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.

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.

We have learnt to take pride in our popular culture

Vir Sanghvi

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.

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.

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!   

catch up on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/?sk=messages&tid=1316962178576#!/video/video.php?v=427318303749&ref=mf

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.  

  

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.                                                                                       

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.