Tuesday 21 December 2010

A December night.



That was a raw December night in Delhi. I was driving towards the airport and had just fought for the seventeenth time with my wife for the day. Nagging for every little thing she argued why the hotel staff calls me every second midnight. And to charge it all, the visitor kept on calling to make sure if I had reached the terminal.
Ji, sir ‘am at the parking. Shall I see you at the Arrivals?”
haan bhaiya, Gate 17.”
Grabbing the printout that the reception gave me, I snuggled into the old jacket. Sighing, I remembered how that brown wool brought me closer to my many occasions of a divorce. She’d started with it and went on to stay at her mother’s for months, last winter.
“Damn,” I spat the masala.
“Hello? Bhaiya you haven’t reached the gate?”
“Sir, am almost there.”
Achha, you have the name plate? There are 3 gates, you stand at number 4. I’ll be there looking at 5 and 6. ”
Ji sir.”
I dragged my feet and stood listlessly, leaning at the railing.

“Ajay, again? What number?”
haan, 871, you?” I enquired of Ramdas.
Smart in his Radisson uniform, he started his usual cant, “British 772., saala it was showing delayed sometime back, but now it isn’t even displaying the name.”
“Mine would land at half past 12. Madmen! At twelve only they’ve called me. They’ll take an hour to come out, even if they land in time yaar.”
We kicked off with our regular conversation openings, and my exasperation sublimed away.
“There she is! Whore, last Saturday she walked out with a Jet’s pilot.”
“Hasn’t she grown fat?”
 “Forget it Raamdas.”

Achha, look there. Look how baffled she looks, silly woman.”
“Don’t say that. She comes from a village. Even our wives and sisters would be as puzzled as she. Though, my wife would rather create a scene here for the authorities.”
I noticed the woman. Dressed in what she would call her best suit, an electric blue with large silver motifs. She called for someone and my eyes followed hers. A lad of seventeen, probably, with a face yet not to be shaved, stood a little vexed glancing over the flight schedules. But the glint in his eyes matched the woman’s, rather her silver motifs’. I looked ahead to realize a big crowd of Sardars and the two lanky men behind, with dhols slung across them.
“Must be here to receive their damaad
“Can be here for their son from the UK too… don’t you remember Duggal saab?” I retorted.

The airport aura was different today. A bee hummed near the bin. I discovered people around me; people who stood there… as I stood there every second night, waiting. Their number was plenty. Half of them just hung off the railing. My brothers, I marked.
There was some noise at the other side, and as magnetising such noises are, most of the heads turned towards the gate. A gentleman, I’d say that for his wear, not too sure for his noise with the security chap, walked out of the maze of men and women. A lady draped wonderfully in a pink sari complemented his big brand suit and the violet silk tie.
“She’s old”, nudged Ramdas. Observing my observance of her, “must be a mother of…”
“She is! And I am a father of three.”

The woman in the blue suit was too loud and frantic by now. The boy with him seemed equally hapless. I yawned turning towards the gate numbered 4, they were a habitual sight. My flight was still slated ‘landed’.
“They’ll take an hour more”
“Oh! It’s routine.” My mate responded, as programmed.
“There is too much happening around us. But we never miss the happening one around us.” I chuckled.
kidhar?
Fancy white women of vision often amble out, and had often been our duties as well. But a little anxious one next to us in the reception wasn’t a daily sight. By the time he spotted the beauty with cascading gold locks, she ran off from gate.
“She’s running!”
“Oh! Yes. She is…”
And she almost tripped and slipped en route, slapping her palm against the pillar, hurdling over a bag or two, darting towards the other opening, she stumbled.
“Oh crap!” cried he.
Before one could realize she leaped and flung on to a blonde lad. Flung? They were one in that tight hug, as children’s blocks fix into each other. Now that was a scene the terminal was waiting for, its monotone broke, all heads turned a degree of ninety and their sights remained glued there. Ramdas whistled.

I smiled away, as the decibel rose around and Ramdas got on to his poetic rendition and addition of the spectacle just before us. Within minutes all were back to their chores – chatting, laughing, munching, waiting, swearing, wondering and panicking. The woman in her best blue bib, panicked now, and the boy did the same behind her. He must have been much lesser than his late teens as I estimated. I wanted to offer help, but withheld. This was a regular and she’d find her way out soon. No flights had crashed after all! Instead a new set of people walked out of the Arrivals. We looked for ours in vain. A young handsome man walked out with a sparkling smile. My eyes weren’t even fixed on him yet, when he strode past us and hugged the raucous gentleman.
“I told you she’s a mother, but didn’t realise of such a man!”
I laughed out heartily at my friend’s disappointment. He is on a look out for alliance prospects, seeking a bollywood one at the airport, but this surely put him down. The boy hugged his mother.
“Big business class people. How they betray their age?”

My giggles translated into soft smiles… Their faces were so calm, so happy. The set of thirty two were gone, but the left over managed the grin somehow. Each fold on the face shone cheerfully. Wrinkles could be beautiful. His wife was the same behind him, just on a wheelchair. Was it the relief of coming back in time? Was it to do with the songs of the soil? It indeed was. Or simply, it might be a relief of having someone who cared, probably kids back in the country. Looking for who was going to receive them. I thought of my mother, old and walked with a stick. I barely spoke to her now, sparing the routine food and sleep enquiry. I heaved a sigh; a heavy sigh. My eyes dampened. Now there were no tales, there was no laughter. There were no more arguments, and no more admonishes. She must have been sleeping in her cot in the two room house where I live. But I missed her. I controlled myself and the lovely young pair was received by an equally young man. He appeared to be a brother of the old man. They celebrated.

I wiped my cheek. Thankfully Ramdas was busy with one of his numerous prospects over the phone. He gestured two minutes to me. I said take ten, and laughed him off. The village woman in her bright blue garb was distressed by now. I simply went ahead. She did sound worse than my wife. Probably Suman had got tuned to the city beats. But this lady cried of losing her husband. By the end of the episode I knew they came from Bhatinda, the young son was sixteen and studied in a public school, her husband worked in Oman and landed an hour ago. She had a new mobile number and a worn out battery, and a silly cellular call from my device saved her the hysteria. Plus, her silly husband had walked down back to the departures.
Punjab tourist bus de kol pahuchriyaan”, she handed the phone back to me, her son stretching his smile back. Yes he was close to seventeen, I smiled back.
shukriya virji

Pagli! I spotted her in the beginning only. Didn’t I?”
“It’s okay, the city buzz does scare you. Suman wasn’t better when I moved here.”
“That’s the reason am looking for one here.” he tried hitting a witty one, but my smirk left him defeated. This coupled to the disgusting end he had that day. A stout middle aged woman in a red trouser towing a trailing bag walked out. With an odd grimace she signalled him from a distance of five yards. He shook a little and nervously scuttled away to grab the heavy suitcase.
“See you tomorrow,” I shouted.

The gang of Sardars with the two man band had received neither a son nor a son-in law. A daughter is what the men were proud of. The young zealous white couple had kissed and left, the handsome boy went home with the rich dad, the forever young couple made me heavy and the silly bright blue Bhatinda woman gave me a titter. I wasn’t tired but I called up my man.
“Sir, how long?”
Arrey bhaiya, you bring the car, I’ve received them. Il bring them to the parking.”
Funny man, I gulped down.

My watch showed half past two, when I dropped them at the De Royal. I was tired, now. Walking back I assessed the fall out I had with my wife earlier in the night. I knocked and she opened the door without much delay. It was dimly lit- just the dull night bulb dangling in a corner. That cast a shadow on her profile fusing with dark open hair. Her face was tired, but a faint, satisfied smile painted her well. I had just hugged her.



Wednesday 1 December 2010

Dance of the shadow!


All there on a beach we sang,
Danced and so did the dark spaces on the sand.
Moving with me, finely cut out under the sun,
They had no qualms as I, liked the run.
Queer animals I drew on the wall,
That flew and barked till lighted was the hall.
Laughing them off, I turned to another curtain,
That had a fine outline of a lady who did refrain.
Tangible circles and slender fingers set her hair
That fell cascading, would have been for a fare.
Walked, I in a moonlit night. 
Stretched from my feet till my sight,
A shaded patch, until I marked my jacket latch.
Me, spread on the street, but my eyes didn’t match.
All obscure, thankfully my tears n grins didn’t matter.
But the silhouette kept following for the better.
Back sometime in bright sunlight as I looked;
Funny shaped ovals ran through my book.
And funnily I gazed at my ruffled hair,
Earphones oddly fixed into my ear.
Later, three orbited to my left on the street;
Sharpening in turns, converging at my feet.
Shadows, thanks to each passing bulb dangling,
Darkened, to fade out with a step, past future and the lingering.
Past, future and the lingering I thought,
Stared and looked at what my gait brought.
The play of the lamps in line and my pace,
Paced, as three needles of a clock, at equal space.
A barking dog distracted me,
And lost I, my shaded trinity.




Friday 26 November 2010

Am Happy!

Am happy today.
Am happy for the moment.
Today, I may not be forking steak, but am happy nibbling potatoes.
Today, I may not be donning a Louis, but am happy in my blue jeans.
Today, I may not have my friends with me, but am happy with acquaintances,
Today, I may not be able to see him, but am happy hearing him.
Today, I may not have him, but am happy in the memories.
Today, I may have been betrayed, but am happy for the trust of many.
Today, I may have been at crossroads, but am happy for walking on.
Today, I may not be penning a book, but am happy in a verse.
Yesterday has gone by, am happy in its remembrances.
Tomorrow is to come, am happy in its dreams.
Life is short, am happy for the moment.
Am happy for the moment.
Am happy today.

Wednesday 22 September 2010

I am wet...






It seems ages since last I was wet,
Drenched in downpour, but didn’t fret.
Of late have I seen the azures turn blue,
Pacing my pulses, the rain has the clue.

Plush green patch in the house beckoned,
Kids; my brother and I waited no second.
Hopped in glee, Ma’s call we again vouched;
Sipped tea, glared a pearl on the leaf that couched.

Years ahead the clouds killed the sun,
Shutting schools giving us an elated run.
Pedalling knee deep streets we set our hair,
Sans raincoats, saving the books was fair.

Splashed water with folks, bikes we zoomed on
Laughed out in ecstasy, the waft that we’d don.
Living the moment, a coffee was all we mumbled,
As clenching ‘em, I ducked rain, and trembled.     

Drop drop drop it has been drizzling down,
With each drop vanished a degree of my frown?
Quiet I sat with friends at the revelling lake,
Cool air and the clouds - all for my calmer sake?

Green glace and the fresh breathe,
Even springing on the puddled street.
For souls who disappeared midway,
Has turned damp, marshy and astray.

Yet again has a drop touched the ground,
Yet again have the clouds dark, taken a bound.
I gaze at them as hollow my insides
Turn heavy when the thunder rides.

A flash of light in the black sky
Tears me open sapping my spirit dry.
A flash that brought the rain of the past
I saw what monsoon did to me last

Its been raining, and has rained thence,
And every drop, worthy a plenty pence.
If not out in the greens or on the usual set
If not in the rain, but within, I am wet.


They say it hasn’t rained such in thirty years,
Perhaps it’s just that I’ve added a few tears.
It seems ages since last I was wet,
But it seems ages since, within I am wet.


Thursday 19 August 2010

Why is it that the country runs on umpteen schemes?





The tripod was set, the camera primed. I gave a final check to the frame, noticing the Nikon banner, the boards of Adidas, KFC and Levi’s. The space was set and we were on the look out for posh ladies and pretty lasses. “Ma’am, we are from NDTV. Could you please spare a minute for us?” And most of them were running short of time.

We were taking a public opinion on the credit card CIBIL story that we followed and the crowd really amused us with the response. ‘50% SALE’, I zoomed out and focussed on the shoe behind the Woodland glass. “What story is this?” enquired a loud cheery voice. A pleasant and plump face fixed a gaze on me. “… hmm .. a story on the shopping trends… ” I replied clearing my throat.
“We’ve just opened a new shop here, would you please cover that too?” she started pleading. Ranjan and I were more than happy. We saw a pool of water in the desert. Cleaving through the market crowd, the fawn jumped with glee.

Glistening, fresh and spotless, the apparel outlet shone with all the perfect setting and keep. We stumbled upon gold. Capturing all our desired shots, and most coveted frames we had to please the budding entrepreneur. Setting her in the frame,
I started, “so since when is the shop open to public”            
“…about a week.”
“And how’s the response?”
“Hmm pretty well, actually its just a week so I’ll say good. Actually nothing in the shop is more than eleven hundred, so…”
“So there must be a lot of card payment here?”
“Oh! Yes.”
“Okay, ma’am so even you prefer credit cards? Or cash?”
“oh yes yes,.. Cards!”
“And are your bills being paid in time?”
“(Laughs) ya mostly.”
“That’s good, so ma’am, are you aware of any body called CIBIL?”
“No, I fear.”
“That’s okay ma’am. It’s a body that monitors your card bills and payments and makes a defaulters’ list.”
“Anyways, thank you ma’am.”
“Thank you. I am so excited. Thanks to NDTV for featuring our shop. When will this be aired? What time? I’ll tell all my friends.”
“Listen, why don’t even you speak and answer the questions… They are featuring our store,” she chirped in excitement to her husband.
“Perhaps tonight, 9 o’ clock bulletin” Ranjan gave a prompt reply.
“Not necessarily. It will be edited first and they’ll decide if it’s going on air or not,” I hesitated.
“Ok… But thank you so much. It was very nice of you. You shot those mannequins? Half in the wall, ones? They are nowhere here in this market.”
“Rinki, take out two bags.” She ordered her helping hand.
“You pick up anything from the store that you like. It’s a small present from our side.”
I was taken aback. Apart from shamelessly denying her gesture I could do nothing better.

We were back from our shoot, with a jackpot in hand and a little sullen heart. How excited had she been! This was just a class bulletin, was one. This was faked was entirely a scheme. Why is it, that most of the work in the country is schemed? Be it the CWG tenders or the class bulletin.




Friday 6 August 2010

Evolution of a Story!





A polished face, immaculate fabric, adequately lit up studio and a clear pristine voice projects to us the Television news . More than often the viewer dismisses it over petty glitches. This video, initially made for the NDTVmi, documents how a news story is conceptualized, implemented and takes birth. 

The movie is an amateur attempt shot on the SONY PD170 and edited on Avid Media Composer. 
The concept, storyboarding, camera, editing, voice-overs all are credited to the complete team.
Yamini Joshi
Sapna Dhanwani
Nit Ranjan Srivasta
&
Rajan Luthra.

Well, the 9 minute video would explain it all, that what is it that the viewer doesn't know about the 24hrs news he watches, cribs, talks, discusses, argues, swears, and again flicks back to. NEWS isn't just a pretty face, even if it's about terror, a pretty lady or the rich tomatoes!   









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Saturday 24 July 2010

It - just another turn!




Was flying free, was gliding the gale;
Coloured and bright It sang a tale.
It knew not of the approaching rail,
And knew not It was so frail.
Pulsed It well, and flushed It well,
Till final day It rang the knell.
Slipping away through Its hues It fell,
For there was a master who’d just yell.

Lost in transaction, lost It Its kin,
Woke up abruptly, in a new space to win.
Hesitant, It searched a voice in the din,
That was lost as the drop of a pin.
Smile that It painted well on the face,
Became hard to maintain through the race.
Picked up and put away in a separate case,
Slowly took toll, hampering Its pace.

Was it the time that wasn’t ripe,
Or, an unprepared moment in the pipe?
Was it the colours of newer hues and types,
Or, It distanced away several wipes?
Blotted and lumped It lost Its pulse and air,
Deeds of joy, comfort or pleasure in fair.
Missed a beat, for the yester’s It did care,
For now It remained lone and rare.

A sigh and It learnt It had to flow,
Ebbs or highs, It had to row.
Smile faded a little, relaxed the brow,
Turning genuine but surely slow.
Fluttering came newer colours many,
Painted It some, sketched, but wary.
Of them liked It a few, liked Its ferry,
Followed a few, making It one out of any.

Scolded consoled chided and It was retold,
To get up, get back and just be bold.
The colours bygone visited from the fold,
It was a glimmer that It was desperate to hold.
Ecstasy calmed down, but assuaged the sallow,
Relieved a little, It turned again to the din to follow
Now pulsing and even sporting a part halo,
Taking all in the stride, the ups or the low.


A brief sojourn, was perhaps essential
To clear out all, unplanned or intentional
Tools working upon It, irrational,
To set It back again, beating and functional.
It, is nothing from the outer space or the bowl,
It, is simply the turn of life, the breathing soul.
Journey It learns is from the bird to the owl,
Plenty of colours or sounds felt, taken, left,
Or carried throughout without a foul.  



  






Thursday 13 May 2010

When careers should genuflect.


6th May, 2010.

I hung on to the trudging bus to NDTV. The forty five minutes distance was all for me to look back into a span of sixteen years. It was a tale of two families, closely knit in bonds of friendship. The fathers graduated together, the elder sons schooled together, and the younger sons played together, while both the mothers were simply together. My memory flashed scenes etched as old as those from class I, where we shared our lunch boxes and at weekends - hide n seek thrilled us while our parents sat discharging the week’s weariness. A flash takes me to Kasauli, where again my father and Uncle are cooling their heels, while their wives have a tough time compulsively feeding the four sons in all. A dash of light, and the serene Himachal mountains creep into my head, the sons are quite grown, and (we) trek through those beautiful valleys. I remember, Uncle falling ill, and my memory fades with just a fact that my friend put up with us at our home for some good number of months. Schools over, and we parted for graduation, but the base camp remained quite intact. And last flashed a scene right from the previous night, when Aunty shambles into the house, her face bereft of any expression or emotion, and there behind her followed Uncle, not smiling, but lying still; and still forever. Heart attack they said.

Hurrying into the class, to be in before Dr. Nigam, I settle down with all my thoughts vanished. The regular newspaper session was followed by a rarest of the rare opportunities – a visit to the Lok Sabha in the Parliament House. Electrifying, the class’ zeal was beyond bounds, spare me. I had a decision to make. Enthralling as Lalu or Gandhi, or the very soft Madame Speaker, Miera Kumar were debating over national issues, my long time school friend would be rendering the last rites to his father.

I have always wondered what salt men of this era are made of. One thing they love the most is hurrying scurrying from one desk to other, from one cabin to other, with quintals of currency making their pockets heavy. And one thing they lament is the inability to discover someone on whom to shower the weight. One needs hard labour to earn that note, but needs a stronger heart to negotiate green paper for some beautiful bonds to breathe forever.

I might have missed a fantabulous prospect to experience the world I am set to analyse, I might have skipped a step towards a finely polished career, I now might have been a place behind my colleagues, but I definitely, did complete my duties as a friend, as a son, above all as a human. I might get a chance to peep inside the Sansad, but I would not have got a chance to say a bye to a dear Uncle, or stand strong to a dear friend.

Day 1 at NDTV

Date 28th April ’10. Time 6 a.m., I drive out of Agra with my father heading towards a new life. The cliché, but had occupied my head for quite some days now. As he zooms on NH2, I dose off. Is it in my dreams or is it but a part of my conscious remembrances? Date 26th April ’10, time 8:30 p.m., there is an excitement – overwhelming emotions that I was drenched in - perplexity. There were smiles and there were tears. There were little giggles and surely there were sobs too. And little did I realize a hooting blue serpent would end it all. I woke up with a start. That was the regular honking on the highway not the thundering on the railway station, and I heaved a sigh, again venturing in my thoughts this time intentional. I had finished my graduation that day; I had finished a way of life that day.


Well in time I reported in the plush NDTV building, and I am greeted by two smiling batch mates. I smile back. People start pouring in and I continue to pass that smile. As the air settles, there is something that comes down heavily inside me. The images of the recent past flash sharp and a realization sinks in. I am out of Nagpur and forever, I’m out of my cocoon and that would return never. As if a bolt from the blue, it suddenly dawns upon me the reason some of friends wept on the 26th.

A new journey is marked, a new beginning, and new introductions is what Dr. Nigam asks for. I hear them speak, which somehow interfaces and superimposes with the sounds and noises from the past. Introducing took me back to my first year with an odd smile being painted on my face; I take a pause, for the class is in peals of laughter. She starts speaking again and I delve into my cauldron again. It is a cycle I realize, the whole process was now unfolding again, and for bonds I’d left, I had to start it all over again.

I shake myself and sternly instruct for my behaviour, saying, “all here are new and begin the process alike”, but the hurt locked inside me laments, “it’s just a day before that I’ve been lynched, at least little time I ask, to heal and start afresh.” I sit numb.

I pay a little attention, and Dr. Nigam speaks of the strong bind between an image and an emotion stitched to it. Hapless, his words drive my mercurial mind back to task. I see people around me – amiable, but I see people from inside me now far away. Friends parted away, and 31 new ones waiting to be enlisted, but somehow for the untimely start, the current image does not resonate with the emotions pinned to the word. Somehow I just want to chuck all this out and focus, but my reminiscing lingers.

One little break, and as if conspired against me, the batch of 31 treads towards the hostel staple – magi. The day ends, if not for journalism, but for me the ‘truth’ I highlight is a regular self preaching command. Old bonds just need a timely maintenance, and newer ones you keep on constructing throughout the journey. The course somehow took a backseat for the first day amidst the emotional whirlpool inside me, as I geared up to take upon a new set of friends a new batch of 31.                                                                                       

Sunday 11 April 2010

What do I carry after all?




[This is an excerpt from the diary, based on the regular over thought, and many discussions with a couple of friends, at various instants throughout.]

I am walking. I have been walking and have walked for 22 years… This was a by lane, where I stepped onto the road some four years back. As I walk, I see some light, realize the tunnel’s end, but there are no fears, as I calculate the time, fifteen days to divert onto a different track.

These are the last fifteen days here… These are the last fifteen days with friends, the last fifteen days of a lifestyle. These are the last fifteen days of this bonding, the last fifteen days of a mindset. These are the last fifteen days of a style of breathing, the last for a different purpose of beating.

These fifteen days seem no different. They are the same steaming hot, drudging old days, the same grumbles and the same laughter of the past four years. Expectations I don’t know what I’d harboured for these fifteen days, but they resemble nothing but from the four years, any regular day.

A spring of joy or a spurge of exhilaration isn’t a stretch of months and years, or of days and hours. The spurge of bliss is subtle, concealed in tiny moments spaced in moments of thoughts. All I need to realize these tiny moments, hidden so abundantly in each hour, day, consequently so abundantly in the months and years. And so, I crib not away these moments of smiles, laughter and giggles.

As the passage of this tunnel ends, as I see the light approaching ahead, as I see moving on to a separate track, I ruminate, in vain for I knew about this lighted end, knew of the new route, of this separation, but I think, what did I collect on this four year path? I think and crave for an answer.

The purpose of course of this path, education, may be fulfilled or not, relies on the individual’s quest. But deeper I think of the purpose, not education, but the purpose of this road to pick in particular. Destiny some would mumble. I think of the bonds made, why and what next? What do I carry along?

Perhaps a company on this road, I heard a few saying; perhaps not to be lonely for the years on this route. Perhaps that true, but would be truer if I tag a meaning to it.

All I take with me ahead is a way of life, a way to walk. Perhaps some new strength to rely upon on stony ways, perhaps a self-cushioning heart now, or maybe a heart that’s no more stone carved but is little wax, or perhaps just a style of shaking a leg, dancing away in merry. Perhaps, I carry a mode of dealing the world, the newer roads – practical or spiritual.

All I take is me, moulded and structured, defined and redefined, carved and hammered, painted and finished with touches by the umpteen other souls associated with me.

My ultimate destination is Him, the complete route being service to Him, his creations – animate or inanimate. And this four years expedition brought me closer to the destination. Companionship I did find for the route, and will find ahead on several walks and several tracks, but a meaning to this company is camaraderie that eases out the journey, pedagogy that helps me walk. I’ve learnt to walk better – clubbing their tricks to what I learnt home.

Lucky are those who carry away soul mates after the four years of voyage. Luckier are those who carry not one but many strings tied to the soul, if not a soul mate but mates of the soul. Of course I’ll carry companionship from this lane back to my journey, where I carried a few before too; people who aren’t yet done with the colouring of my canvas.

For people who intend not, but drift away, am glad for the tint, texture, hue and shade you rendered to my painting, for your mould, for your style of gait, and thank you for the beautiful time and memories, my heart would need to cherish whenever it finds a void, a dullness around, or simply when it misses you.
   
  

Sunday 21 February 2010

Remembrances for me to cart...


The air was new, the land new, and so were the names,
Wondered I, the time I’d take to fit into the newer frames.
But it was quick, for one showed an instant interest and respect.
Respect? Or was it his coy formalities as that was it, now I bet.


The first day at college wandered I with a grazed head,
Ragging and the new jokes alike made my face go red.
First good morning to the one closer to my home land,
Bond with him, then I knew not I’d make a strong band.


This was a start, and newer fondness kept pouring in,
Their first incidents I forget, but know they’re really in.
And cosy I settled cherishing the days as they came,
A chain of experiments began with many a pretty dame.


Laughing, limping, lazing and loving a year passed by,
Amongst the exhilaration, books and bonds did I pry.
Hostel nights and night outs kept me on my toes,
A thousand pranks, song and dance and giggles rose.


Irritating and vexing, one, sat all while,
As he sat always, is really worthwhile.
Scolded me, one, for not wearing a jacket,
And iced my head, one, throughout the fevering racket.


Brawls and quarrels of course were a daily chore,
Just a slap here and persuasion there was much more.
Water fights were much as were days without a bath,
Chattering through the night and day’s sleep was an aftermath.


Meanwhile affections grew and drew close even the new,
“Serious or fun loving?” asked one, now a part of the crew.
This one, people mistook this sneeze-er for me earlier
God knows how a lookalike, but now indeed he’s much friendlier.


Submissions tomorrow and I ran for an assignment copy to borrow,
Journals alike, practically they being just theory were never my sorrow.
Death knell had rung, with the sword hanging over me,
Then a shame, but eleventh hour study is now just so we.


What a relief it was, a sigh and a sleep so deep,
After the exams, partying was all until results reap.
Started with a peg, then bottles turned so less,
Licking fingers, left over chicken bones were just a mess.


Splendid days I’d live, blissful air I’d breathe, spirits high,
Until, the devastating rumours of results began to fly.
Mata ka darbar, rabb da pyaar, was the only rescue,
Sins of the past, the books’ ghost now flew.


Results have always been a long story to narrate,
Skip it I now, lest my friends would berate.
Just hear you this, it was not always a setback,
For next, in flying colours we pounced right on track.


I remember some tears, that make me sad and repent,
Even a few that make me laugh at the time we spent.
“My friends were not like this”, once did this pretty girl cry.
Quiet – another one was the egg tasting guinea pig for my first kitchen try.


Petrol - partners was one out of the thousand terms so queer.
Though lucky I, two separate toppers as my pillion were always so near.
Mother of all at work, and a baby to understand our joke,
This little’s limboo – lemon drink always made the gang so broke.


A poem you’d say, is this that goes so long?
Dear my, to college days does this belong.
Lots is left, unsaid and unheard, yet in end lots would remain,
This is just an intermission, the reminiscing here I start again.


There were journeys; there were trips and travels,
Half of the time, the plans would nothing but fail in ravels.
Laugh now I, as we still managed a few outings to count,
Taxis, temples, bikes, beaches, fun and food, and trekked we amount.


Some journeys turned classmates to friends, some brought tensions,
Some taught lessons, and some, well cameras I better not mention.
Dinners were outings too, well not when the dabbas and bai gave us a miss,
But regular coffee, you and café days with pizza’s flowing and parties of finesse.


Well food was never enough; don’t know if it was the stomach or the tongue,
Hawks, we tore the canteen pao or bhatura, scorpions, the coke bottles we stung.
Shamelessly we gormandised poor girls’ and a boy’s tiffin, it was a war you’d fear,
And before Amir’s movie did we gatecrash thee weddings at the lavish park so near.


Food over it was time again for those yawn-y classes,
Getting on to my nerves, those profs., were with heavy glasses.
Some spoke Greek, some English, Hindi, Marathi, and some couldn’t any,
Sitting with them, a I forget my grammar, language and a beautiful vocabulary.


Havens for completion work, lectures meant gossip and giggles,
Sleep apart, dreams, jokes, chips and frooties, even many a heart mingles.
Fests, were another such occasion, high spirits for talents, politics and affairs to rise
With opportunities alike, to friends and foes, music and dance, limelight added spice.


Rumors and images were made, even fell down a few when a working P was said,
Committees clubs and posts were grabbed; money was always the big word in red.
Other festivities I cry for the B’day bumps, ‘?’ is my name and I’m not a preaching kid,
Gifts in combo, dancing bongo, surprising people and caking faces I don’t want to get rid.


Birthdays I’ve celebrated four, and that wakes me up from this beautiful dreamy prose,
I loom my destination, and this scintillating journey snaps away as the scent of rose.
Fragrance, colour and gorgeous words I hunt, hunt to name my heart’s saga,
Voices may die out, but in my soul this tune would forever be a vibrant raga.


As the climax is reached, the lights die down, and the curtains draw,
I stand puzzled, gripping the abundance of love, looking at Time in awe.
When I clutch on to this love, I’m marooned in grief for it’s the time to part,
A tear rolls down, for all my loves move away, leaving just remembrances for me to cart.
Leaving just remembrances for me to cart.

Thursday 4 February 2010

When ways part...


We stood together basking in the sun.

Giggled and laughed and cribbed in the run.

A movie out. 2a.m., our stomachs craved for bun.

Even in tears we smiled and made fun.

We grew and there was a rush.

Time, I don’t know how, elapsed in a hush.

Duties called and in directions opposite we did dash.

Crawling to our centre point I saw all in a mash.

You phoned and found that I knew you were bound.

I sat whistling, crooning, knowing you’d take a round.

CFC in my room, and glistened blitz around you loud.

Waited I with friends and denser got between us the cloud.

As if in a fast paced film, I couldn’t get of you even a gaze.

Flashing lights, blaring sounds, glimmer added to your race.

New air and new names revolved now, you had new ways.

People, places, positions, priorities new; we’d long left our days.

Silent now, I scan the scene when all is done,

Earlier too some souls close, climbed and were gone.

I wait patiently; see your fate, if you return in dawn,

Or with names new you remain, or ditched, stand a winner alone.

Thursday 14 January 2010

the Kite puller!


Directionless so often, I’m way-less for sure.
As glides the kite high, in the endless azures;
Had heard this analogy for long I,
But felt its depth now, smiling, I sigh!



Multihued, the open is dotted with colour,
Swishing swirling and circulating higher and more,
Bright as they pep me up, glimmer they and shimmer.
I’m one of the bubbles that life up the blues as I flutter.



I transform into a smile as I soar high,
Rage takes over me, if someone else passes me by.
Kite or me, rejoice post victory;
Even panic at times, or at others turn we greedy.



The gale carries it, as to me the air around me.
I do nothing, but follow the race with glee.
At times its peace and am free,
Storms take its test, testing my spirit my synergy.



My endurance or the string’s strength,
Determination or thread well bent.
Aimless or swaying in the wind entwined,
Enjoy it I, and it worries my mind.



Call it string or call it spirit;
That’s the soul that runs it.
It may be the kite or I,
That soul is what veers us by.

The class that bullied!


The last lecture, exhausted and bored was that of some fibers and optics. The new teacher, very young, just graduated, novice and the first attempt at teaching kinds, takes our class with a great deal of preparations. Not only making her notes for the hour, but mentally being prepared to take such a Herculean task of controlling a class like ours, of putting up a brave fight, to be tormented again. There was a video shooting scheduled for today and that was a disaster for her. The class just won’t stop teasing her, disobeying her, troubling her and bullying her.

And there stands another of her age, her designation, but a little charming and of course in shape. Charming for the boys just get drooled over and the girls smile as she flashes her 1000 Watt so frequently. With no offenses to her, she does her job excellently and is encouraged by her audience, by the day. The question remains why such double standards?

I imagine myself if I were to stand and get assaulted by 70 young men and women, all closely knit, keeping me out and mocking at me. I imagine my heart bleed for being haplessly scorned at and disrespected even being an authority over the mob. Her moist eyes were evidence enough of the veritable rivers that would have flown out the moment she would have left the class.

Our ugly duckling struggles and strives to adapt to the new waters, though not perfect at her swim in the job, she gets discouraged each time she dips. Weak she is. Weak she may be at designation, weak in power – weak in speech or weak in the muscles. Weak could be shy, or could be timid. She could be weak for some insecurity or some inhibition, or weak if beauty is strength. She could be weak due to lack of confidence? And she goes weaker, loses her confidence till she is broke and finally breaks down! This is the stormy stoned path marked by lack of encouragement, leading to nothing but wrecked silence.

We all have a part in us that’s she! Just some by fate get so unveiled before all that Mockery smiles wicked at them. A piece of laughter for all, their excellence in various spheres bears the dark patch when they are ridiculed, made fun of or are discouraged. (Of course regular teasing by peers differs from bullies that insult a flaw!) A hilarious pastime for others might be recurrent steps towards the gallows for her.

This is a complex balance of patience, forgiveness and retaliation due to self esteem that’s demarked by fine lines. Testing her limit of patience, once it touches her self-respect she might fight back with vengeance breaking all cordial bonds that are taken for granted and disrespected. All would culminate in bad blood, all falling apart with hatred in the silence of dead end!

So next time you bully, remember the cords or fear your Big B, your Big Bully!


Monday 11 January 2010

Attacking Authority!

Yellow journalism in its frenzied gait does stumble upon gold at times. Yes the media is inevitably a big support system when the system itself turns monstrous. Ruchika Girhotra, the most recent prey to the voyeuristic system got some ears to her wails 19 years after, hapless, she took away her life; for of course who’d tackle the big men in khaki and pristine white.

Once a Hindi flick very aptly showed this milkman cycling back to his quarter when two young men sporting Police badges, bullied him, tapping his milk can open and threatened if he turned off the tap, as they zoomed on their white Pulsars. Authority dude! Tears rolled down as a veritable milk-fall swished onto the pavement. And there, yelling on top of their voices, these vegetable vendors are aware that the hawaldars have an unsaid stake in their aamdani that’s per paao of the sabzi ! It’s realizable that they hawk up at improper places adding to the infra woes of congestion, but isn’t imposing a law or a rule, removing them from there, mentioned anywhere in the High books?

Here zips a case that’s much closer. We leisurely enjoyed the bike ride in the post rain gale, when my bike coughed and got choked and passed off right in the middle of the crossing. It sapped out its fuel and my seconds for green light to turn red paced. Botching, I dragged the heavy black soul-less body back behind the zebra lines. As the netherworld’s book says, the cops hauled me aside and the rest of it is the well known story. Was I their day’s fish, or they really shouldn’t be genuine and considerate while at work? They spoke of the NOC and PUC papers but my wise friend knew some laws and we won the debate. Innocents, I pity my citizens, who unaware of the regulations imposed on them succumb to these imps’ whims.

Brutus prudently soliloquized in Julius Caesar that power corrupts when exercised without compassion. Authority for that matter isn’t bound to the khaki clad or the men in Gandhi topi. The system corrupts at birth. Just turn reflective and start tallying the crooked seconds from the maternity home, to your school, to the playground, to college… even testimony of your existence – the birth certificate is forged for the admissions to school. Parents crib about the birth month-year Oedipus complex, so hasn’t anyone thought of redeeming and altering the system a bit? And now you are here at college, where apart from you there are numerous others who blame the system and yet form it to be blamed.

Why are they having lunch at 2:30 p.m., an hour after the scheduled? “Was working at the window then”, I got back. And who’s responsible for the line and chaos at 2 and a half? Who isn’t aware of the red tape style at colleges? Does one need to mention the delays and hassles for every trivial errand? Each man to his own job is the decree. Why can’t on a non working day one man collect/complete petty details/formalities of a few other friends along with his? The authority trounces you down on raising a little voice for time/energy/money/ease/fuel (concerns for a failed Copenhagen too), “you’ll teach me how to do my work?” is often roared in corridors, offices across the country. Concerns, these aren’t ignorable! Can’t we take a genuine step to answer the aforesaid?
Ignorant of our rights, we grovel down, submit ourselves to their tyranny, for they handle our careers, grades, admissions, licences or of course we don’t want the court-kachaeri ke chakkar, police tormenting our families like ill-fated Ruchika’s and the way in of the neta into the scene!

This comes here in this technical paper as an urge to all budding engineers to fabricate a system wherein all its components are well greased and needn’t be dealt with oily hands, wherein no independent axle disrupts the functioning, wherein the maximum efficiency is attained. System I sigh; it’s time we realize we are an integral ingredient of the much abused system. We need to mend our souls for its soles to run.