Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I have been good this year because i have been bad.

I have hurt people... myself... i have strained some more relationships... succumbed to expectations... never risen to other people's expectation.

I did my own thing... in a wrong way... calculated right or wrong from my point of view... reached a conclusion, again, from my point of view... i have made people cry... i have made them fall in love with me, just for the kicks of it...

This year I had conversations with people, just to prove them wrong... just to put my point across... harshly...

I hated, resented, hurt, over and over, again and again... broke promises... went back on my words... lied... to others... to myself.

I faked tears, happiness, emotions,... I borrowed... emotions, thoughts, life.

Dear Santa... I have been good this year because I know, I have been bad.

I have a problem

I have a problem.

I don’t have eyes… I have 2 cameras instead. Don’t know what megapixel, but unlimited memory. I don’t think mankind has invented cameras like this.

It has a video recorder and superb sound playback system too. It does take pictures (don’t know in which format though) and whenever I try to connect its memory card to the computer… the memory card crashes. I think there is some sort of a mismatch between their formats.

I think both the cameras record pictures in JPEG format and videos in MPEG format. The videos have sub-files recorded in AVSEQ format. And the only format my computer supports is DOC, that’s the reason why I can never capture anything from that camera to my computer.

There is an automatic deletion process in the 2 cameras. The picture gets deleted automatically if there isn’t space on the disc for a new one.

Today I took a beautiful picture of a spider being killed by the pressure of the water coming from a hand shower. The dark brown colored spider was dumbstruck by what hit him. Minutes after the first blast it tried to get up again, only to face another one. This one was fatal.

The picture was taken milliseconds after the second blast. The spider had succumbed to its fate. Death. The way his hands curled… to form his non-existent body… the way he gave up was shattering.

Sometimes, there’s no second chance. Sometimes, there’s no second blast. Sometimes, you wish, there wasn’t a second chance. And a second failure.

When you face death, you see life. The way you’ve never seen it before. Sometimes.

The next picture on the camera was of the spider’s dead body… moving slowly with the flow…

Milliseconds make moments. They destroy them too.

See, I am failing. Yet again. I want technology to connect the 2 cameras to my computer. I want a format that’s universal.

I want these pictures to talk, not fumble.

What women say?

What women say and what they actually mean.

“I don’t know…”
No.
“I think…”
No.
“… No”
No.
“Not really.”
No.
“I have never thought about you in that way”
Buzz off.
“It’s great.”
You can do better than that. Actually… much better than that.
“He’s cute.”
Not good looking.
“I have a headache.”
She has a headache.
“Coffee? … Will call you… for sure.”
I have a life.
“Do I look fat in this?” (With a smile)
You are dead both ways.
“Do I look fat in this?” (Seriously)
Come on… you can say yes and pay for my gym.
“I love you”
I love you.
“I love SRK”
Live with this one.

Did I make you happy?

Did I make you happy?

The core-existence thoery.

I am thankful to blinking

I am thankful to blinking.

It really blocks out a lot of misery.

We are so caught up with our self… our family… our world.

Everyone around you keeps judging you… on the basis of what you do… what you don’t… whom you love, whom you don’t…

Are we judging our self?

Do we love unconditionally?

Do we live up to our expectations?

Its simple I guess. Just do the right thing. It’s always right.

Practical memory

Today, the hair lying on the left side of the toilet seat had moved a centimeter towards right. It stayed there. It survived the massive flow of water throughout the day. He thought it was happy.

He was sleepy; his eyes were still a bloodshot red. He knew he was awake.

Because, he knew that the little brown piece of dirt still lay where it had lain 2 days ago. Because he knew that the hand wash gel had gone down by 47mm (approx). His mind was working. He knew he was awake.

The flush tank was getting refilled, the running water from the washbasin tap made the naphthalene ball lying in it; oscillate in a similar, oft-repeated fashion. His eyes captured every moment of the movement. The atmosphere sounds also managed to escape from the windowpanes.

He came out of the toilet, wiping his face with a towel and reached for his mobile phone. He knew he had a text message. He had heard the soft beep of the mobile phone when he was in the toilet.

He read the text. It was a forward from someone who was trying to find humor in nothing.

He wanted to erase all the recordings from his brain. Instead, the new ones kept occupying his mind. Every time he went to a different room, his brain automatically started associating it with the silly details that it had already recorded.

The shape of the cobweb in the left corner of the wall in the hall, the change in the position of the furniture, the way the charger wire was folded at a particular place, the shadows, the way the newspapers were folded… everything. It all recorded in his virtual memory. No reason why.

He had never thought these silly things could bother him, ever. Till one-day, his brain required an external hard disk, to store the practical memory.

He knew practical memory was practically impossible to live with.

Well then that’s him. The man with practical memory. Keep reading.

Mistakes make me

It’s always easy to find faults. When you are trying to find faults, in a way, you are being selfish. If that’s a strong word then lets me say self-centered.

We always judge people by the mistakes they make. In a way it’s not wrong to say that mistakes make a person. Meaning, a person makes mistakes, those eventually make him. Are we contrived?

I have lost faith in my words. I don’t trust them anymore. I think my thoughts, my words; my sentences are all contrived, forced… artificial. Seems like someone else is making them happen to me.

I thought I had conquered ‘expectation’. But now, I am questioning my faith and belief in myself.

See… I can’t write. It was all an illusion. A myth. Make-believe. I think I am cheating. On myself.

I think I am full of myself. Full of me. But who isn’t? Oh… justification! What am I trying to justify? To whom? To myself?

I know I have made mistakes and hung on to them. Today… they make me.

Have you tried marriage?

If not then you must. Well it’s obvious that you must have heard so many stories about the grand ceremony, either from your friends or the other victims.

The reason for mentioning the oft repeated topic is also very oft repeated. How does it change you, needless to mention that I am sick and tired of answering this particular question.

There is no much change except for one.

People around you give you a feeling that you are mature and responsible, all of a sudden.

They make you feel mature by doing measly things like this. They understand that you understand everything, suddenly. It’s okay if there is lingerie lying in the room, even if it’s lying, without any reason, at some place where it was not supposed to be. Then they apply the same level of understanding when they suddenly find out some sanitary napkins in some compromising positions and locations.

Even if there is just about a day’s difference between the bachelorhood and marriagehood, these accidents happen. Oh marriagehood is not a word? Well make it then!

To know more about the latest marriagehood trends, keep reading!

L.O.U.E

What am I made up of?

Some atoms, molecules, nuclei… ??? What?

If, as a human being, I am just a balanced chemical combination of these chemical elements then why am I different from any other similar human being?

Why doesn’t everyone think like me? Why can’t I be simple… or complex? Why can’t I understand everybody? Why can’t everyone understand me?

The doctors/scientists seem to have reasoned everything… every emotion, every feeling… every molecule. Then why does the same molecule react differently in everyone? Why do different people feel differently?

There should be a law of universal emotion. The law of universal emotion should define, justify and apply to every living being. LOUE.

In case you thought that I am going to state that law, right away in this new paragraph, then sadly you are wrong.

In case you are still interested… KEEP WAITING. The LOUE shall soon arrive.

A simple life

Last night’s hangover ran faster than the blood in her veins.

The dizziness made her think clearly… at least as of now. She remembered each and every thing that happened. She knew the clarity in her thought was directly proportional to the disparity she felt. She could see herself smiling.

With more than half a dozen books left midway, countless emotions wasted down the drain, some powerless strings attached to a couple of ‘no strings attached’ relationships, innumerable expressions waiting to be expressed, millions of feelings waiting to be felt and a relationship yet to be named, she had lived. She had lived life like no one else.

The sunlight began to feel her body up. Starting lazily with her toes, moving seductively towards the back of her knee, it decided to settle down and take some well deserved rest on her smooth back. The warmth was slowly seeping in, relaxing the pace at which the hangover moved.

When her mind drifted from the sunlight, she realized she was still smiling. So many men in her life had made her feel special. But last night was something else. It was a momentary feeling that would stay with her for a lifetime.

She wanted to wake up next to him…feeling his fingers carelessly sleeping on her naked body… his eyes, closed, but close to hers. She wanted to feel the warmth of his body making love to her warmth, his breath seducing hers.

She knew she was alone… on the bed. But, she had a feeling the door would soon open and he would walk in, smiling and blushing like a teenager. She knew he would stay… all her life… for a lifetime.

She had a simple life.

Cribbed for a better doll as a kid, smiled at the chocolate offers… cried for her father’s attention, craved for her first boyfriend’s jealousy…. Complained about the lack of time and money to her fiancé, cared about his perennially wet clothes in the rains… bothered about her bothered maid, loathed the excellent makeover of a colleague… fought for the relationship and then the marriage etc…

The routine was very normal too. Self-made bed tea followed by self-made breakfast. She always wanted a normal life, with no hassles and challenges. She had it now.

A series of incomplete relationships lined with complete emotions, formed the main gist of her life. But, she had lived.

She heard footsteps. She waited for them to become louder and closer… then waited for the door knob to turn and the door to open. She knew, the door would open and he will come towards her. She knew she would be swept away by his smile. She knew that even his thought made her blush.

Slowly, the expectation changed into curiosity. Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared at the door knob. The moment lasted an eternity. But the wait, lasted even longer.

The door knob did not move. But, she had lived.

A simple life.

Wrong

She knew what she was doing. Enslaving time. Enslaving emotions.

She knew it was wrong… but for a change that gave her the strength.

For ages we have been told not to do the wrong thing. But one day, suddenly, when you have to pick and choose between right and wrong, you pick wrong. Why? Because, you want to see what’s wrong with the ‘wrong’… because, you are tired of doing the ‘right’… because, you want to be wrong.

When you confess that you did the wrong thing, your acceptance is reciprocated with sympathy first, anger and destruction threats later. In relationships people do things which, according to the ethics of the world, are wrong. The wrongness of the thing gives them the strength to do it.

The moment she saw him, her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t want to explain anything to him, she didn’t want accept anything, she didn’t want to accept her fault. They had been together for over 3 years. She wanted to go. She was being consumed with guilt. She didn’t want to face that either.

She knew what she was doing was wrong. He shouted, cried, pleaded, threatened, cribbed, lied… slowly the realization dawned on him.

He let her go. Simply. Mildly. He knew it was wrong. She knew it was wrong. She knew she wanted to go. He knew, she won’t.

Because, he knew, it was wrong for her to let go of him. He knew she wanted to do the wrong thing. Because, she wanted to see what’s wrong with the ‘wrong’… because, she was tired of doing the ‘right’… because, she wanted to be wrong.

This time wrong was right.

The station mall

As the rains flood Mumbai, the local train stations are flooded with something else altogether.

They are flooded with whatever you want. In monsoon, it turns into a supermall, loaded with everything you need to be safe during the rains. From raincoats to waterproof caps and from waterproof mobile phone covers to colorful umbrellas… everything.

The advantages:

Point of sale: The place is bang on. For all the colorful umbrellas, the water-proof caps, the flashy raincoats, the floaters etc. the station is bang on. The vendors get the right attention from its target group.
Bargain: If it rains. The prices are fixed as the buy then would be need-driven.
Choice: Very wide
Quality: It’s worth the money.
Location: The location is very prime and very footfall friendly.
24/7: Well almost.

In the fast paced life of mumbai, the local train stations have managed to keep the mall culture alive.

I think everyone planning to enter into the ‘mall business’ should take a lesson or two from the local train stations.

Sleep-awake

For the past 20 days I have been ‘sleep-awake’.

I am sleeping but I am not asleep. It doesn’t make sense but it’s true. I can see things that happened to me, things that never happened to me, things that don’t bother me, happening right in front of me, when I am ‘asleep’.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know if it’s wrong. All I know is that it is happening to me. For the past 20-25 nights I haven’t slept for more than 3 hours each night. During the day also I don’t feel drowsy or lazy. It feels as if I am on adrenalin. But why?

I don’t know. Things keep coming to my mind. All the wrong things I did for the right people. All the right things I did for the wrong people. I don’t think about my past. I never see things from my past when I am ‘sleep-awake’.

Why do I feel like this? Why am I ‘sleep-awake’?

I want to sleep. Like a baby.

I am done

I think I am done.

I don’t have to prove anyone wrong anymore. I think I have lived. I am content. I am happy.

I don’t expect. Anything. I have felt pain, I have felt happiness and I have seen circumstances which result in them. I have felt loved. I have felt hated.

I have done something that I couldn’t do.

My English grammar is all over the place. The words don’t make sense, grammatically. The sentences are meaningless. Initially I was very conscious about my writing. Now, I am content with it (if not happy). It was a challenge.

I don’t think or believe that no one can write like me. But I am happy that I can write like myself.

I don’t make sense to myself. I just feel like running away from myself. I want to rediscover myself. I want to reinvent myself. I want to rebuild my beliefs, my faiths… my life. I want to rebuild myself.

What women want

Studies. Surveys. Reports.

For centuries now, this has been the most intriguing matter for the mankind. What women mean when they say this or that.

Movies made, songs written, surveys done and what not.
I decided to write on the most intriguing and the most controversial subject because my fiancé thinks I understand women. (Phew!!)

Like they say, Ignorance is bliss. I think all men believe in that. If you continue to be stupid, you become one. And if you are stupid, there are no expectations.

Don’t all men know that diamonds are forever and the best friends women can have? Don’t all men know that shopping can be a stress-buster? Don’t all men know that a ‘yes’ means yes and a ‘no’ means no (I don’t know also means no). Don’t all men know that coffee means ‘coffee’, not sex? And so on.

Men are materialistic. But they expect their women to be sacrificing, emotional and blah blah but materialistic.

Recently, I heard a radio ad which goes…

Man: If she says we need to talk… she means she wants to break up. If she says it’s nobody’s fault… she means it’s all ‘your’ fault.
Then another male voice says, because men don’t know what women want blah blah…

Well I am sure this ad is written by a man. Who claims to know what ‘she’ actually means. So doesn’t he understand women?
I think men like the tagline attached to them which says ‘He is stupid, but sweet’. Because, like I said stupid means no expectations.

Some handy tips for ‘stupid’ men:

Women love surprises, and of course diamonds.
Shopping is a stress-buster.
Yes means yes. No means no.
‘I hate you’ means I love you. (Remember this corollary doesn’t apply everywhere)
You don’t understand means ‘You don’t understand’.
Coffee means coffee. (not sex)
Don’t argue. Don’t offer solutions. Just listen. (Tell me honestly, don’t all men want the same thing when they are feeling low)
She is stronger (emotionally)
She can also be attracted to someone else.
Tears always don’t mean sorrow.
Holding hands is better than a kiss. (Even a hug is better than a kiss)
She is special. (Isn’t she?)
Learn cooking.
Say sorry. Even if it’s not your mistake (Remember ‘male ego’ is more famous than ‘female ego’)
She’s equally or more intelligent.
Say ‘I love you’ more often.
Don’t lie. Especially with ‘I love you’

So many more can be followed. But, what’s the point. Men don’t listen.
Understanding women starts once you stop analyzing them. I don’t think I understand them any better than anyone else. But I have stopped analyzing them. So I would like to think, the process has begun.

Till then I am plain ‘stupid’!

ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

Fighter????

When you cant move... you become a fighter.

You don't have a choice. Neither did I.

The Past

I was talking to someone about something that happened to me. She said I am ‘filmi’. I thought about it. A couple of people had told me that before. May be I am.

So I thought I would write something on my blog that’s filmi. Like me. About me.

I never felt like writing about something that’s very personal to me. I keep things to myself. Because, I think everyone in this world has problems. No one is interested in someone else’s.

Today, for the first time, I felt like writing that’s personal to me.

In December 1998, when I was in Hyderabad (enjoying my semester end recess from the engineering college), I was supposed to join my college back on the 11th of December.

I was supposed to board the bus on 10th. But, the morning of 10th December changed everything.

I met with an accident, and broke my left leg (below the knee joint) very badly. Maybe because I was too young, I could take the sight of my leg turned completely around, very easily. The car that hit me, took me to the hospital, and I was given first aid immediately.

Well I was operated on the next day. Okay the worst part now! On the 11th, I slipped into a coma (yes a coma), due to a long bone fracture complication (called thrombo-embolism). Well then I was in that comatose for 4 days.

Cut to one year later, the steel rod in my lag had turned into a beautifully bent bow, which had to be taken out and another one put.

Cut to one more year later, my leg had been operated 6 times (each surgery more painful and recovery slower than the last one). It had marks of a total of 65 stitches altogether. Both my thighs were deprived of the top most layer of skin (for plastic surgery), and a small piece of the pelvic bone was also grafted to avoid any shortening disability or a handicap.

All in all, hospitalization of over 2 years and a bed-ridden period of about 2 years, made me a different person altogether.

I used to wallow in self pity. People used to come to see me and show pity and when I used to complain about any pain, my doctor used only one word… Tolerate. I did.

Side-effects:
• Due to the fact that I was bed-ridden for so long, I had bed sores all over my back. (trust me they are far more painful than even a fracture)
• The left foot (the ankle), in spite of a lot of physiotherapy, lost its movement. I can’t say permanently, coz I’m still alive and there’s still hope.
• After those 2 years, I was addicted to sedatives (sleeping pills), for over one year.
• It really affected my engineering

The good part:
• I developed an interest in reading. Couldn’t do much more, lying on the bed.
• I became more patient. Had no choice.
• I always knew parents were selfless and their love, unconditional. In those 2 years, I experienced both the facts.
• Of course the girls. Where? The pretty nurses. From the warm sponge baths to even warmer get well wishes with roses, they did everything to make me feel better. (Some of them were really pretty. They used to come ‘off duty’, decently dressed in jeans and all, with flowers). Won’t tell you any further.

Well there’s so much more filmi stuff that actually happened, like when I was being shifted to another hospital (in a coma), there was no oxygen left in the cylinder etc etc… but I decided to cut that out. So I am really sorry if you don’t get the 70mm experience. 35mm is guaranteed.

The doctor said there will be a permanent handicap and that I will never be able to walk properly, all my life.

Today, I run… to leave my past behind. (ohh is that filmi…??? Will change it wait)

Today I run… to catch the train! (really)

The Final Solution

I have an OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I bug people to read my blog. Each and every one.

It’s a problem. It’s a disorder.

And problems have to be solved. Disorders need to be sorted out.

Here is the solution. It’s over.

This is my last post. No writing. No disorders.

Silence

Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
Silence. Silence. Silence.

His point of view

The marriage was over. It was a beginning.

They stood in the stark naked room, looking at each other, for eternity. Neither of them was crying. She looked at him, with calm, pale eyes. Her mind was at peace. She knew he had sensed it.

He looked at her, eyes questioning her, searching for love, in her eyes. They explored her face, her hands, and her body, for even the faintest of signs, of love, of longing. He knew, she knew, that he had sensed it.

Several minutes passed, neither uttered a word. They didn’t need to.

He wanted to keep looking at her. In her eyes, he wanted to look for his face, in her hands, his name in the fate lines, himself, in her warmth.

He wanted to feel her fingers on his face, tracing his eyelids, his skin, his lips… he wanted to feel her lips, close to his… her warmth against his body, he wanted his fingers to trace her body, her spine… he wanted her to close her eyes with pleasure… he wanted to kiss her.

They were still standing there, looking at each other. Asking for explanations, for answers, for reasons.

No I should not go. Who will take care of you?

This sentence always brought tears to his eyes. This time also. Standing just steps away from her, he cried like a baby, he fell on his knees, which resulted in a another bout of stark pain in his already injured leg, and cried.

She didn’t come to him, to soothe him, to love him, to make him smile, to kiss him. She stood there and a stray tear rolled down her cheek.
He managed to stand, tears in his eyes, he felt lonely. Totally alone. He had to leave her and go. He had taken a decision. He had to stand by it.

She never stopped him from going. She never said a word apart from, ‘Who will take care of you?’

He stood at the door and fought with the desire to turn back and look at her. He heard the silence for a few seconds.

Just when he was closing the door behind him, he heard, almost like a whisper, ‘Don’t go. I love you.’

After 10 years of marriage, it was all over.

The marriage was over. It was a beginning.

The twin particle

She stood there, words floating around her.
I love you, I care for you, I live for you, I can die for you…
Everything around her was moving at such a fast pace that she could hardly see anything. Everything was so random that it made sense.

The early morning sunlight was falling on his face. He was fast asleep and that made him look at peace. She loved him, the way she had never ever loved a man before.

She could literally see her emotions. Watch her feelings, twisting and turning, taking birth and coming to life, smiling and swirling inside her.

There… she could see the ‘love feeling’. But unlike the ‘free-born love particle’, she could see something strange attached to it. She could easily tell that the other feeling attached to it looked almost like its twin. How can something be attached to ‘the love-feeling particle’? How can it look exactly like it?

That’s when she saw another new ‘feeling particle’ taking birth. She was a genius at recognizing each and every one of them. She knew it was the ‘memory-feeling particle’.

She went into a daze as the ‘memory-feeling particle’ started making its presence felt. She didn’t want to think of the past. She immediately sent a message to her mind. Her mind reacted quickly, and soon she could see the ‘memory-feeling particle’ disappear. Now she could again concentrate on the ‘love-feeling particle’ and the one attached to it that looked like its twin.

She felt weird and defeated.
How come I never noticed the identical twin? She thought.

She was only watching the twin now. They both shared the same body and seemed comfortable with it too. She was surprised how the twin had existed but was never been noticed or felt by her.

The sunlight was bothering him now. She didn’t feel like getting up from the bed, to draw the curtains. But, she had to because he couldn’t. She drew the curtains, and went back to watching and reading the ‘twin particle’.

The sight surprised her. This time the twin was moving ahead. The last time when she was watching it, the love particle was leading the way for its twin. But this time it was the strange twin which led the way. That’s when she understood.

The reality shook her soul. That identical twin was the ‘sympathy particle’. Everything began to fall into place.

That’s why it looked like a twin… That’s why they share the same body… that’s why I care for him so much… that’s why I love him… what???

This time it was not the ‘strange twin’ that bothered her. She felt complete. She felt happy at the thought that the ‘sympathy particle’ was not alone. It shared the same body with the ‘love-feeling particle’. She cared for him. She loved him. That made her happy.

She saw the ‘happy-feeling particle’ germinating and soon grow bigger and bigger. She closed her eyes and smiled.

Fate lines

For a long time, with a sharp blade in his right hand, Arun wanted to change his fate.

His past was an uninvited guest, in his sleep, every night. He hadn’t slept for the last three nights. His eyes refused to stay closed. They wanted to stare into space, looking for a solution to everything. He could see the shadows of his memories looming over him.

He knew what the solution was. He just had to use the sharp edge of the silvery blade, against the softness of his skin. It was easy, and relief was just centimeters away. Without giving it a second thought, he used the blade mercilessly against his palm.

He didn’t want to die. He knew his destiny was in his hands, so he used the blade to make his palms smooth, free of any ‘fate-lines’. He took the pain as a blessing, because he knew, at the end of suffering, there was relief. He managed to scrape off the upper layer of the hard skin on his palm. With blood, all over, he smiled. He knew he had achieved it. He had changed his fate.

But, as usual, the reality was something else. He was holding the blade I his right hand, and suddenly he remembered that a man’s fate-lines are on his right hand. Without any further repentance, he took the blade in his blood-stained left hand and repeated the same act on his right hand.

Now, he was happy. Now, he knew that everything in his life will happen according to his plans, his hard work and his deeds. He will prove everyone in this world, wrong.

Fate, he muttered to himself. The immediate gesture that came to his mind was – his own hand tracing the forehead. Some people say your fate lies on your forehead, in its wrinkles and in the incomplete lines formed over it, by time.

Arun was not in the mood to take any chances. He immediately took the blade and this time it was his forehead. 10 minutes later, Arun managed to get on his feet and walk. He felt free, unburdened… he knew; now everything was really in his hands. He had managed to control his destiny. His decisions were final.

He felt like God.

God, I am a human being

Yes I am a human being. Yes I am a human being.

I err. I really don’t know what’s right or wrong.

Sometimes, like every human being, I feel like God. I begin to think and believe that everything is in my control. My decisions can change lives. Sometimes, they do. That makes my faith even stronger. But, then I feel pain.

That’s not divine. God doesn’t feel pain. Then I look for a justification for this pain, and when I don’t find any, I cry. Like a human being.

But sometimes I don’t cry, because the tears seem to be too lazy. As a kid, I always used to think that crying in the night is very dark. I hate dark thoughts. But I want to cry. It’s an expression. And an expression is a form of energy, and energy is always supposed to be released.

Then suddenly I feel weak. Because I cant rule over my mind and my body. I can’t cry even when I really want to. So, I feel weak. Helpless. Like a human being.

I like to think that I am an adult… a sensible, mature adult. But, when I sleep, I curl up like a small baby, yearning for his mother’s warmth. But there’s no mother. I am an adult. Adults are supposed to father. Not mothered. Adults are supposed to handle situations on their own. They are supposed to offer solutions to everyone around.

I look for a hand to hold. Like a human being. But, there’s none. I feel lonely. I want to cry. I want to cry.

Why do all the right things happen at a wrong time?

When you want to be a human being, God wants you to be him, and decide what’s right or wrong. When you decide, he proves you wrong. He proves, that he’s God, and you can’t be him.

But, this time I have made a decision.

YES I AM A HUMAN BEING. Now, God, prove me wrong!

The Beggar

Jehangir’s hands were rubbing against the coin impatiently.

For the past 20 years, every morning, Jehangir sat on the same footpath near the local train station. His stained tattered shirt was very seasonal. He could feel each and every season through it.

He knew how much a one-rupee coin weighed and also how it was made. He knew it was round with no edges, unlike the 20 paise coin earlier. But they didn’t make any of those now. They only made 25 paise, 50 paise and one rupee coins now. Unlike many other rich beggars, Jehangir made only 6 rupees a day. He always thought that people had gotten used to him by now, and also the fact that he was blind. Once something becomes a part of your everyday life, you take it for granted. He knew that people, who saw him sitting there for the past decade, knew that he could survive without their charity. Initially he felt angry because of his helplessness and the assumptions of people. But slowly and naturally he got used to that.

He never stretched out hands or begged for money. He just sat there, exposing the hollows of his eyes, to people who could see. He heard the footsteps of men, women, kids, stray dogs…everyone.

There were days when he didn’t even get those 6 bucks. But, whenever he managed to collect at least 4 (now 5), he went to the close-by ‘vada pav’ vendor to feed his perennial hunger.

Today was his unlucky day. He had managed to win sympathies from only three passers by, who gave him one coin each. His expert hands quickly surveyed all the three coins. Since the previous morning he had eaten only one rotten piece of bread. Even that was actually a share of the stray dog’s lunch. Jehangir couldn’t even finish one mouthful of it.

The shape of the coins disappointed Jehangir. It brought tears to his eyes. All the three coins were round. 3 rupees. But he decided to go to the vendor and plead him for the remaining 2 bucks.

I was busily munching on the vada pav when Jehangir gave the 3 coins to the vendor and told him a detailed story in order to get the 2 rupee credit. He said he will definitely come and give the 2 rupees tomorrow. The vendor said with a smile, that it was okay, but insisted that Jehangir paid him the balance tomorrow.

Just when I was beginning to believe that humanity is still alive I happened to catch a glimpse of the three coins, which Jehangir had given the vendor, lying on the table. I was startled.

They were 3 brand new 2 rupee coins, which Jehangir’s expert hands had never felt before. The new 2 rupee coins, recently rolled out, are round in shape, unlike their old versions.

The vendor had just duped the beggar for 3 rupees. The remaining two rupees will come to him tomorrow. A profit of 5 rupees.

More than angry, I felt helpless. I took out another 5 rupee coin (for the vada pav I was eating), looked at the vendor and said, “Maaf karo… aur aage badho… mere paas aur change nahi hai.”

I am a kid

I have just discovered writing and I am very excited about it. I have just learnt to combine words to make sentences, combine sentences to make paragraphs, paragraphs to pages, and pages to stories. I have just learnt what makes sense.

I have been so excited and engrossed in my discovery that I forgot everything else. No one was equally excited about my discovery. No one should have been. Someone was needed to bring me back to my life, my existence. Someone had to break the hard-nut of my ‘discovery-ecstasy’ domain. Someone had to mother me.

Who better than ‘situations’. They hit you hard in the face and bring you back to your adulthood. You cannot be a kid at 27. You cannot get excited about silly words.

If you become a kid, then situations don’t affect you. You are always cheerful. You are selfish. You cry for selfish reasons. You are happy for selfish reasons. You don’t care what other people think. You do things that excite you. You want people to be interested in your discoveries, no matter how small they might be. When you are a kid, you think this world is a nice place.

I am discovering words, stories… life. I am discovering emotions. I am discovering silly things. I am getting slapped by situations. I am learning.

I am a kid, because I want to be a kid.

I don’t want to grow up. I don’t want to understand situations. I don’t want to learn how to tackle them. I don’t want to become an adult because they ‘don’t’ make mistakes.

I want to keep making mistakes all my life. I want to fall flat on my face. I want to lie. I want to ask stupid questions. I want to offer stupid solutions. I want undivided attention. I want to keep discovering. I want to feel overjoyed at simple things, for simple reasons. I want to feel this way, all my life.

A nation celebrates

In India, cricketers are God. The statistics say: Sachin tendulkar is the best batsmen in the world.

The same statistics support these facts:

Nov 2005: India recorded 17 successful straight ODI chases. 5-1 ODI series win over England
July 2006: First test series win in the Caribbean in 35 yrs.
Dec 2006: First-ever test win in SA
Feb 2007: Back-to-back home one-day series against West Indies and Sri Lanka at home.
In tests: 38.88 (%win)
In ODIs: 51.61 (%win) (As good as the average of John Wright)

We can go on and on.

So, Greg Chappell resigned. And the rest of them are safe.

When there’s litter on the roads, the government is made a scapegoat… for the suffering law and order, the police… for cricket, Greg Chappell.

In a country where people have temples for their favorite celebrities, where people can even kill for their favorite stars… in a country that believes more in the players than the game, a revolution will always begin with criticism and wrath.

Why can’t Sachin be dropped, if he is not playing well? The game makes him what he is, he doesn’t make the game.

The cameras zoom, capture and report, the biggest event in the history of Indian cricket. Greg Chappell leaves the scene, like a hero, smiling, unhappy and shattered. It ends.

This one is for all our ‘senior and “capable” heroes’ – The revolution has begun.

Meanwhile the ‘media eye-washed’ fans of Indian cricket celebrate.

One killed

The loudspeaker roared.

The customer standing at the shop was scared. Aman saw the fear in his eyes. He knew what was coming. He was silent.

Aman said, “Arre Ahmed bhai… kya hua?”
Ahmed said reluctantly, “Kitni baar bola hai maine, itni zor se kyun lagaate hain ye speaker… har kisi ko nahi pasand aata…”
Aman said sympathetically, “Arre jaane do na Ahmed bhai, kuch nahi hota…”
Ahmed said matter-of-factly, “Arre Aman bhai… aap bhale insaan ho…par aapko nahi pata… jo hoga achha nahi hoga”.

Two days later, the people broke-out in a protest against the roaring and the ‘annoying’ loudspeaker. There were complaints, pretests, processions, curfews, rumors, clashes, injuries and death. Two days later, everything was slowly limping back to normal. The shops were open again.

Aman’s day was normal and ‘as usual’. He always found the newspaper very engrossing. The dark black bags under his eyes reflected the intake of words per hour, by his eyes, and also the distance (in kms) covered by them. Every morning from 7 AM to 12 noon, his eyes were accustomed to the black ant-like alphabets printed on the off-white newspaper. They traveled from left to right, everyday, without complaining.

Today was nothing special. It was 11.30 AM and the Aman had squeezed the newspaper enough for the NEWS. Aman’s business gave him ample time at home. The ‘Shri Hanuman General kirana store’ was one of the biggest landmarks of his colony. It was named after the great Indian bachelor God. Incidentally, Aman’s father was named after Him.

Aman called his wife from the store. His house was just a few blocks away. He told her that he will be home in another half an hour, for lunch.

The loudspeaker roared again.

The mosque was on the way to Aman’s house, which was just a 3-minute walk from his store. Aman saw a mob outside the mosque.

They are at it again.

Just when Aman was trying to move away from the mob, trying to avoid their eyes, someone threw a boulder at another man who was standing inside the mosque. Aman knew what would follow. He bagan to run. But, even before his body could gather some momentum, something very hard hit the back of his head. He fell flat on his face and died.

Aman’s wife is still running around the insurance firms to collect the compensation. His son is sitting at home, as there’s no money to pay the fees of his school. The ‘Shri hanuman general kirana store’ has been closed ever since and the land lord says he will take the goods and everything else in the store as compensation towards non-payment of the rent.

3 days after the incident, the loudspeaker was roaring again, with a 6 PM deadline.

The black ant-like alphabets printed on the off-white newspaper read,
‘Clashes in the city - One killed’

The End

Whenever I begin a new book, I do a strange thing. Just when I am in the first few pages, I read the last line of the book.

No I am not a restless soul, without any patience. For me, the ending is very important. Because I think that’s where the idea germinates. Every good story and every good book, I think, had begun with an end. The author/writer then writes it backwards.

May be that’s why you can never write autobiographies at the age of 30 or 40 or 50, because you would not know the end.

And I think that’s how life is. Everything begins with an end.

A relationship begins with an end of loneliness or with an end of another bad relationship, winning begins with the end of losing, smiles begin with the end of tears and so on.

And we are always looking for endings. We want a relationship to end in marriage, a war to end in peace, an old year to end in a new-year bash, a week to end in a weekend, a tiresome day to end in a good nights’ sleep.

You want to live life to the fullest because you know; this life will one day come to an end. For that excitement, you start enjoying your life, you start living.

It all begins with the end.

Profound???

I am writing this because I have nothing else to write.

Someone told me that my thoughts are profound.

I opened MS word as soon as I could access my computer, typed “Profound”, right clicked on it to get as many meanings as possible.

Profound – Deep, thoughtful, reflective, philosophical, weighty, insightful… (Haven’t even changed the order)

I don’t know. I haven’t seen life. I don’t understand emotions. I don’t understand situations. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I only feel. Because I can only feel. I am very superficial (coincidentally that’s an antonym for profound). I am very shallow. If I see love, I feel it. If I see anguish, I feel it. I am just a simple human being. Full of contradictions and full of adversities.

Situations are always mightier than actions, words, emotions, thoughts, feelings…everything. So how much ever I try I can never put situations into words.

So, I am not profound. I am not deep. I am shallow. I just let situations pass through me.

Yes, I am wrong

After reading the post “I am wrong”, someone had this discussion with me.

“Do you feel better after writing this?”
I said, “Writing always makes me feel better”. Thinking about the question and questioning it I asked, “Do you feel better after reading it?”
“Why should I feel anything?” was the defensive reply.

When you feel sorry, you feel that you are wrong. And when you feel you are wrong, you feel very uneasy. It’s a feeling that no words can describe. You can never put god-made feelings in man-made words.

The question never came as a surprise to me. The ‘I am wrong’ process was a realization process. And realization is always questioned. Realization is acceptance, and acceptance invites criticism. People form opinions. They live in them. You are supposed to live in this life, not in opinions. Everything in life moves on. When you stick on to an opinion, then your life moves with it, collecting dust on the way, dust of judgments, more opinions, dust of the man-made illusion of right and wrong, dust of hatred.

You find joy in someone else’s realization. You find immense joy in the fact that this person has made so many mistakes. You laugh at him.

I am happy I can make people laugh. If I ever brought tears to their eyes, I am making up by this smile on their face.

Yes, I am wrong.

Just inches

She could feel the early morning breeze, blowing from the window, caressing the soft skin of her back. She was still very sleepy. Her eyelids refused to move. She wanted to get up and draw the curtains over the window, but the sleep running through her veins and nerves was drugging her.

She drew the white sheet over her naked body, gathered herself up and managed to leave the warmth of the bed and moved towards the window. The sleep was anaesthetic. She barely managed to draw the curtains, returned to the bed and threw herself lazily in its warmth. Her mind was at peace. No thoughts. No illusions. No memories.

The white sheet still hugging her body, she turned her back to the window again. Just when she was drifting into the realms of sleep… she felt him. His hand was making love to her back. The soft skin on her back already felt sedated by the touch. The finger tracing her spine, up and down, again and again, made her heart race. She wanted to turn and face him, but she was afraid, afraid that the sedation would end. She felt the soft roughness of his palms now. The palm covered a larger area on her back than his finger… she could feel the restlessness in his hands. She could feel his pulse racing. She wanted to get seduced. She was getting seduced. The sleepiness was beginning to mingle with the seduction. She wanted to feel his hands all over her body… all over her skin. She realized she was breathing faster. Reluctantly she moved an inch away from him and it all stopped… for an eternity. She waited. She wanted to feel his hand… his warmth. It didn’t happen. She felt empty. She repented moving away. From the love… the seduction… the sedation. The sleep in her eyes was getting moist. She wanted to cry. She wanted to correct her mistake. To undo her faults. To change her past. She wanted to turn and hug him and say sorry to him. She wanted to feel his lips against hers. She cried.

She cried. She cried. She cried. She cried. She cried.

When you are too close to love, you are scared. You know it’s going to end. You know you don’t deserve to be blessed. With love. You start believing in the fact that you cannot be happy so much that it starts happening. Because, you make it happen. You pull yourself away from it so that it becomes easier for you to handle its end. Because you believe it’s going to end.

All your life you were scared you would never find true love, when you find it, you are too scared it would end. You never change. You remain insecure.

Our belief in the bad is stronger than our faith in the good. And strong emotions always win. It would end. It will end. It’s going to end. It’s ending. It’d ended. It ends.

She looked for him restlessly, guiltily; lovingly… she didn’t find him. She wanted one more chance, to express her love, to cry in his arms, to hug him and say sorry. She wanted to tell him she was just inches away from him. Just inches.

I am wrong

I am wrong.

I am not a nice guy.

All my life I played the role of a role model brilliantly. This is what my parents think. I think they are wrong.

They think I set an example for everyone in the family. I think they are wrong. They think I don’t lie. I think they are wrong. They think I am brave. I think they are wrong. They think I am strong and I don’t cry. I think they are wrong. But it’s not completely their fault. Everyone has illusions.

Everyone wants to be a role model. Everyone wants to set examples. Everyone wants to be truthful.

Personally, I don’t believe in right or wrong, truth or lie, good or bad. I think the situations are far bigger than these notions.

Still I believe I am wrong. I have hurt people. I have cheated myself. I have bent my beliefs. I have made people who love me, cry. I have lied. I have tried to be someone I wanted to be. I am weak. I cry. I lose.

I always want people to believe that I am a nice guy. Loving, caring, emotional, helpful… I am not. I am a simple human being. As complex as anyone.

I want people to believe that I am socially responsible, that I help people without any expectation or a selfish motive… that I love unconditionally… that I am clean… that I am actually right.

But I am wrong.

Thoughtless

I was locked in a small room, crowded with people - Men, women, and children. A small room, of about 60sft, stuffed with about 50 people in it.

There was a man wearing a torn shirt with a stained pair of trousers, a woman wearing a tattered sari, a small kid with his shoe-polishing kit and with shoe-polish all over his body, and a lot of shoe-sole prints on his white-turned-yellow shirt, a little girl, just wearing a small ‘chaddi’ and a stained smile…

I could feel their bodies, pressing against mine. Everyone in the room, gasping for breath… as there was only limited air to be inhaled and everyone wanted their share. I was inhaling the air exhaled by the man standing right in front of me. Borrowed living.

I was beginning to feel suffocated and wanted to rush to the door and open it. Pursuing my game plan I began to move towards the door, slowly, pushing everyone I could, squeezing through everyone I couldn’t.

Something changed. As I tried to walk towards the door, I felt nothing. No bodies, no exhaled carbon dioxide… nothing. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I could still see everyone, wearing the same clothes and the same attitude and the same expression. But my movement was not restricted by their presence. Their bodies were not occupying any space. Perplexed and lost, I had finally managed to reach the door. But alas, it didn’t have a knob or a latch.

I was shattered. I thought each one of them would be smiling at my futile attempt, but I was wrong. They were all staring at me in the same expressionless manner. But just when I was beginning to feel choked, I realized, there was no door… I just had to walk away from the human cluster. And that’s what I did, walked through the door, looking back at all of them, feeling free and isolated.

The feeling of suffocation had left me and I could breathe; and feel and enjoy the freedom. But it didn’t last too long. As I turned my face away from them I saw someone standing right in front of me, dressed in black, smiling at me. It wasn’t a stained smile. It was clean, healthy and humane.

As I moved through him, I realized they were all human beings. They weren’t my thoughts. I was their thought. They existed. I didn’t.

I was just a thought.

Hissa

I hate the legal system in India. I would like to think that I am very informed and know what the other countries’ legal systems are like. I hate policemen. I think all they want is their ‘hissa’… their ‘share’

I have a PAN card, a license (that was taken by the actual 3-day long process, involving a driving-test) and I have a two-wheeler (with all of its necessary papers in place) and I always wear a helmet while driving.

But the other day something strange happened. At a crowded traffic signal, I was stopped by a cop (not a traffic-cop). Some ‘important people’ were going to pass by that road in some time. I stopped as I knew there wasn’t any harm. He asked for the bike papers which I showed it to him. He demanded a pollution-check document (which you update every 12 months). Luckily for me I even had that in place. But I don’t know what went wrong with me; I held it back and told the cop I didn’t have it.

‘200 rupaye ka fine bharna hoga’. He said heartlessly.
‘Itna paisa to nahi hai mere paas’. I replied, trying to read his expression.
‘To theek hai… (thinking) jo bhi hai de do… 40-50... receipt nahi milega par’

I took out my wallet and handed him a 50 rupee note… and a 100 rupee note and then another one… and said, ‘Receipt nahi chahiye…’

I could see he wanted to say ‘thank you’. As he pocketed the money, I moved away.

I hate policemen. I think all they want is their ‘hissa’… their ‘share’.

P.S: All salaries are as per Maharashtra state

Police constable – Rs.6k to 8k (Annual increment - Rs.75) (After about 15 years of service)
Senior constable – Rs.8.5k to 10k (Increment – Rs.100)
Police hawaldar – Rs.10.2k to 12k (Increment - Rs.100)
Police sub-inspector – Rs.15k – 16k (Increment - Rs.175)

And the salary that an average private sector employee (like me) draws after 3 years of service is as much as the Assistant Police commissioner’s; with an annual increment at least 20 times that of his annual increment.

Marriage love

Her heart skipped a beat.

She’d been married to this man for the past 3 years.

It was an arranged marriage. A simple, sweet happy married life followed. Happiness has no definitions. She was a simple woman, had no major ambitions or dreams. She just wanted a peaceful and a problem-free married life, which she pretty much got.

Every year they celebrated their wedding anniversary by inviting their common friends over. He always praised her cooking and her caring nature in front of everyone. He was proud to have a wife like her. They were very compatible, liked the same cuisine, same movies, same songs, same holiday destinations and even the same colors.

They never argued or disagreed. Life was smooth. After 2 years of marriage, she gave birth to a beautiful daughter. That changed their lives. They kept awake for their little bundle of joy, to change her diapers, to feed her, to see her grow-up, every minute, every second.

She had never really loved her husband. Neither did he make an attempt to make her fall in love with him. He respected her and cared for her, but love never happened.

They took the baby for evening strolls, in parks, on the beach and every where else. The baby in the pram, they walked hand in hand like a love-struck couple. Gradually the small girl started muttering small words like ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’. She learnt to walk, fall and run. She became their world.

Then one day something happened. The kid was in her father’s arms while he was talking to an old friend who was passing by. He introduced the friend to his wife saying, ‘Meet my wife Anjali’.

Anjali muttered an indifferent ‘Hi’, indifferent because she had just discovered something very different about her husband and about her kid, about their relationship.

Anjali was looking at her daughter, like a child. Observing every minute detail, every minute movement of her hands, her little fingers, her soft skin, her cute lips, her sweet smile as and when, her small eyes… everything. The kid was studying her father’s face as intently as her mother was studying hers.

Her cute little fingers traced her father’s lips, eyes, eyelashes, eyebrows, ears, cheeks… she was smiling… she felt her father’s cheek on her little-pink palms, they raced across his face… she threw her arms around her father while the father hugged her back, amidst his conversation.

Anjali was trying to record each and every movement of this little moment that she saw, forever in her memory. A stray tear rolled down her cheek. For the first time she had felt love, although through her daughter’s heart. She felt complete. She smiled. The mixed emotion overwhelmed her.

When they were walking back, Anjali held her husband’s hand, like everyday. But today it was different, and her husband also felt something was different. He didn’t know what though. Their hands caressed passionately. He looked at her and smiled.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Class apart

The train was slowly leaving the station while he was still running down the stairs as fast as he could. At the nick of the moment he managed to get one foot on board. And as the platform drifted away, he managed to make some place for himself inside the cabin, overhearing some words like ‘Abe first class hai’…

The train was crowded but there was enough space for Mushtaq’s feet. The man standing next to him was now looking at him disapprovingly. The glint of anger in his eyes made Mushtaq very uneasy. ‘Pata nahi kahan se first class mein chad jaate hain’ the angry bald man murmured to himself.

Mushtaq’s mind soon left the train’s first class cabin and moved faster than the fast train to reach his home. He was supposed to collect his passport today. Passport – the license needed to travel abroad. Away from this country. His country.

But he was soon pulled back to the present. The ticket checker had boarded the train, and he was just a couple of passengers away. The train was slowing down to halt at the next station. Just then another man, who was standing behind Mushtaq, whispered in his ears, ‘station aa gaya…chup chap utar kar agle dabbe mein chad ja… TC pakad lega to 200 rupaye ka fine to maarega…’

But before Mushtaq could react, the TC grabbed his hand and said. ‘Tere ko malum nahi hai ye first class ka dabba hai? Tum jaise logon ki wajah se humko bhi itni bheed mein train mein chadna padta hai… chal ab utar yahan aur bhagna mat…200 rupaye nikaal’

Without uttering a word, MUshtaq got down. As the train raced past after its hault, the TC said again, angrily, ‘Second class ka ticket hai ya wo bhi nahi hai?’

Mushtaq took out his wallet and showed it to him. The TC was startled at what he saw.

‘Tune andar kyun nahi bola tere paas first class ka pass hai?’

Mushtaq said innocently, ‘Baat pass ki nahi hai saab, shakal ki hai, Usse kaise badalta?’

Waise bhi aapne poocha nahi thha mujhse.’

Mushtaq boarded the next train to reach his home. To collect his passport and leave this country. His country.

Vernal Equinox

It’s the vernal equinox today.

A morning ride in the crowded local train in Mumbai makes you impatient. It’s the source of an angst that builds, and stays with you through-out the day. And the next day, there’s another one.

You want to kill everyone. Anyone who stamps on your feet, anyone who robs you of your space (not that it exists anyway) and anyone who smiles. You don’t rule your mind. It rules you.

The speeding taxi facing you, the vegetable vendor challenging his lungs by challenging about the best prices, the over-weight old woman carrying a basket full of jhinga (stinky dried fish), the people trying to move ahead with the anxiousness of a new born, the school kids running at the pace of an athlete, the honking vehicles declaring their superiority… everything…you just want to become doubly strong and throw them out of your way, and your life.

The traffic cop, the politicians, the police, the legal system, the corrupt officials… you just want to kill them. Because you logically think it’s the best way to get rid of them, to clean the system, to become the emerging power in the world.

I think the vernal equinox is a state of mind. It’s the victory of the dark over the bright. Over the ever-winning day, it’s the victory of the underdog night.

For the Gen – Y, everyday is the day of the Vernal Equinox, when the dark feeling of ‘killing and solving’ looms over the bright and white feeling that you can actually make a difference by staying clean. By not contributing to the corruption, you can actually contribute towards the larger goal of a corruption–free India.

A race never means you have to defeat others. It means YOU have to win. A victory comes by winning, not defeating.

Life makes me cry, not death

What happens when people die? What happens when someone very close to you dies? You cry. At the loss. At the void that’s created in your everyday life.

You cry because things won’t be the same. Ever. You cry because you loved the person. You cry because you are a human being, who’s incomplete. The person, who has now left you, completed you, in some way or the other.

But no one lives forever, and we all know that. Do we cry because we are scared? Scared of our own end.

It’s a strange world. We all are incomplete and some other incomplete person completes us. When that person dies, we cry.

I don’t know if I would cry. I don’t know if my thoughts make any sense. I don’t care.

I think life is scarier than death, at least when you see people sleeping on the pavements and under the open sky. The thought that the 15 year old girl who sells flowers on a traffic signal, is a normal girl, who has her periods once in every 35 days, makes me cry.

Death makes you feel small. Fragile. When the moment of death comes, even the happy memories of the person, make you cry. And when you cry, you lose. You show that you are weak. But isn’t life mightier than death. Then why cry?

Life makes me cry, not death.

The death of the writer

The incidents and the names of the characters in this are purely fictional. Any resemblance to real life is coincidental. (Have to be politically correct you see)

Scene 2: Reporter at the scene of the crime
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 6th March 2007
Time: 11.20 AM

Reporter: This is the place where the writer was last seen (Imagine an open window at the 4th floor). His name was Eknath Dindoshi, nick named ‘Ekdin’. He was working for Radio Ga Ga for the last 10 months. But, suddenly last evening, after his day’s work was over and he leaped from this window and is battling for his life at a nearby hospital. He is 27 yrs old.

Flashback:
Scene 1: Eknath Dindoshi at his office.
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 5th March 2007
Time: 11.00 AM

For the past 10 months, Eknath Dindoshi, has been writing 14 scripts (on an average) per day. The scripts are for the ads that you hear on any radio station. Yes, 14.

“Wasn’t this supposed to go on air yesterday?” Oh hell…yes!!!
“Here is the print ad of the brand campaign attached. Dude I need this by this evening”. Wat?
“Why will this take so long? You just have to adapt the print ad into radio.” Ya right!
“Hey I gave you the brief last night… is the creative ready?” Served
“What is this yaar? You were supposed to give 2 options.” When?

Thus the name Eknath Dindoshi changed to Ekdin. Because the deadline for everything was always one day – Ek din. This nickname was ideated and conceptualized by Eknath himself, on one of those days when he used to think.

Today was 5th March. And he was supposed to deliver some ‘path-breaking’ creatives for a major telecom brand. He decided to give some thought to the entire campaign over a cup of hot chocolate.

1.45 PM:

The boss comes and says there’s an urgent promo script to be written, that will go on air as soon as it’s ready. The writer does his best and delivers it in 3 hrs flat. But alas, the time for the telecom brand meeting has come. (By the way, he was supposed to go for the meeting also. After all it was a “creative” meeting)

5 PM: Meeting with the client

It goes well and the client likes the essence of his ideas, but wants great scripts by tomorrow.

6 PM: Back in office

The boss comes and tells him to be at the ‘Advertising awards function’ tomorrow.
“We will definitely win some awards”.
The ground beneath Eknath’s feet began to move. He felt the jitters of the award function, like a school kid who fears his results. He decided he would not be able to handle the pressure. There was no way out.

7.30 PM:

He went to the open window, and with tears in his eyes, he leaped.

Scene 3: Reporter at the scene of the crime
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 6th March 2007
Time: 4 PM

Reporter: This is the update on the writers’ story from the hospital. The writer has died minutes ago. The police have registered a case of suicide. His name was Eknath Dindoshi and he had jumped from this window last night.

P.S: Needles to say, none of Eknath Dindoshi’s works were even nominated at the awards function. Because while the normal agency takes 14 days to write a script that’s worth nominating and Eknath uses 1 day to write 14 worthless ones.
P.S: The radio industry is booming. Records the highest ad spend last year.

Yada Yada hi dharmasya

The land where Bala saheb, Dawood Ibrahim and Harshad mehta were born.

Date: 05/05/06
Time: 6pm to 8pm
Category: Non-fiction

Note: The scene is set in mumbai. and all the names of the palces are real.

Location 1: Prabhadevi (A place in mumbai)

I walked out of my office a little early as I had to meet someone at Churchgate. The guy I was meeting was a DJ and he plays in weddings. A very urban trend of the very old tradition of ‘sangeet’. And well I was writing the script for the entire Shaadi skit. Wow.

No cab was ready to take me to Elphinstone station, from where I was taking a train to Churchgate. After trying my luck with at least ten selfish cab drivers, I finally asked the cab guy standing right next to me [whom I had asked already]. He said no one will go as there will be a lot of traffic on the fly over. Then he suggested, “Taxi ko haath dikhane ka, darwaaza kholne ka, bhaith jaane ka. Poochne ka nahi.” I decided to take his advice. For the first time. I reached Elphinstone station in 10 mins flat.

I have a seasons’ pass for the first class from Goregaon to Lower Parel [one station away from the Elphinstone st.]. I took a journey extension ticket from the counter for the second class. The man at the counter said smiling “Jaana bhi second class mein, aana bhi second class mein Lower Parel tak” I smiled and said yes again. I took his advice. Again.

As I reached the decided place the DJ was patiently waiting for me on his bike. On our ride to the ‘clients’ place he briefed me about ‘the right questions’. The main objective of the entire meeting was ‘to get a feel of the entire thing’ and ‘to know the likes and dislikes of the people of both the families’. The only message that I got from the entire meeting was this: People in business take the name of ‘Shri Harshad Mehta’ with far more pride than that of ‘Gandhi’. After a long chat, rather a lecture from him, we left and ‘I had gotten the complete feel’.

I took a Borivli Fast from the Churchgate station. Just to remind you that at the ‘prime time’ or the ‘rush hour’ I was in the second class compartment of a fast train going to Borivli. The train was quiet empty and I asked the man standing next to me whether the train would stop at Goregaon or not, as it was a fast train. I asked the question in Hindi and the man replied in English, “Yeah it stops. It become a slow train after Andheri”.
We struck a conversation. He asked me where I am from and what do I do and many more questions. He told me how Punjabi people, in weddings, hand out bottles of whisky at the entrance of the marriage hall. After a formal farewell, he got down at Dadar. Thank God.

The journey:

The compartment was jam packed. The most of the conversation happening around me was in Hindi, which was very pleasing to the ear.

One man: Bhai yeh Bhayandar ki gaadi hai na?
Answer: Nahi kaka Borivli hai.
The man standing next to me was already giggling.
The same question was repeated. This time it was tossed at me. I shot the same answer at him. Now the man standing next to me couldn’t stop himself. He asked the same man, “Uncle Bhayandar ki gaadi hai na ye”. The way this young chap was giggling, the uncle knew that he was being made fun of. After a little more fun and frolic the man got down at Andheri.

The fun:

3 men around me. One, a little middle aged, the other 2, the same funny guys who were making fun of the uncle. I was wearing a yellow kurta with some Sanskrit script scribbled over it. The written thing made no sense as the words were written in that way. I noticed that the middle aged guy was desperately trying to read it and make sense out of it. I told him, “Do saal se to main pehen raha hoon par padh nahi paya, to aap kaise padhoge?”
He replied, “Haan wahi koshish kar raha tha. Lagta hain Sanskrit hai.”
The 2 funny guys standing next me also joined in the conversation, “Hum bhi padhne ki koshish kiye lakin kuch nahi bhujaya”
I said in the proper slang, “Hume 2 saal mein nahi bhujaya to aapko kaise bhujayega?”
The man who was standing ahead of all of us said that he also tried to read it but couldn’t read it. He said “Ek baar ek madam ko bhi pehne dekhe thhe aisa hi kuch”. Wow, I thought, I am ‘metrosexual’.

I smiled at the innocence of the city. It’s the same city where Bala Saheb [the biggest politician India has ever seen], Dawood Ibrahim [the biggest gangster India has ever seen] and Harshad Mehta [the biggest scamster India has ever seen] were born and became famous. At the grass root level the innocence had never died. People were cramped in the compartment, but they knew how to have fun. They knew the importance of a smile. They didn’t know me, had never seen me ever before, but they were talking about my t-shirt. That’s Mumbai. I had seen both the sides in less than an hour. People who wanted to make their marriage a lifetime memory by getting the script done by ‘a professional’ and people who wanted to celebrate every moment like it was a marriage celebration.

After I got down at the Goregaon station with the entire ‘gang’, ‘I heard the middle aged man reciting behind my back ‘Yada yada hi dharmasya’. I turned and smiled at him.

As I walked away and got into the rickshaw, put my hand in the bag to check on my wallet. It was missing.

A day in the life of India

“… A little corruption. A little bribery. I negotiate with the world 24/7. So why not an extra 5 minutes of sleep. He told himself and buried his head under the pillow. And so began another day in the life of an Indian…

His mobile phone alarm rang and he awoke with a new found energy, as if a spring were screwed into his spine, while he was asleep. His eyes wide open and alert. His mind sprung to life like a computer with a Pentium 5 processor. He was ready.

He is Mohammad Hasrat Sheikh, a short little man who stays in Mira road, in the suburbs of Mumbai. His rented house is just a 3 minute walk from the station. The station connects him to his work place in Churchgate, via the fastest known medium in the whole of India, the local train. The spine of Mumbai.

He preferred walking to the station every morning for precisely 2 reasons. One – no auto rickshaw took him there as it was not a lamba bhada and two - he had no other option. But today, the first auto rickshaw driver agreed to go take him to the station as he walked out of his house.

It’s a lucky day. Hasrat thought.

But it was that unlucky day when his first class pass for the local train expires. Meaning he had to stand in the queue to get it renewed and take all the third class treatment in his stride jus because no station has a clear mention that the queue for a first class pass renewal is separate. The board at the counter just read ‘Q1’ (with 1 in roman number) and needless to say no one got that. Everyone always thought Hasrat was not following the queue and shouted at him.

Hasrat was surprised to see there was no queue at the counter. There were only a couple of guys standing behind the sign Q2. As soon as Hasrat reached the counter he announced to both of them, “First class”. To his surprise both of them smiled and made way for him. Within minutes he was standing at platform no. 2 for his fast train.

It was indeed a lucky day.

9.24 – Hasrat couldn’t believe his eyes. The same old ‘Churchgate Fast’ came to a halt and was almost empty. The crowd at the station, rushed inside as usual but even Hasrat managed to get a seat. A window seat at that. Within minutes the train began to leave the station, and a strong January breeze hit Hasrat in the face. He was lost in mindless and senseless thoughts for some time and when he came back to reality, the display in the compartment’s LED read Goregaon. He took out the morning issue of the Times and read in silence.

Metro rail to start soon in Mumbai.

After all, electricity bills won’t jump.

Mumbai can become Shanghai.

The people around, were the same. The gang of 8 people who always got the window seats and played cards, the college kid with a bag sprung across his shoulders, the balding, over-weight man in a sweat stained shirt, fast asleep, standing…as usual. Everything was normal.

But the gang was not playing cards today, the kid’s bag seemed lighter, the balding man was wide awake and the sense of urgency and tension inside the compartment was a lot more eased than normal. The people were talking silently and the murmur seemed very pleasing to the ear. The breeze was friendly and caressing the faces of everyone it could. The stress seemed lost. The rhythmic sound of the train made music to the ears. The soft sound of paper against the breeze added to the melody.

Hasrat got down at the Churchgate station and started walking in sync with the crowd. The station seemed very clean. The subway footpath also seemed clean. Awaiting the dream to end, Hasrat asked the cab driver to take him to his office (which no cabbies agreed on a normal day). The cab driver smiled and said yes.

This time the alarm seemed louder. The spring in the spine did not seem to have worked. And the Pentium 5 processor seemed to have had a virus attack.

But Hasrat woke up with the hope in his eyes. A hope that brought a smile to his winter-dry lips.

It was a dream.

With the smile still refusing to fade from his face, Hasrat left from his house.

He walked towards the auto with the same hope and asked the driver to take him to the station. The driver smiled and said yes.

Hasrat sat in the auto, awaiting what will happen next and smiling at the sweet memory of his dream. He remembered what his mom always used to tell him as a kid.

The dreams come true. The morning dreams come true.

Run

Today I will win.

It was his day today. He had to prove his worth. To himself.

He knew if he failed today he would never be able to win. He had done everything right. He was wearing the right kind of shoes, the right kind of socks and most importantly the right attitude. He knew he would win today.

The moment the whistle was sounded, he began, without wasting even a fraction of a second. He had a game plan. He had decided he would take on everybody running against him, one at a time. He would beat them one by one.

But alas…he was already beginning to lose. Everyone else seemed to be stronger and faster. He looked at the guy running on the adjacent lane with rage and disgust. The guy looked back withy pretty much the same feelings. But today was his day. He had to win.

With renewed energy and determination, he ran, faster and faster, towards the finish line. It was just inches away now. The noise of the crowd began to rise. They were all cheering for him. They always did that for the winner. Just before he took the leap towards the finish line, he looked behind… he had beaten all of them. He had won! Finally.

With a broad smile on his joyous face he lifted both his hands; to keep his suitcase on the ledge over the window seat of the 8.47 Churchgate fast and sat on his well deserved position. The Number 1 position.

It happens

6.32 AM

On a lazy Sunday morning of the December winter in the suburbs of Mumbai, I was on a morning walk, counting the leaves on the deserted road, feeling the winter chill in my eyes. It was a bright dawn. A white dawn. The gentle breeze was touching my skin, making it a little moist. The sun was trying to fight with the morning darkness with his sword rays. The birds were chirping. The breeze had set a rhythm. Everything was responding, reacting, enjoying. I heard the morning.

I heard a girl scream. A scream that shattered my ear drums.
The guy ripped apart every part of the clothing that she was wearing. Her mouth was stuffed with enough cotton. Her eyes were wide open and staring expressionlessly at all of them, one by one. She closed her eyes and felt more naked than ever. She could just feel the weights shifting from her body for the next hour or so and an immense pain. All through she saw just one color. Black.

6.35 AM

The trees were moving in the rhythm. The sun had started making love to the ground, the trees. The dry leaves eloping with the wind. The dew losing herself in the sunlight. The chill making love to the warmth.
I could hear the trees, the birds, the slow rhythmic breeze, and my footsteps. I could hear the silence. The silence that was pure, serene. A silence that was white.

I heard a scream. Again. This time the voice was shrill. Soon I realized it was a child’s voice.

She had stopped screaming. It was her uncle. She knew something was wrong. He drew her close. She wanted to scream. She didn’t. She couldn’t. The pain made her numb. For the next 3 minutes she didn’t scream. For the rest of her life, she never spoke.

6.38 AM

It was really amazing to see the sun making love to the ground. I was walking against the wind. The soft warmth of the sunlight was amazing. The serenity was divine.
The soft music of the mornings was embedded in my soul. The dawn was white.
I wanted to walk another mile…………………………………………………………………………


In India, a woman is raped every 3 minutes. Wake up.

The kite flier

The sky looked at me and laughed.

The skin on my hands, for the first time tasted the flavor of ground glass while the bright pink string was wavering with pain underneath.

The sky thought I was a kid trying to get the hang of being a man by controlling something on my own. So what if it was just a measly and shaky kite which went the way the wind would take it.

But I was a man, a 54 year old one at that, just trying to win over something very important, something that meant the world to me. My son.

The string fought back and took its revenge on my fingers, using the same ground glass against the skin on my fingers. The fingers were bleeding. The blood red color on the bright pink thread, to me, seemed like the color of victory.

The other part of my body that was outrageously furious with me was my knees. I was sitting on an old wooden stool for the past 3 hours, slaughtering the thread, and the knees obviously didn’t seem to have taken it with the same spirit as mine. They were beginning to give in. now they will fight back the moment I decide to stand up.

The sky was still laughing.

As a kid I never used to fly kites. I knew I would never be able to fight against the winds with a measly, little kite. So I never tried.

“Mom…please teach me how to fly the kite… I can’t do it. Dad won’t do it… I know he can’t.
All my life I did only meaningful practical things. Never took risks as I always had a family to support. I did small jobs on meager monies, everything from a newspaper boy to a 2-in-1 stereo mechanic. I always managed to win over the situation and get enough funds to support my family, even managed to buy a small double room house in a small re-constructed chawl in Matunga.

At 47, I had given up all hope of becoming a father. So we decided to adopt a kid. That’s how he came into our lives. Today he turned seven and means the world to me.

The sky was still laughing.

I knew he had no faith in my faith. He stood behind the water tank on the terrace, catching a glimpse of my effort as and when, thinking I hadn’t noticed him.

I was ready, did the initial effort of throwing the kite as high as I could in the winds and then holding on to the arrogant bright pink thread, all by myself.

It was the first time I was trying to fly a kite. It was the first time I felt that I don’t have to win this one. I had an excuse of the first-timer.

The kite gained momentum and was beginning to fly higher. From the corner of the eye, I caught a glimpse of him. He was watching the kite capture the skies very intently. Meanwhile some other kite had attacked my short-lived victory. Within second it was over. My kite was set free and was no longer attached to the string in m y hand. Before I could celebrate the victory, I saw defeat. The string had taken its final revenge. It was over. I had lost.

He came running to me as I fought back tears. His smile managed to soothe the wound a little but what he said after that was my biggest victory ever.

Papa… please teach me how to fly a kite. I know you can do it.

His happy little eyes made me lose once again. This time against the tears I was fighting back.

For the first time I realized you don’t have to win over situations. For the first time I realized a father’s victory does not always lie in winning. And yes, for the first time I realized when you are flying a kite, you don’t have to fight against the winds. You win when you manage to use the winds in your favor.

I bent down on my complaining knees, looked him in the eye, the sky smiling in the background, and said.. I will.

She wanted to kiss me

this is totally imaginary! just to repeat totally imaginary.

and it may sound narcissist! may!

So here goes!


She wanted to kiss me.

Her eyes fought with mine. I tried hard to stop them from drifting. She lost. Her eyes betrayed her.

Fighting with my eyes, her eyes drifted slowly, shakily towards my lips. She pulled them away. Tied them up and threw them out. Reluctantly.

The breeze touching both of us was a little cold and very harsh. The tension between the bodies was so high that any formula would have burst by the numbers. The hands were so near that they seemed very far. Neither was moving. It was too dangerous. Her eyes broke free from the fence…came running towards my lips and hit them so hard that I felt them twitch. She lost. Yet again. Her hair tried to object the eyes. Failed.

The hands moved a fraction of a centimeter closer. Both of us regretted. This time it was my turn to lose. My eyes weren’t listening to me. They wanted to kiss hers. The moonlight, falling on her face…on her body….was luckier. The breeze touching her… feeling her…absorbing the warmth of her body was luckier. It even got an identity of her smell.

I got jealous of the breeze, the moonlight, the dress. I so wanted to be any one of them.

Her eyes were making love to my lips…moving up and down…slowly…steadily…nervously. The moment was like a dream.

Then the rickshaw stopped at a traffic signal. The breeze stopped and the moonlight was also blocked by the huge truck. Now I was just jealous of her dress, also angry that it concealed her body, and made no mistake at that.

Her eyes moved again from my lips to my eyes. From the mist in her eyes I knew what she was thinking. She wanted to kiss me.

The signal changed and the rik began to move…first slowly and when it hit the flyover, at a nice speed. The moonlight and the breeze, both were back. Her one hand was still very close to mine. She tucked her hair behind her ear with the other hand. It freed itself again…she tucked it back again. Eyes still glued to mine. The hands moved another fraction of a centimeter closer. This time I felt the warmth of her fingers. I could also feel the smell of the skin of her little finger.

She wasn’t smiling. She was serious. She wanted to kiss me.

Her hair used the breeze again and broke free. The way her hair was touching the skin on her neck, seduced me. This time she didn’t move it. Her eyes never left mine. The mist in it had vanished. It was replaced by urgency. She couldn’t control her eyes now.

That’s when the auto stopped. She got down and left without even looking back. She knew she would have never looked away if she looked back.

We never look each other in the eye anymore.