 

 

Then, up for grabs :-

Just when the kite was preparing for the final surge, the reel of string went blank; there were no more. And the string was not attached. The hand that flew, unaware, gave that mighty pull to sent it dashing skywards and saw helplessly the end of the string slipping out of his hand. The kite was guideless. Slowly it started to swing and fall and fly away aimlessly. All those greedy eyes, which were watching it with envy sparkled with joy. “B-h-o-o-o-o-o-o K-a-a-a-t-t-e-e-e-y!” – they all went up in chorus, and ran behind helplessly falling piece of paper. The girl also looked at it with horror. The piece of paper that she thought to be dream is soon going to be snatched. Hands and sticks and all sorts of tools went skywards; it’s a free for all, to grab it and own it, at any cost.

 

It was brief, as the torture ended; the grabbing hands dispersed; the silent eyes below the fringed hairs on the forehead looked at the remains of delicate colored paper, which a few moments back was her dream, proudly soaring up there; beaconing to take her to the cloud land. She picked up a few pieces, carefully removed the dust, sat down beside her toy house, and carefully wrapped it around her doll. Tilting her head a bit, she looked at it adoringly. As she wiped the sparkling drop of water from the corner of her eyes, she finally managed a careless smile. She still has a few pieces of her dream, and it will be safe in her doll house, forever. She might not be able to ride her dream kite, but will remember it for one day it gave her the hope to soar to hr dreamland.

 

Or :-

Just when the kite was preparing for the final surge, the reel of string went blank; there were no more. And the string was not attached. The hand that flew, unaware, gave that mighty pull to sent it dashing skywards and saw helplessly the end of the string slipping out of his hand. The kite was guideless. Slowly it started to swing and fall and fly away aimlessly. It was flying so high that no eyes ever got trained on it. Only a few, as they knew it was there from the beginning, and they shouted, “B-h-o-o-o-o-o-o K-a-a-a-t-t-e-e-e-y!” It was only a jeer, as they knew its out of reach, they didn’t bother to run after. The kite looked down at a pair of eyes, which now were filled with horror. She ran behind it, with arm towards the sky. But it was too late! The wind was high, and the kite was too far. She ran and ran and ran and saw helplessly as the kite disappeared behind the wall of clouds, forever. Teary eyed she ran a few more steps and then was lost in thought about that dream land above the clouds, where rain has her abode. She remembered, the kite whispered to her, just before it went up in his journey – “Will you come with me?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Someone asked, “So what? What’s the difference between today and yesterday? Is there any?” For the uninitiated, there is none. But for those who know – its “B-h-o-o-o-k-a-t-t-t-e-e-e-y!” nothing more than that.

 

 

Be Missed

Its not friends, its not wealth

Its not love to be felt

The emptiness that we feel

Are often memories pulling the reel

We seek to connect and resonate

Some relations we cant contemplate

Yet they fill you with all

They make the time to stall

Its not to miss

But be missed

  

The Storm

 

The great red spot on Jupiter is a storm three times bigger than earth itself. And its been there for more than 400 years. But still most on earth are hardly aware of it. If you want you can just pickup a strong binocular and see it; yet most of us do not have the time or the willingness to even know about it.

 

May be some storms are meant to be big and last real long. Yet they are hidden; hidden by the dark vacuum. Its there, threatening and churning all in its path. Yet no one even gets the whiff of it. Read somewhere about the Frigate Birds! They supposedly are the great wide-winged birds, which live far away on islands in the Gulf. These birds only fly inland when a hurricane, or storm, is getting ready to rush out of the Gulf of Mexico and blow its wild breath upon the coast country. Do these birds always survive the storms?

 

Long time back, it used to be a unstoppable passion to fly a kite when the storm hits. The quickly soaring kite, the reel spinning madly in your hand, and to manage the kite’s flight when the wind takes a maddening turn. Feeling the sharp string slide across the first fold on your index finger, and then cutting in with a shearing pain as the kite dives down. We wished if only there were more than a handful of strings, then we might have managed them better. But one string – that’s all held the kite. Till that one string was there, and someone to manage it, it flew. Then at times, unable to bear the pain in the hand you cut it off to let if fly away into oblivion, or the strength of the wind wins and you reel in the torn and tattered remains of what was once a proud kite.

 

The summer solstice is always meant to bring a sea of change in life. Year after year it has delivered the surprises and changes. One more just passed by; the storm is still here; the strings going off one by one. Only the single string surviving; a single string that is not tied to any reel. The string starts to cut into the flesh. One slip under the shearing pain and the kite flies off. Or will it get cut. Will it survive the fury? Can time please run a bit faster?