tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35178994608556693292024-02-21T16:06:40.375+05:30Supraman DiariesAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-32013314331600479132017-09-28T12:56:00.002+05:302017-09-28T12:57:17.470+05:30The City I Left Behind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The whistle sounded, signalling the
impending arrival of a station to those on board. The entire coach, sleepy and quiet
barely moments ago, suddenly came abuzz with subtle activity. Passengers got
out of their berths yawning and stretching, counting and recounting the items
in their luggage, bags and kids alike, as they prepared to disembark. Some
seemed genuinely excited to finally reach their destination, whilst relief was more
prominent on the faces of the more frequent travellers carrying small bags and
briefcases. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sitting next to the window, I couldn’t
relate to them. My gaze remained fixed on the vista outside, as it had been for
most of the night. Trees and houses raced past, bathed in the soft orange glow
of the pre-dawn. The moon was still visible on the horizon as an ethereal
shadow of its night-time beauty. Wind rushed in from the open window, blowing
my hair all over the place, providing a physical expression to the turbulence
that raged inside. After all, I was returning to the city I had left behind, to
meet someone I thought I had left behind long ago – you. The person I loved
like I had never loved anyone before, nor have since. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Another whistle interrupted my reverie. I
turned my gaze away from the window and readied my small overnight bag. The
sight of familiar landmarks – the house painted a garish shade of green, the
abandoned signal house with graffiti all over it, the railway crossing with an
adjoining flyover – rushing past was anyway becoming too much to bear. These once
used to be checked off my list one by one eagerly and impatiently, these
reminders of a past I’d willed myself into forgetting. No doubt they still helped
others measure the distance from their beloveds, but they were no longer for
me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Minutes passed, and the train finally
arrived at its destination. The murmur of activity steadily grew into a distinct
buzz. People shouted at their companions to hold on to their kids and leave
their bags, or to hold on to their bags and leave their kids. Some of the
younger lot stood, their faces making evident their displeasure at being held
up by those travelling in larger groups. I remained seated, waiting patiently
for the heaving, teeming mass to spill outside. I was familiar with the train’s
secrets, you see, secrets I had uncovered over a million voyages. I knew the train’s
journey culminated here, in this city. As it did for me, all those years back.
As it did once more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was probably the last passenger to step
down onto the platform, and I did so hesitantly. It had, after all, been a long
time since my last, acrimonious visit to this place. I wasn’t sure of how I
would react to the city, and how the city would react to me. The old, colonial-style
station was still there in all its regal splendour, a stark contrast to the
rather new, rather modern geometrical monstrosity that had been built as an
extension. An odd set of misfits, these two buildings, and yet they looked
right at home with one another. Much like we probably did back in those days, when
my shoulder served as the perfect headrest for you to lean on in your momentary
respite from society, your family, and everyone who told you I wasn’t the one
for you. Those were the days, weren’t they, when our eccentricities and
differences seemed to rather complement each other? But shoulders changed, as
did the heads that rested on them. The newly-laid cobbles underfoot still felt
familiar somehow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I had buried the bones of every memory of
you in the bottommost recesses of my mind, like silt on the ocean floor, but
their ghosts still greeted me at every corner of this city so alien and
intimate. They sat next to me in the auto-rickshaw we used to ride as I dropped
you home, they waved at me from the next table in the coffee shop we loved
frequenting, stood in front of me at the counter of the patisserie near your
house. They surrounded me on the crowded by-lanes of your favourite market, but
failed to greet me at the mall that stood in place of your favourite shop. I
was grateful for one less ghost. The ocean floor had been disturbed enough, and
the muddied waters blurred my vision as they fought for an escape. But it
didn’t matter. I did not need to see to find my way around these streets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My head hurt by noontime, and I was already
questioning the wisdom of my decision to come here. Why did I even think this
was a good idea? I had no answer. How could I, when even the most knowledgeable
intellectuals over the ages failed to understand the whims of the heart? Maybe
that’s where they went wrong, using brains where they ought not to be used. But
then again, we had followed our hearts and fared none the better.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I do not know when I reached the park, or
how, but there it was, standing like a monolith out of a long-forgotten dream.
It <i>had</i> started off as a dream,
remarkable and alluring, turning vividly real for just a moment. But before
long it turned to ashes right in front of our eyes, crushed into dust by our own
hands in an attempt to avert that very fate. I wondered, just then, standing in
front of the entrance, about what happened to the dust of dreams. My eyes fell
to a trail of sand, invisible to everyone else, and my feet followed it
unthinkingly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The sight that greeted me was painfully familiar.
There was the bench, where we once sat cuddling amongst fellow lovers, away
from the judging eyes of society. There was the fountain you once fell into
when trying to push me in. There was the tree we used to sit under, kissing furtively
and breaking away at the slightest hint of a sound. There, right outside the
park, stood the mall where we used to watch a movie whenever we could afford
to. We had little money to spend on each another back then, but we had all the
time in the world. It all seemed so juvenile to me, our hopes and dreams, as I
sat on the stone steps where we once plotted global domination. I shifted to
ease the distinct discomfort that can only come from sitting on a wallet full
of money. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">With no other way of whiling away the time,
I took out my phone. There were no notifications on it – none that mattered,
anyway. It made for an extremely dramatic change from the time when you used to
bug me with calls and messages. I wanted to call you then, but I didn’t. I had
deleted your number in anger one day. My fingers still hovered over the keypad,
but I could not bring myself to trust muscle memory; it had proven to be far
too accurate, far too many times in the past. The number still seemed to dial itself
on its own, but the call would not connect, no matter how many times I tried.
‘Please insert SIM card’, the phone requested politely.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Time became intransitive for a couple of
hours after that, as I slowly merged into the background. There were people
around, families and social groups and loners, but it was the couples that
really stood out. Everywhere I looked, every place I turned to, they were there.
Walking hand in hand with one another, they were there. Lost in their own private
worlds, they were there. Sneaking a peek from behind our tree before kissing,
they were there. We were there. But not really, not fully. We existed only as
shadows in my mind, spawned by the glow of what we were, hiding in the shade of
what you and I had since become. I chased these shadows, a ghost in a ghost
world, crossing paths with other ghosts revisiting their old haunts as all
ghosts are wont to do. None acknowledged my presence, and I returned the
favour. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My ghostly passage wound past our bench,
the one where we spent endless evenings watching the sunset in each other’s
arms. It was already occupied by a couple of youngsters, who broke off their
embrace rather hurriedly at my sudden appearance and sat looking at everything
but each other. I pitied them; I envied them. I cursed them, I blessed them.
But the ghost that I was said nothing, for there was nothing to be said. Not there,
not then, not anymore.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The sun had gradually wound its way to the
far corner of the horizon. There lay, in the bruising of the blue sky, the
threat of the imminent arrival of dusk. It brought me back to the real world
that I had to return to, no matter how much I wanted to stay. I made my way
back to the same station I had got down at in the morning, boarded the same
train I had disembarked a little more than twelve hours ago, and took up almost
the same seat. I knew of the train’s secrets, you see, secrets I’d uncovered over
a million voyages. I knew that its journey originated here, in this city. As it
did for me, all those years back. As it did once more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
Minutes passed, and the train signalled its
readiness to depart. I turned my gaze to the window, to the vista outside,
where the sun held on stubbornly to the pale shadow of its day-time brill<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>iance, and the twilight slowly gave way to the moon.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-49393101508506016462017-03-01T18:28:00.003+05:302017-03-01T18:29:29.878+05:30An Ode to February<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; text-align: justify;">Ah, February! The month of love, colours pink
and red, and the smell of roses. Nervous February, the month of first
confessions, sweet proposals, and love’s labour’s won. Lovely February, the
month of rejection, failed love, and heartbreak. Wonderful February, the month
of moral decadence, failing cultural values, and radical reformatory measures.
Oh, February, you beauty of a month, you!</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You’re often misunderstood, magnificent
February, much like love, that curious little phenomenon you’ve taken for your
own. People see you, both of you, through monochromatic glasses unable to
capture all that you are, all that you could be. There is no room for
understanding, dear February, of the magnificence you represent. You are only associated
with gift cards and flowers and sickening, cloying, sugary proclamations of
love, sweet February, as you are with childish heartbreaks and juvenile
rejections. There is no appreciation of your rich multicoloured hues, of your
curiously ethereal, ephemeral nature. No one stops and wonders, darling
February, why the month of love is also the shortest of the year.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But we do, delightful February. We see you
for what you are. We know you hold many secrets within your heart, secrets
which you’ll reveal in your own time, regardless of our readiness. You are your
own master, cruel February, kind February; no one dictates what you are. You
won’t let them, not when they come with sticks and stones and wrongful threats
of righteous reformation. Not when they sacrifice an innocent teddy bear to
declare their opposition to all you stand for. Because you know, understanding
February. You know that hatred is a kind of misguided love. Like envy, like
longing, like apathy. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We have tales for you, incredible February.
Tales for you, and of you. We bring you tales that seek to capture a miniscule
portion of what you are, and of the love that you have taken for your own. Just
a small facet, and no more; we have not the hubris to claim we know more than
what you have chosen to reveal of your curiously paradoxical nature. This is
our ode to you, brilliant February, and our homage and our criticism and our
wonderment and our delight. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We bid you farewell, fantastic February, as we
welcome March in. It may not be as nuanced as you are, or as subtle, or as
mysterious, but it will do. It has to, remarkable February, incredible
February, conceited February, for we doubt our capacity to endure another such
month of exceedingly contradictory emotions. So we welcome March in, with its
lights and shadows and the curious interplay thereof, as we bid you a heartfelt
adieu. Till the next time.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<i>This piece was first published as the editorial of the February issue of <a href="http://www.facebook.com/Telegramthemagazine" target="_blank">Telegram</a>. To purchase and read the full issue, click on <a href="https://www.magzter.com/IN/Talking-Books-in-Delhi/Telegram/Fiction/211172" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-73511990642299887872017-02-23T03:16:00.000+05:302017-02-23T03:24:33.733+05:30The Summer of Freedom<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Amidst the chorus of angry voices and echoes of violent clashes </i><i>at Ramjas College</i><i>, one cannot help but draw parallels between the current situation and the incident that took place last year at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU). </i><i>The Indian political </i><i>landscape </i><i>has once again heated up. Once again a place of knowledge and learning has turned into a battleground. Stones have become grenades that shatter an uneasy peace, blood the ink with which another ugly chapter will be written in India's history. Free speech has become toxic, corroding into caustic, </i><i>hateful</i><i> rhetoric. </i><i>Politicians have released polarising statements that serve only to add more fuel to an already explosive situation, and impassioned voices on TV, newspapers, and social media are once again screaming their opinions at anyone and everyone within earshot. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>One thing will remain different, however. Last year, two people at</i><i> </i><i><a href="http://www.facebook.com/telegramthemag" target="_blank">Telegram</a> - I and my partner-in-crime, Abhyudaya Shrivastava - tried to move past our biases and gauge, first-hand, the mood and opinion of those most affected by the incident, and the most involved in it: the students. We wanted to gain a more objective perspective on the entire issue. What for, we know not, but we cared for the truth, for integrity. We never held any illusions about the value of our opinions, </i><i>and in any case, by the time we'd started on our bumbling investigative journalistic endeavour, </i><i>the storm had already blown over. There was something more recent, more sensational to talk about. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I still share this today with you. What for, I know not. Perhaps I seek to make up for the fact that there will not be another such piece on the latest tragedy. Twelve months on, I care just a little less.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">“Kashmir ki aazaadi tak, jang rahegi, jang rahegi!”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">
– with these words, the Schrödinger’s Cat that was the Kashmir issue once again
leapt out of the proverbial bag and put Jawaharlal Nehru University firmly on
the radar of the Indian population. All of a sudden, JNU became the buzzword
for each and every group, fringe or otherwise, in the political arena. While some
groups tried to assert the <i>right</i>eousness
of their cause by taking stock of the trashcans on a daily basis, others – not
wanting to be <i>left</i> out – raised a hue
and cry over rising censorship and the death of democracy, even as they freely
gave interviews on primetime television and published columns in leading
magazines and dailies for a good recompense. But with the print and electronic
media going full-throttle to paint the story one hue or the other in order to drive
the maximum mileage, any curious, impartial observer could not help but wonder –
what the hell actually happened?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">We
were such impartial onlookers, and we did wonder if what was being portrayed
was really what was happening. But we dared not ask any questions then, even if
we tried to talk about it in hushed tones. After all, it is a well known fact
that in a fight between two ideologies, it is those that tread the middle
ground who end up suffering the most. So we stayed silent and watched the drama
unfold, talking in tones more hushed than before. In time, the storm blew over,
the debate lost steam and the public found something more trending to talk
about. We, too, consigned JNU and all the questions associated with it to the
backs of our minds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">But
curiosity has killed many a cat. Ruminating one night over the deeper mysteries
of life, such as where to get good food at 12 AM, we spotted the dread name
again in the list of popular night-time haunts for students and young
professionals. An initial hesitation caused by a healthy regard for our skins
was soon overcome by inquisitiveness and, more importantly, hunger. We donned
our helmets, wrote our wills, prayed to whatever gods were still up and set out
for a trip to the place that seemed to be perennially demanding freedom, if
popular media was to be believed. Our cats meowed softly after us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">We
nervously joked about going undercover into the ‘antinational’ heartland of
Delhi on our way to the campus. By the time we had reached halfway, we were
seriously questioning the life choices that had set us upon the path. This,
after all, was the place which was reputed to have made Manmohan Singh, then
the Honourable Prime Minister of the Republic of India and the topper in the
list of Indian VVIPs, step out of his car and enter as an academician. One look
at our non-VIP motorcycle, and we knew that getting thrashed for our transgression
was going to be the least of our concerns. But it was too late to make any
changes to the plan now; turning back or going to a different venue would have
meant the loss of precious night hours. The romance of the dark, which is often
barely a whiff upon the breeze, would have evaporated with the faintest of
glimmers of dawn. And so we sped past the police barricades, past the drunks
and the homeless sleeping peacefully on the footpath, and continued on to our
destination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">We
weren’t going unprepared, though. Having known the names of a couple of hostels
on campus, we’d quickly allotted ourselves two which sounded the least
suspicious in order to escape any surface inquiry. This minor safety precaution
didn’t help prevent our hearts from beating at a very furious pace, which only
seemed to increase as the distance to the campus grew shorter. With our heads
throbbing inside our helmets like a badly out-of-tune drum set, we turned into
the campus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">And
passed right in. No one challenged our entry, no one checked us for microphones
or spy cameras, and no one asked us to prove our identities to ensure we weren’t
government agents in disguise. For a rebel stronghold, it wasn’t very strongly
held. It was almost disappointing to get in without a glitch after the tension
that we had worked up for ourselves. At that moment, we would have almost
welcomed a beating just to have our expectations fulfilled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">The
momentary disorientation that followed our highly unanticipated successful
entry also drew our attention to another salient fact – we hadn’t planned it
beyond this point. With no idea what to do next, we decided to refocus on our
original mission – finding something to eat. We slowed down the bike, looking
this way and that, to find something that resembled an eatery. A couple of
lights twinkled invitingly on our right through a dense copse of trees, drawing
us to them like moths to a candle. We turned right, only to reach a building
that appeared forbidding, abandoned and thoroughly locked. ‘Health Centre’,
read the board above it in a big font. We wondered why students would flock
near a health centre at one in the night before the inevitable conclusion hit
us right in the teeth – free condoms! The rumours were true after all! The
campus, renowned for its profligacy, wantonness and perversity, had probably
led to the creation of an underground black-market nexus that helped students ‘protect’
themselves during their night-time shenanigans. Hoping to catch degenerates in
the act, we walked towards the centre of all the activity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">Real
life has a way of gloriously failing to live up to our expectations. We always hold
out hope for one last eye contact while turning away from an ex; always hope to
cross the magical barrier of thirty having attempted questions barely worth 25.
The wife, beaten and abused every night by her drunkard husband, always holds
on to the hope that things will be better tomorrow, while the husband who knows
his wife is cheating on him with a colleague always hopes to never find out.
But things often don’t happen as we wish they would – there is no last glance
back, no divine intervention to make us pass that exam, no sudden conversions
of heart, no fading away of the truth just because we’ve ignored it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">And
so it was with us that night. For the second time in the space of a couple of
minutes, we were disappointed that our worst fears hadn’t come true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">The
‘crowd’, if it could be called that, was milling around a small canteen which
had <i>Ganga Dhaba</i> painted in white on
its blue shutters. To our right were a couple of randomly strewn rocks which
were serving the dual purpose of table and stools, while on our left were</span><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">people queuing up for <i>chai</i>, <i>lassi</i>, fruit juice
and that most frowned upon food item, Maggi, which was being served at a very
capitalist price of INR 25. Walking towards the eatery, we were aware of the
stark contrast we presented to the rest of the picture. In a sea of T-shirts,
shorts, kurtas and capris, we stood out like a couple of sore thumbs in our
almost-formal attires and the baggage we carried. The one on our back held our
laptops, the one in our mind, prejudice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">We
ordered some <i>chai</i>, tried to fit in and
failed. The students there didn’t seem to mind us, though. There was tea, there
was conversation, there was camaraderie, all framed against the backdrop of the
subtle sound of an aeroplane flying overhead from time to time and no one
peeking at their phones every two seconds.</span><span lang="EN-GB">
</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">At 2 in the night, JNU defied normal circadian rhythms;
autorickshaws ferried on the campus roads nonchalantly, while people strolled
around as if they were on an early evening walk. An ice-cream cart parked near
the <i>dhaba</i> was reaping rich dividends
for his business acumen. The place bore an eerie resemblance to a regular
marketplace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">We
finished our tea and fished out the dregs of tea leaves, which the tea stall
owner generously did not charge us for, and decided to talk to students. Eager
as we were to hear the story of the revolution, straight from the mouth of the
horse that went <i>nay</i>, we quickly settled
on a bearded guy who was sitting having his tea and bread-omelette in isolation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">“Excuse
me. Can we have a moment of your time?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">The
nonchalance with which he said ‘no’ was almost disturbing, underlining why the
place was reputed for not playing by the societal rules of etiquette and
politeness. Or maybe he just hadn’t taken well to being interrupted during his
midnight snack. Feeling like a news channel, and not a very good one at that,
we gently edged away from the solitary eater to find someone else we could bug
to satiate our inquisitiveness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">Our
second target was also sitting alone. We went up to him, asked for permission
to disturb him and – when he obliged – shook hands and introduced ourselves. He
was an outsider, just like us, who was visiting a friend, unlike us. As there
was nothing of import that he could tell us, we made small talk about the
insects and the humidity till his friend joined us, a plate of <i>aloo-parantha</i> in each hand. It took some
effort to prise our gaze away from the plate, as it did in getting him to open
up. He looked at us with mistrust initially, but when you live in JNU and are
under the constant, unflinching scrutiny of the world, being on your guard with
outsiders probably becomes a second nature. Our genuine faces and mostly-honest
questions made him open up soon enough, though. He, as a science student,
revealed his ignorance of what went on behind the closed doors of the Arts and
Humanities departments, but staunchly denied any allegation of brainwashing,
forcefulness or sexually-charged pagan initiation rituals. Not here, he had
said, not as long as I’ve seen it, although he did look disappointed about the
last bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">With
the number of topics that could be discussed without arousing suspicion fast
running out, we thanked him and took his leave. Looking around, we zeroed in on
what appeared like a political science student. He fit the stereotype in quite
well – he was wearing a <i>kurta</i> the
most vibrant shade of purple, sported a stubble which could pass for a beard in
just the right lighting and at a great distance, and looked as if he could be plotting
the next political revolution. Giddy with happiness at finally spotting a <i>real</i> JNUite, we made our way towards
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">But
the night, for us, seemed to be filled with anti-climaxes. Instead of an
ideological radical, the guy turned out to be a harmless molecular biology
student in disguise. A quick chat with him revealed that he also found the
campus extremely liberal and accepting. He told us how anyone could run in the
campus elections, how teachers didn’t bully students into attending classes and
how pupils attended lectures not to give their attendance a boost, but for the
love of learning. His enthusiastic discourse left us wondering why JNU was
failing to live up to its social media status as the hotbed of dissension and protest,
but we hid our disappointment behind a very polite smile and headed on our way.
Maybe it was our approach, we told ourselves; we were yet to find a single
student belonging to either Arts or Humanities.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">Two
girls sat in the shadows at a table nearby, chatting amongst themselves,
suddenly stopped talking and looked in our direction. This acknowledgement of
our existence was probably precipitated by the fact that we had been standing
and staring at them for around a minute, looking away only to whisper something
in each other’s ears intermittently. A realisation that we were treading
dangerous territory slowly dawned on us. We were, after all, rank outsiders
visiting a campus not our own, located in a city where nightlife for girls
usually comprised of molestations, eve-teasing and stalking – if they were
lucky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">With
our choices limited between running to the bike and making a quick getaway and approaching
them to clear any misapprehensions, we – much to our own surprise – chose the
latter. They eyed us with suspicion, probably thinking us idiots who had lost
their way into the campus, but gradually warmed up as we asked various
questions about their lives on campus. They were both PhD students in Hindi, as
close a match as we could hope to get under the circumstances, but refused to
conform to our ideas of a typical JNUite despite speaking quite passionately
about freedom on the campus, the fact that no one can force anyone to attend
rallies or campaigns and the amazing library on campus, which they probably
would have walked us to had we but asked. But we didn’t. We now knew what we
came for. We had learned enough of the enemy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">As
we made one last trip to the counter at the <i>dhaba</i>
and ordered <i>nimbu-paani</i>, we realised
we were walking more confidently, smiling more often and laughing more freely.
Maybe it was just the cathartic experience of overcoming our inhibitions; maybe
it was the knowledge of being proven wrong in the most wonderful of manners. Or
maybe it was just the ambience of the place which had accepted us, as we were, without
asking any questions. We found no sloganeering, no demonstrations asking for
freedom, no angry rhetoric. Was what we learned the truth? Maybe, maybe not. We
couldn’t speak for everyone, but to us, JNU appeared just like any other
college campus. With one last look around, we threw the disposable cups in</span><span lang="EN-GB"> </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "book antiqua" , serif; line-height: 115%;">dustbins still devoid of three thousand
condoms and made our way to where we’d parked the bike. In the distance, lights
of the <i>dhaba</i> twinkled enticingly
through the copse of trees, drawing more moths to the flame. As it always had.<span style="font-size: 15pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-47924830348155604962016-07-24T14:10:00.002+05:302016-07-24T14:10:32.644+05:30Review - A Reason to Live<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The profession
of a writer has always been considered a noble calling, but I know of someone
who has shunned title religiously despite being much acclaimed – at least
within a small segment of fellow typists – for what he writes. Maybe he does
not want to be counted amongst the scores of other ‘writers’ who, armed with
their bulky thesauruses and hefty dictionaries, have wreaked error-ridden,
misspelt havoc upon the common brains of the sensitive masses. Or maybe he
prefers to keep away from the public light till the time he is ready to assume
the mantle of an author and let the world bask in his literary brilliance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">His reasons are
anybody’s guess, but what he writes is another matter completely. It is, then,
a cause of worry for someone who enjoys reading his work (and still fails to
finish alpha-reading his WIP despite repeated reminders), when the person in
question informs you that he has lost the will to write. He is afraid that his
words might be lost in the deluge of mediocrity that has been doing rounds the
wide, wide web we now call home, and he is afraid of failing his own standards.
As a reader, though, I managed to coax an old story out of him. This is my
review of that story, which – in keeping with my glorious professional
standards – is late. Again. But I hope it makes a difference, to him at least.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><u><span lang="EN-GB">Review – A
Reason to live:<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">‘A Reason to Live’,
which is a part of the longer storyline that is set in the fictional world of
Mithos, deals with the rise of one of the most central characters in the as-of-yet
unpublished series by the as-of-yet unpublished author. It is the story of one
Grandmaster Daronos Drivas, Preceptor of the Drivas Academy and a soldier
beyond compare. Belonging to the blood of Old Achea, an ancient, complex race
that aged slowly and lived for centuries, the Grandmaster has seen a slow erosion
of the strength of Old Achea – something he sees reflected in the falling
standards of his own academy, which now played host to sons of traders and
farmers and tavern-keepers where it once forged might warriors, knights,
renowned generals and lords and ladies. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-GB">The Good, the
bad and the verdict:</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The author’s
main strength is his command over the language, and the way he uses words to
evoke emotions within the reader. In barely thirty-odd pages, he gets the
reader well-acquainted with myriad characters like Drivas; his aide, Sonorius
Kahley; and even the stooped menial worker Mainaky; as well as the history of
Achea and its people, their curious ways and lifestyles, the antagonism they
face from other races. The way he deftly captures it all without being overly
explanatory is the hallmark of a quality, quality writer. A small passage that
best exemplifies this:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Had it always been this bad? When had he gone from
running Hidosh’s foremost academy for warriors and leaders to being some sort
of caretaker of the spoiled brats of Hidosh’s rich peasantry? Today, Daronos
Drivas was six hundred and thirteen years old, an age only those of the blood
of Old Achaea could attain, and at that moment, he felt each and every year of
it.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">There is also a
subtle, wry humour at play, which generally shines through in lines such as
these:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">“It’s the strength that will stand him in good stead,
Lady Isareui,” said Drivas. She was no Lady, really, but somewhere in the
course of his life he had started attributing titles to those who had money. It
flattered them, and happy rich people paid more fees.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The writer
builds characters that have distinct voices and are well-distinguished from one
another. However, that being said, there are points where he tends to carry on
describing the underlying emotions or thoughts of the characters somewhat
needlessly; one of the characters, Mainaky, comes across as too much of a
caricature. This might be because the story was still pretty much an initial
draft, and will probably be more refined after a round of copyedits, but it
could benefit greatly from a bit less ‘tell’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">These minor
niggles apart, the story stands out in terms of style and, to someone who’s
read the associated work, context, but it holds its own even as a standalone piece.
It isn’t a typical short story; rather, it serves more as an aperitif for what
follows. There is foreshadowing of the events to come, especially towards the
end, which makes a reader curious as to the significance of what they have just
read. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">My personal
opinion? It isn’t the best that I have read from the writer. But that opinion
has more to do with the fact that he has written some truly brilliant stuff. In
a sea of mediocrity that often passes for fantasy fiction in India, it is truly
refreshing to see something that is novel, both in style and treatment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">You can follow
his writings <a href="http://percytheslacker.blogspot.in/">here</a>, or visit
his Facebook page <a href="https://www.facebook.com/slackerstales/">here</a>.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-35583640304432558452016-05-04T20:46:00.000+05:302016-05-04T20:46:15.764+05:30The Dork Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was a
typically warm summer evening that particular Friday. I was sitting in the office
of a lawyer. No, I had not done anything illegal – the lawyer was a friend, who
was waiting patiently for me to complete drafting whatever it was that I was
drafting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Hurry up,” he
said, massaging his stomach in an exaggerated gesture. “I am hungry.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Five more
minute,” I mumbled, typing away furiously at my keyboard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“That is what
you said at seven,” he replied in a despondent tone, “it is now nine-thirty.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I looked at the
clock and saw how wrong he was; it was actually 09:48 PM. I had already missed
the deadline that I had promised to the client, and it no longer mattered if I
sent him the document in the next minute or on Monday morning. I sighed, closed
my laptop and stood up to leave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">That is when the
phone rang. The ominous, sinister ringtone that I had, in an inebriated state
found transcendent, rang out its harsh chords within the confines of the
clinic. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Why do you
still have that ringtone?” the impossibly named Shiromani Kautilya said,
wincing to let his displeasure become apparent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Too lazy to change it,” I replied, taking the
phone out of my pocket.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Well, at least
pick it up, or silence the bloody thing. My eardrums were not designed to
survive sustained aural assaults.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I, on the other
hand, did neither, choosing instead to stare at the screen with my mouth wide
open. The number on display was horribly familiar, and for a second a certain
feeling of apprehension took over. Did Mani know the kind of trouble that was
coming to his doorstep because of me?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Pick up the
damned phone,” Mani prompted. This time, I complied.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Where are you?”
asked the gravelly voice from the other end of the phone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Outside,” my
reply was non-committal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Have you decided
yet?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I hesitated.
This decision for me was like a double-edged sword. On one hand, I might be
bringing trouble to the doorstep of a very good friend. On the other... well,
let’s not even talk about what happens if I say no.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Be quick about
it,” The person on the other side had sensed my hesitation, “or it will be too
late. If I do not receive a reply from you within the next three minutes, I
will take my own decision, whether you like it or not.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The call was
promptly disconnected. Time, it is said, is the most precious thing of all. And
when the clock is counting down on you, second by relentless second, you know
you have to take some tough decisions within moments. Like what booze to order
for a house party, when you know all the government approved liquor shops shut
down at 10 PM.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Mani, it’s my
brother,” I said. “He’s throwing his birthday party. What do you want, beer or
whiskey?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“He’s coming
here?” Mani looked up from his laptop, his face taking on a concerned
expression. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Yup, the pubs
are too costly,” I said, looking at the watch, which told me we were five
minutes from having to purchase the liquor in black at 1.5 times the price. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I could almost
see the lawyer’s internal conflict rage like a wildfire inside by the very
neutral look on his face. He loved his practice, which was freshly inaugurated,
and detested any kind of human company that could disturb the peace of his
sanctuary. As it stood, he barely tolerated me. Having my brother throw an
alcohol-fuelled party within his clinic was probably not his idea of a good
time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“We can have a
party here,” he conceded. “Not inside the office, though.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Oh, no. Never
that,” I said shamelessly, not mentioning that he and I got drunk on warm beer <i>inside</i> the office and hurled many abuses
at a certain guy who Fished like a King in better times.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I dialled the
number for my brother and told him to pick up four beers. Two each, same as
last time; I figured the doctor could clean off two despite his hesitation.
After all, how bad could you get on two beers?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was just fucking about to find out.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-46880787316592981982016-04-12T03:23:00.002+05:302016-08-04T17:14:48.035+05:30Random Ramblings: Why I write<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Why do I write?
I don’t know, but I think I have an idea. Several ideas, as can be attested by
the fact that I have six or seven unfinished ‘projects’ sitting in my hard
drive. To make matters worse, every day I come across something new, or see
another aspect in something known. More ideas! How some writers wait for years
for any inspiration escapes me. But then again, these writers are the ones who create
stories that stay with you forever. Like the recently-deceased Harper Lee, who
wrote one of the most renowned pieces of literature of all times, To Kill A
Mockingbird (I am discounting Go Set A Watchman). Or Joseph Heller, he of the
Catch-22 fame, satirist beyond compare and egotist of the highest order. Or
even J.R.R. Tolkien, the writer most responsible for this terrible influx of
elves and dwarves that today infests the popular fantasy genre.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Is that what I crave
for – recognition? Fame, enduring legacy that transcends posterity? I think I
do. I want to be quoted by readers long after I am dead and gone. I want to
write something that touches the soul of the reader and makes his heart weep in
unflinching despair and laugh with unbridled joy, all at the same time. I wish
to escape death through my writing, and I want to live on forever in the hearts
and the minds of my readers.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are times,
though, when these thoughts seem too lofty for someone of limited knowledge and
intelligence. Terry Pratchett, known the world over for his humorous, almost
irreverent take on anything from society to popular classics to people to the
concept of godhood and even death, was able to create complex stories and
characters because his knowledge was not limited to one field, nor was his
vision hampered by linearity. Similarly, Steven Erikson, whose books on the
Malazan Empire singlehandedly broke many
a aspiring author and ended their writing careers before they even officially
began, was able to create an engrossing, engaging and at time transcendentally
meaningful series simply because he, as an anthropologist, knew what he was
talking about. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Even writers I can
consider my peers (at a stretch), such as those in my Facebook writing group,
often show a very deep understanding for various aspects of life and are
generally much more knowledgeable than I, be it in the matter of creative arts,
politics, movies, sports, literature or any other field you care to put your
finger on. As I have no such claim to fame – apart from an animal cunning and a
willingness to adapt – my writing invariably suffers. Knowing that my chance at
greatness is a farfetched one, I wish to stand on level terms with my contemporaries
as far as my work goes – if not in terms of outreach, then at least in terms of
quality. At least a part of it is a yearning for affirmation from my peers and
my betters (yes, there are some, no matter what I say). But even there, I
sometimes feel like a doppelganger, posing as someone I am not.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">This feeling of
dissociation and not belonging is not helped by the fact that I want to write
in multiple genres – at any given time, I want to write a witty satire, a high
fantasy, a contemporary fiction, a thriller, an anecdotal non-fiction and that
latest assignment that has come in from a client, in that order – and am easily
influenced by anything good. I read <i>A Dog
Eat Dogfood World</i> by a skilled humorist, Suresh Chandrasekaran and I want
to write a satire on corporate life. I read Douglas Adams’ <i>Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy</i> or George R.R. Martin’s <i>A Song of Ice and Fire</i>, and I want to
write something otherworldly, something fantastical. Then there are books like <i>The</i> <i>City
of Joy</i> and <i>The Hungry Tide</i>, integrally,
almost painfully humane, that leave their mark on their readers, and I want to
brand my readers (how presumptuous of me, assuming a plural exists. I
sometimes doubt even a singular exists) with a harrowing tale of love and loss
and crushed dreams and unyielding hope. I want to write something that
resonates with a reader. I want to write something that is appreciated by the
elite as well as the people looking to pass their time on a train
journey.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I want to be
recognised for it; I wish to bask in the adoration that comes with having
written such a piece. I want a massive crowd that jostles for an autograph from
me, and I want women to swoon when I wink like they do when Durjoy Dutta smiles
his dimpled smile. I want the world to know me – by my name, by my face and
most importantly, by my work.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But there are
times that I am not sure I want this spotlight. Writers, I have been told, are
essentially creatures who wear their social garb to mask their inherent melancholy.
Like Hemingway, who after 3 failed marriages, multiple affairs and <i>The Old Man and the Sea</i>, put a bullet in
his head (from his favourite shotgun. I do not know why this detail is
relevant, though it has been stressed rather extensively). I feel this to be
true from my personal experience, but then the question arises – is it true
because I want it to be true, or is it true because it just is? That’s a tough one
to answer, unsure as I am about everything at this moment.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I do know this –
I want to earn a lot of money from writing. I want to have a big, lavish house,
I want to go on holidays to Cannes and Morocco and other exotic destination
that Agatha Christie often took her characters on, I want to own a supercar, I
want to sit in a posh club, sip on some imported foreign liquor the way they
show in the movies, have the bartender nod and smile at me, and just sit there
in the corner, with my notebook, a pen and a laptop to keep me company as I see
the teeming mass of humanity through my tinted lenses. An occasional journalist
or two to break the monotony will be nice.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Money and fame,
however, are something of a privilege – there are days I want nothing more than
the company of my loved ones to keep me happy. But a writer’s life is a fickle
life, and a writer is the meanest, most demented creature on earth. My penchant
for creating stories has landed me in more trouble than I should have, mostly
because I always try to bring my stories to life. This is usually accomplished
by either directly or indirectly hurting or in some way inconveniencing those
near and dear to me. I create narratives and push my loved ones onto the dark path that
I envision them walking in my stories. I risk my relations to achieve greater authenticity
in a storied retelling, and it is a wonder I never manage to truly appreciate
these wonderful people – friends, family and partners – for being there for me.
Maybe this is why I write – to validate the misery I inflict upon them, to
derive some meaning from their despair. Or maybe that is what I tell myself to
ease my conscience. </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Wow, this has been a rather lengthy rant for something
that started as a drunken tirade against and a wakeup call to self. In
trademark fashion, I have rambled and rambled, and yet somehow still failed to
find a conclusion. Maybe there isn’t one; maybe there is, and I am just not
equipped with the tools needed to craft it. But regardless, I keep on writing. Why
<i>do</i> I write? I don’t know, but I think
I have an idea.... </span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-67239065438083937432015-12-27T20:05:00.005+05:302015-12-27T20:24:35.222+05:30Sands of Time<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I once saw an edifice,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">On the black sands of time,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Looming against the horizon,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Majestic as if in prime<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A closer inspection laid bare that facade<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The monument, with its glory, was a thing
of the past<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The buttresses and crenellations,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">All fallen to disrepair,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Whilst the halls themselves echoed,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Silent footsteps of despair,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH90jZwqR96LBcrRg2ZCQqbzex7D3IjXwT6qMRp5QK23iBrZw4odNUnnzNhb77BCJjraRqSXQeSJLvZBvrUGCWymK_Uhpcg15ya65s91dMsxOooMrWV91_hS-ewfkdYk9hX7A05al4RE/s1600/12432625_1105438596142502_550359578_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH90jZwqR96LBcrRg2ZCQqbzex7D3IjXwT6qMRp5QK23iBrZw4odNUnnzNhb77BCJjraRqSXQeSJLvZBvrUGCWymK_Uhpcg15ya65s91dMsxOooMrWV91_hS-ewfkdYk9hX7A05al4RE/s400/12432625_1105438596142502_550359578_o.jpg" width="400" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">Empty it stood, this once-grand design,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Empty and forlorn, on the black sands of
time...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I wonder at its origins,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At the hands that had built,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A construct for eternity,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They thought would never wilt,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I laugh at their hubris,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As I build my own shrine,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Using as foundation those crumbled stones,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Strewn upon the black sands of time...</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-7602460220736411792015-10-15T14:03:00.001+05:302016-08-08T01:58:34.181+05:30Letters of a Corporate Slave<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN">Dear Sir/Madam,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">I, XYZ, am a highly frustrated employee in your esteemed
organisation, one of the overworked worker drones powering your beehive.
You probably remember my name, but then again, you might not. I do not blame
you for that; indeed, I have a face that is so common that I forget my own
features sometimes despite looking at them every morning. That is the curse of
all middle level employees like me – we are remembered for being remarkably
unmemorable. No one, not one person, from our schools to our colleges to our
workplaces to our family ever remembers us nameless, faceless individuals. The
only way we are ever remembered is in the following manner, “Who was that guy?
The one who used to always have his face buried in books? That one, who used to
sit in the corner seat by himself, the one with the specs? No, not Sanjiv! His
name started with a C. Charan? No, but close. Chandan, that’s it! Whatever
happened to him? I heard he died or got married or something similar.” No one
bothers to turn around to look at the speaker who had supplied his own name,
and who is too embarrassed to tell the assembled gathering that he is sitting
right next to them. He – I – does not mean to scare them with a sudden Christ-like
revival; the world is beyond any messiahs now anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">My young son calls me ‘uncle’ every time I meet him, which is rarely.
Doctors have attributed this behaviour to the lack of familiarity I share with
my son. My brother, his real uncle, blames it on my habit of coming home in
shifts from work, which owes a lot to the wonderful work pressure your organisation
puts me under. If such a pressure as faced daily by your organisation had been manifested
in a human digestive system, we would probably have witnessed the first
spontaneous explosion of a human being. However, being the gargantuan colossus
that your reputed company is, it somehow manages to endure the discomfort and
keeps on working.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">My one year old daughter either stares at me whenever she sees me,
being the stranger that I am to her, or starts crying. I don’t blame her
though; I have offered so many of my weekends in humble sacrifice to your
clients that any thought of a day off makes me want to take a sick leave from home to attend office. Needless to say, any ideas of a
vacation never ever cross my mind for two reasons; one, you won’t give them to
me, and two, I don’t need them anyway. I have wholeheartedly imbibed and
adapted your organisation’s motto of ‘a day without work is a day wasted’ in my
own day-to-day life, and if I in any case end up working on my laptop, worrying
about the internet connectivity in some remote holiday location, I would rather
save on the expense and come to the office.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">It is a wonder my wife has not mistakenly slept with someone else. But
then again, the only reason she probably is <i>still</i> sleeping with me is because
she thinks I am not her husband. She never seeks to question where her ‘real’
husband is, though, which I think is rather in my favour as it saves me from
unnecessary explanation. Since she too, like me, is a corporate slave, I think
she has achieved the same state of indifference that I have. We strive hard and
work harder, though what for we know not and care even less.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">My parents have forgotten my face, and I theirs. Someone recently
told me that they had recently celebrated my first death anniversary. I would
have gone for the free lunch, but between seeing one’s parents and attending
office it was rather a Hobson’s Choice, and I think I ate a few stinker emails
from you that day that more than made up for the food. I had a picture of them in my wallet, but
while changing wallets I forgot that my wallet is not as seamlessly connected
to my office Google Drive as my laptop. I do not rue the loss, though, for all
the important documents I need to keep me up all night are all safely
accessible anytime, anywhere through this revolutionary feature. Thank you
Google, for the dark circles under my eyes and my rapidly deteriorating
eyesight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">I have missed out on how much I love your clients, sir/madam.
Indeed, I should call them our clients, for that indicates how I have dedicated
myself body and soul to their requirements. Much as you have, I sometimes
suspect. I love how the clients call and stalk me like a paranoid ex. A braver,
more courageous person would have blocked their numbers and filed a police
complaint against their harassment. But not me; I talk to them like they were a
childhood sweetheart, I bear their tantrums like a patient parent, I dismiss
their nasty, obnoxious behaviour as misguided love. I love how they give short
briefs and expect me to fashion a full-sized trouser out of it, of how they are
so conveniently ignorant of the good work I have done when they need to blast
me for having a fight with their wives or bosses or both in the morning. It was
my fault, of course, for I forgot a key tenet – the client takes precedence
over everything; I should have been sleeping with their wives instead of my own.
I do fervently apologise for this hideous oversight and will try my best to
correct this ASAP.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">And while talking about everything, how could I miss the subtle
office dynamics that are such an attractive proposition of your organisation?
Some people might call it politics, but I would rather not sully the good name
of politics. Indian political system is doing a good enough job of being bad
without any ideals to aspire to. And trust me, dear proprietor, when I say that
your organisation is the Indian Idol of all wannabe political landscapes. Where
else can you find a person who does little to no <i>tangible</i> work rising
high on the corporate ladder, while those of us who slog their asses and
sometimes even their donkeys off get so little by the way of appraisals or
promotions? Before one of my esteemed competitors takes it in his or her mind
to whisper in your ear that I am spreading insinuations about your office pet,
good sir/madam, let me clarify that I did say <i>tangible </i>work. No doubt, licking
your feet every five minutes and acting like the boss of the company to the
rest of us at every opportunity comes under the intangible aspect of work,
which is every bit as important, if not more. At my last appraisal you had
denied me a promotion saying that while my honesty was appreciated, I sometimes
lacked tact. Witness, then, my metamorphosis, as I learn to act the tact so
convincingly that I recently talked myself out of breaking my own jaw. I now
believe I am ready for another appraisal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">Sir/madam, I deal with so many mails and no females every day that I
am beginning to feel like a postman. I had once been told that my
great-grandfather aspired to be a Postmaster, and it gladdens my heart to be fulfilling
his desire in spirit, if not in name. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">All this work has also enriched my vocabulary beyond measure. I
recently used ubiquitous while scolding my five year old son and seamlessly leveraged
the word secure at least eleven times while berating the watchman. I
complimented the maid for her innovative, technology-driven excuses for missing
work – she claimed she contracted a fever from her sister via telephone – while
redirecting her to the swiftest</span> and the most convenient means of redressing grievances in my household – my
wife. Her anger is a thing to behold, and by now even the rats and the
cockroaches give her a wide berth when she is in one of her moods.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">However, sir/madam, despite all these fine benefits and perks that
come with working for your highly reputed organisation, I must admit there is
something that does bug me at times. No, sir/madam, these are not the bed bugs
at my home, for as I earlier pointed out I rarely am at my home these days. I
am mostly found at my workstation, which has become a comfortable cocoon for me,
so comfortable that even the chair has started to mould itself around my ample
girth. This hints at a symbiotic relationship far more intrinsic than any bonds
of blood or love, for no one in my whole family makes for such snug a fit. No,
what bugs me is this – a nose itch. From the inside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">I know that it might seem arbitrary to you, but I have my reasons. Just when you think you've achieved the perfect work-life balance, that of holding a phone to your ear with one hand and a mug of coffee in the other whilst simultaneously clasping that laptop close to your chest, an itch inside your nose is the worst thing that you can go through. Your brain goes into a tizzy, your senses scramble like the eggs I used to make for my wife when we were younger (and probably happier, although I can't really be sure). The world stops, and everything else - the clients, the work pressure, the job progression, that promotion, that important phone call that you're on, that car hurtling towards you at 80 km/hr from the wrong side - no longer seems to matter. Nothing else seems to exist, but my nose, the itch inside it, and a vicious, cruel urge to put my finger inside my nose and scratch. This might be what the protagonists of our romantic movies must feel like, although I heard no violins in the background. In hindsight, I think the siren of the ambulance I was later in kind of made up for it. I have since consulted several doctors to diagnose the reason for this ailment, and they all blame the lack of allergens I was exposed to during my childhood for my poor immunity. However, the mould and the dust inside my cabin, which despite my repeated reminders have not been taken care of, have been instrumental in developing a thick skin inside my nose, despite the initial discomfiture. I congratulate you on your long-term vision and strategic planning as you try to make your employees healthier and more adaptable. I retract all emails I've sent on the matter to the admin department, and will probably fire my maid to create similarly fitness-centric environment in my own household. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">All things considered, sir/madam, I rather like working as a slave
in your honourable sweatshop. I just love all those unearthly hours that I have
to work through to please absolute strangers who could not care less about my
existence, and I absolutely cherish the fact that I have a chance to avoid my
family who desperately need my care and attention. I would like to continue contributing
to the organisation’s growth trajectory and sowing the seeds of your success with
my own blood and sweat, regardless of the status of the next appraisal. I would
still like that appraisal though, as it would help raise my social and
financial status and allow me a chance to be a better standard of miserable
than I am now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">Warm retards,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">Yours frustratingly,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span lang="EN-IN">XYZ</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-44771064772961611812015-07-05T13:33:00.001+05:302017-03-26T11:13:20.471+05:30Dreams of a Summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Warmth bids adieu to my flesh; my strong bones turn to dust,</div>
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While I unbecome steadily, becoming the earth’s crust,</div>
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I hear with ears no longer mine, with long dead eyes I see,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Creation flourishing from my rot, as my loved ones grieve
for me,</div>
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Trees take root upon my skin, growing tall and strong,</div>
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The birds take refuge in their leaves, singing a merry song,</div>
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But cries by my gravestone haunt me still, my presence how
they miss,</div>
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Comfort them I wish to do, I wish to tell them this:</div>
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When the last winter winds die, when the first spring bloom
peeks,</div>
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When waterfalls once again quench all thirsty creeks,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As sunflower blossoms thaw from under the carpet of snow,</div>
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The world shall live again, I promise, it shall brim and
flow,<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></div>
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</div>
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And in its rebirth, I shall see my rise,</div>
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The fruits of my labour, the sum of my life,</div>
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All this and more, I would have them know,</div>
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‘Tis time to move on, to let me
go, </div>
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For I’ve walked the miles that I was meant to tread,</div>
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And I wore some faces and some I shed,</div>
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I’ve kept my promises and earned my keep,</div>
<br />
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‘Tis time to let me rest now, time to let me sleep...</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">Note: </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is a dedication to Robert Frost, an eminent poet whose simplistic style of poetry often held an extremely profound meaning. The latest offering is inspired by Robert Frost's Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening, whose lines have often provided comfort and strength to many in their time of need. This poem first appeared in the <a href="https://www.magzter.com/IN/Talking-Books-in-Delhi/Telegram/Fiction/193859" target="_blank">October issue</a> of <a href="http://www.facebook.com/telegramthemagazine" target="_blank">Telegram</a>.</span></span></span></b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-66419390407813886612015-06-22T16:13:00.004+05:302016-08-12T12:52:05.935+05:3051 Shades of Grey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 32px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Monday is a very awful way to spend 1/7th of your life – this is an observation anyone would agree with. Monday mornings are sluggish by default for many reasons. It approaches when a majority of us are nursing one weekend hangover or the other; some of the party the night before, others of a long overdue 10 hour sleep. We seem to detest getting out of beds on a Monday, hate getting ready for work, dawdle over that cup of coffee longer than required, hesitate turning on our workstations, and groan with exasperation when we see our inbox overflowing with the week’s work already charted over the weekend by overenthusiastic bosses. No, Mondays are no good at all.</span></div>
<div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 32px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was dawdling over the aforementioned cup of coffee longer than required a few weeks back on a Monday when my phone rang. It was my mother calling me. Because it was my mother calling, and because I did not have anything terribly important to do just then, I decided to talk to her. I picked up the call on the fifth ring (I was, after all, pretty busy doing nothing). It started off with her asked me if I was up - at ten-thirty in the morning - which, considering the fact that my office starts at ten o’clock, could only be attributed to a mother who knows her son all too well. She conscientiously reminded me that my birthday was fast approaching, which was a fact I wasn’t likely to forget - I would, finally, legally be of an age to drink. Ironically, I was considered mature enough to vote and shape the destiny of my country since 18 years of age. This just goes to highlight the amusing little quirks of our wonderful nation, like frowning at public display of affection in a park while peeing on a nearby wall. And then, finally, when the call was about to end, she dropped a bombshell – she had been looking at prospective brides for me. I nearly threw up my coffee at my computer screen. My mother effortlessly keeps my father and us three devils-for-sons constantly on our toes with her habit of throwing surprises like a heavy steel box coated in lead, but this was one that I hadn’t foreseen coming. She went on for quite a while about other things, maybe about the family planning bit – how many kids I should have and when and where and how – but my brain plainly refused to take any more information in. Instead, it focused on working out what I would tell the ex that I once had, and the one that I have at present, and many others that I would have wanted to have in the future. Marriage, the ultimate sacrifice; the end of life as I knew it!</span></div>
<div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 32px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I opened my Facebook account to find something that would distract me from my predicament. Cute baby/puppy videos, god-awful dubsmashes, extremely clichéd and unfunny pranks – just about anything would have done. And then, as I was beginning to contemplate the repercussions of having a personal Armageddon, something on my newsfeed caught my eye that made my Monday take a nosedive for worse. In that lovely little sidebar that told me “what’s trending”, I saw words that would cause my brain to shut down, pack its bag and go out on an indefinite holiday. E.L. James had announced a sequel to the <em>50 Shades</em> series.</span></div>
<div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 32px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Morbid curiosity made me click on the link with trembling hands and read the complete article. The sequel, as it was portrayed to be, was essentially the same story from the point of view of the sadistic Christian Grey. In simpler words, it was same old shit in a different lavatory. <em>My god</em>, I thought with the cup held halfway between the table and my open mouth, <em>this is worse than marriage</em>. Armageddon would have certainly been preferable.</span></div>
<div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 32px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let us have a bit of a backstory here. I write for a living and aspire to be a full-time author one day. As a result, I have always held it my social responsibility to look down my nose at people who I <em>literally</em> think are grammatically inferior to me (see what I did there?). E.L. James would have been looked down the nose by people I looked down upon. I don’t hate the 50 Shades series, but I do despise it and its creator with extreme, unflinching, almost loyal passion. For the many stellar qualities that she is so universally despised for, I will list but a few – her prose is pathetic, there was no story in <em>any</em> of the three books, and a friend of mine commented his bathroom fantasies would have had much more narrative that what she had churned out. But my friend never made millions of dollars out of his bathroom fantasies, nor was the product of his depraved imagination ever adapted into movies by big Hollywood production houses. E.L. James is successful, and, in today’s money-crazy world, that is all that matters. Another extremely interesting thing to note here is the amount of success she has had for writing something that, from what I’ve heard, borders on innovative torture and flirts dangerously with domestic violence and molestation. What does it say, as a society, for our moral values; what does it say, as a global civilisation, for our future? Are we so deep into depravity and decadence that we’ve fallen for this obscene, wanton craving for debauchery? Are we regressing into the cavemen we once were? Someone close to me who has read the series summed it up pretty well in a sentence. As I was ranting about the grave injustice of having to suffer the likes of James and her ilk, she simply commented that James sold because she had something new to offer; it might have been crass, she argued, but it was a novel crassness. Simply put, the public will buy shit if is packed nicely in an attractive package and wrapped with a pretty pink ribbon.</span></div>
<div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 32px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mahatma Gandhi is rumoured to have once said, “An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind”. I have recently found out that he has never uttered anything of such sort, and besides, wouldn’t it make much more sense to poke both eyes out while you’re at it and significantly reduce the chances of righteous retribution inflicted upon you? So I respond to like with like; I shall write something novel, something new, and something extremely downmarket. Yes, I will write the Indian version of <em>Fifty Shades of Grey</em>. The story, titled <em>50 Rang Grihast Jeevan Ke</em>, will revolve around a married Indian couple and will focus on how Indian husbands abuse their wives and how wives abuse their husbands in return. It is universally accepted in India that marital rape and domestic violence is a husband’s birthright, and BDSM has always been prevalent in India in the form of Bartan, Dhulai, Sewa and Maryada (Alok Nath must be thrilled). Since the wives don’t leave even after such wonderful display of love and affection, one suspects they rather enjoy it. But the marital fondness isn’t completely one sided; Indian wives demonstrate their capacity for returning love in equal measure by filing false dowry cases and through infidelity – it is, after all, their choice (cough, Deepika, cough). Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?</span></div>
<div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); line-height: 32px; margin-bottom: 32px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But the competition is already picking up. Another friend, an avid feminist, wants the roles to be reversed. She essentially wants a female Christian Grey who ties her husband to the bed and beats the living shit out of him with a stick; her idea of a good starting line is “He whimpered”. I have turned down her offer of collaboration because, firstly, the idea of a woman beating a man offended my male pride, and secondly, I would rather leave the unenviable task of conception of various innovative tortures for men to a woman because I do not wish to wince in sympathy the whole day (and because women are that good at innovating tortures). The last I heard, my feminist friend was searching for a sword to chop off extraneous appendages, most likely toenails. I have, on my part, convinced the friend with bathroom fantasies and a better narrative to collaborate with me. Given the current trends, I have high hopes of success from the series and firmly believe that even if we don’t attract Hollywood owing to our lack of connections in Los Angeles, the story can be successfully adapted into a C-grade Bollywood movie or a <em>Bhojpuri</em> blockbuster. Mediocrity, here we come!</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-60410847362933831442015-06-10T15:49:00.002+05:302015-06-11T17:22:10.047+05:30The Overture: Prologue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The air was thick with the bittersweet tang of blood, crows and
wolves already gathering for the feast. A sound could be heard every now and
again amongst the dead and the dying; sometimes a cry for help, mostly an
injunction for blessed release. Soldiers moved around the dead bodies, helping
those that could be saved out of the battlefield and helping those that could
not out of their misery. Other figures moved too, helping themselves to
whatever valuables could be found on men who needed them no more. Washing his
hands of the blood and the grime, Balaen Stramar watched the proceedings
dispassionately, having watched this macabre scene more times than he wanted to.
His weary eyes spotted riders, silhouetted against the setting sun, heading
towards him and raising a small cloud of dust in their wake. The black snake on
gold banner was just about visible. Baelen smiled to himself; Caen Parwayn was
asking for help.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“What news do you bring rider?” Baelen queried as the group drew to
a halt near him.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The lead rider shook off his helmet and smoothed down his long, dark
hair. “We have the rebels under Lord Grendt pinned in a small fortification in
the west, my lord. The commander sent me, requesting reinforcements.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“But surely your forces outnumber those of the rebels,” Balaen said
calmly.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“No so much. We lost a lot of men at Havenbrook,” the man reported. “And
they’re dug in quite well with weapons and provisions.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> “Hmm. And who are you, young
man?” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Eugene Harkady, captain to Lord Parwayn,” the haughtiness was
apparent in his demeanour. Balaen nodded and walked into his tent, causing the
entourage to dismount. He smiled to himself; if he was going to debate, it would
be on his terms. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Only Eugene entered the tent behind him, stooping a little on
account of his tall frame. Balaen sat on a chair and offered one to him, who
refused.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“So, captain,” he stared at the younger man long enough to make him
uncomfortable, “you’re here to request extra men so that you can storm the
keep?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes, my lord. The battle may have been won, but the war hasn’t.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Balaen nodded. “Yes, it is as you say. Can you recognise what this
is, captain?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Eugene noted the dark brown stains on Balaen’s arm and surrounding
tunic. “Blood, my lord,” he replied.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes, captain. It is blood. Do you know whose blood it is?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The enemy’s?” A faint note of hesitation was creeping in Eugene’s haughty
demeanour.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes, it is the blood of my enemy and that of my own men. Can you
tell it apart, captain?” A silence greeted his question. “It is blood of men,
men who fought for their liege and for what they thought was their realm. I
have been trying to wash it off all evening, captain, and it still doesn’t go
away.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“But Lord Parwyn...”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“But me no buts, captain.” Balaen interrupted. “I do not wish to
have any more on my hands. You’ll get the men you need, captain, but I am
coming with you. Ask my guard to mount up. We leave within the hour.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A flash of irritation passed through Eugene’s grim, pitted face. His
stiff bow told him that the captain disagreed with his perspective, but Balaen had
other concerns on his mind. As the Lord Protector of the Realm, his charge was
to bring the rebellion against the throne to heel; one which he wished to
fulfil without any undue shedding of blood.</span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">* * * * * * * * * </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As the riders mounted and rode away from the encampment, a hooded
figure nodded to itself in the shadows. It retrieved a small hourglass from its
robes and tapped it a little, watching little flakes of sand drifting down.
Yes, it thought, it is beginning.</span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">* * * * * * * * * </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The keep is surrounded by sheer cliffs on three sides,” Eugene
informed him as they disembarked their mounts, “there is only one way to enter
the fort, and they sit right on top of it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The keep loomed ominously against the sheer cliff that surrounded it
on three sides, enveloping it in its embrace. Balaen stared down from the ridge
overlooking the fortification that was proving to be such a difficult obstacle
to overcome.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“What about sending a few men down the cliff to open the gates?”
Balaen tried to envisage the map in his mind, trying to find a way into the
seemingly impenetrable keep.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“We have already lost four men trying to climb down the cliff,”
Eugene informed him bitterly. “One lost his footing; they shot down the other
three.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“And they have sheltered parapets protecting them from a return
volley. That rules out using projectiles,” Balaen noted. “They must need fresh
water.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh, they do. Only they have this freshwater stream running out of
the mountain that nestles them.” The look on Eugene’s face was full of
loathing. “Fickle bastards have been poisoning the water coming out of their
fort so that we can’t use it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Seems like you’ve found yourself in quite a dilemma here captain,”
Balaen replied, looking over at the formidable fortification again. His mind
was still racing when approaching hoofbeats interrupted his reverie. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Ah, what do we have here? Lord Balaen Stramar in the flesh!” The
tall man in the lead crowed as a small company approached the two men upon the
ridge. “How long has it been, nine years? And after all those promises to visit
each other, too.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Caen Parwayn, a man after my own heart.” Balaen found himself smiling
at the sight of his old friend. “Who knew all it would take was a war to bring
us together again.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Caen Parwayn smiled in return, but Balaen noted it did not touch his
cool green eyes. “You look tired, Caen.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“There is no rest for the wicked, remember?” Caen replied with a
shrug. His friend’s ash-blond hair was left long and untied as opposed to his
younger days; his magnificently chiselled features now looked haggard and
careworn. As the Lord Commander of the King’s Army, Caen was entrusted with the
task of stamping out the rebellion. The strain of all those years scouring the
realm of dissidents and rebels had to tell.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The king keeping you occupied?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This seemed to amuse Caen for some reason. “Yes and no,” he replied
with a wry smile. “Come, you must be weary from the travel. That bastard Grendt
can wait till morn-rise.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The two friends drank and supped in silence, each lost in his own
thoughts. Caen seemed quieter and preoccupied, unlike the boisterous young man Balaen
had known in the court during their training. Much had changed since those days,
he reflected, his friend not the least amongst them. He thought about all that
had happened following the dissolution of the Eldar Council by the 44<sup>th</sup>
King-Elect Elofin the First upon his coronation. The entire realm had split
into two factions, and the Dynastics had clashed with the Loyalists in a bloody
war that had raged for fifteen years, fifteen long years that witnessed
bloodshed unprecedented in the entire history of the land of Erascan. Balaen shuddered
at the horror. The war was almost finished, the rebellion having been quashed slowly
and steadily; The Eldar Council was no more, and King Elofin’s vision of a
dynasty was accepted throughout the realm. Lord Syman Grendt, the last of the
rebel leaders, was all that remained between him and the peace he so craved. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I shall soon be with my wife and my newborn son,” he said wistfully
as they bedded down for the night. “The end is finally at hand, my friend.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was no sound for a while, except the neighing of a horse or a
distant sound of men shouting and talking</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Yes,” Caen said finally, his voice was barely a whisper, “the end
is at hand.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Candle flames flickered, casting odd shadows at his face.</span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">* * * * * * * * * </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The hooded figure stood near the encampment, almost invisible in the
shadow. The hourglass in his hand had barely any sand left in the upper bulb. Anytime
now, it nodded to itself.</span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">* * * * * * * * * </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Lord Balaen,” the solitary man standing greeted Balaen as he
dismounted, “you are a sight for sore eyes, sire. I wish I could say the same
about your companion.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“My companion is the Lord Commander and has fought for the king,
which is more than could be said for you. Do be mindful of how you address him,”
he replied, noting that Caen chose to remain silent. “Where is your guard?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“They are where they need to be, my lord,” the old man chuckled,
“away from danger.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You have nothing to fear from us,” Balaen said evenly. “We’re here
for peace, not war.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“It is a strange peace, with armies at our doorstep and men in steel
ready to subjugate us.” Lord Syman’s crinkled face broke into a knowing smile.
“I am sure the irony is not lost on you.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">His grey eyes seemed to bore into Balaen’s. “Do you agree with all
that has passed because of the king’s madness?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I don’t, Lord Grendt,” he replied after a moment’s silence. “But these
are hard times, and we all do what we think is best for the realm.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“More evil is done by people with good intentions than is ever
intended.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You disapprove, Lord Grendt, after what the Choosing had become? A
game of politics and sycophancy to power, turmoil every time a king died and contenders
to the crown clashed for the right to be elected,” Balaen queried. “In a stable
regime, we may finally have something that could last forever.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Nothing lasts forever, my lord. Nothing,” the old man replied, “the
Choosing has become draconian and obsolete, yes, but still it will be better
than any dynastic vision your uncle is dreaming of. Remember the lessons of the
First Empire, and why the Eldar Council was established in the first place.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I do, Lord Syman, I do every day. And I believe we are no longer
the people we were during the Cursed Reign. We will no longer make the same
mistake.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“We can only hope.” Lord Syman’s gaze held a knowing look. “Let us
tarry no longer, my lord, and put an end to this folly.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Very well. Lord Syman Grendt, do you accept the King’s peace,
submit to his authority and accept his justice as shall be delivered in
accordance to your actions?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was silence as Lord Syman seemed to weigh the prospect of surrender.
Balaen tensed despite himself; Caen, on the other hand, seemed preoccupied.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I don’t, Lord Stramar,” the old man replied finally. “The King lost
his legitimacy when he dissolved the Eldar Council, and I do not wish to submit
myself to the justice of a tyrant. I do hope you are able to achieve... my
lord!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Balaen found himself pushed to the ground as swords hissed out their
sheaths and clashed above his head. Syman Grendt, tall and gaunt with age stood
above him parrying Eugene Harkady’s sword strikes. Dazed and confused, he got
to his feet just in time to watch Harkady decapitate Lord Syman, the last of
Loyalists. Harkady grinned disconcertingly as he saw Balaen’s hand move.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“It won’t work, you see,” he replied casually, wiping the gore off
on Syman Grendt’s tunic. “You’ll be dead before you ever withdraw your sword. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“How...” Balaen stopped, feeling a sharp pain in his chest. He
looked at the sword point sticking out his chest, thick drops of blood dripping
from the point. The blade retracted, leaving behind a gaping wound in its stead.
As his legs gave way and he fell on the ground, Balaen saw Caen Parwayn with
the bloody weapon in his hand.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“The question you should be asking, Bane, is why,” Caen said calmly,
“and what next. Your uncle, King Elofin the <i>last</i>,
has the right idea; a dynasty is the only way this realm would remain at peace.
Only, he won’t be the one who sees his dream to fruition. Goodbye, old friend.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dying in a growing puddle of his own blood, Balaen could make out
two figures making their way towards the army. The trap had been executed well,
he realised; Lord Grendt would be held responsible of treacherously murdering
Balaen, giving Caen a chance to exact righteous retribution. No one would suspect him of murdering his best friend. Then darkness took over and everything turned black.</span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">* * * * * * * * * </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The hooded figure approached the two bodies. The old one was dead
beyond doubt, but the other one was breathing raggedly; close to death, but still
living. Yes, the figure thought, just as it should be.</span><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
<u><o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-81261164320160474062015-06-01T17:47:00.000+05:302016-08-06T11:07:05.157+05:30Walk with Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To the fickle rain, which threatens to fall and yet doesn't. To those wonderful walks in the
rain, that we always talk about but never take:</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Walk with me a moment, walk with me in the rain<br />
Through the sunshine of happiness, through the dark clouds of pain<br />
Come, let us walk together, holding each other in our arms<br />
To ward off the loneliness, the doubts, the qualms<br />
Walk with me as a lover; walk with me as a friend<br />
Walk with me a moment, walk with me in the rain<br />
Come with me, leave the world behind<br />
Leave behind past transgressions, the hurts of every kind<br />
Leave behind the confessions; we don’t need them where we go<br />
Let yourself drift in the currents, give yourself up to the flow<br />
Let the tide wash us ashore, some place unknown in infinity<br />
Let us capture in this instant, the entire eternity<br />
So come, walk with me, let the sounds of this world fade and wane<br />
Walk with me a moment, walk with me in the rain...</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">
</span></span></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-27469937595443845492015-05-26T12:26:00.000+05:302015-05-26T12:26:15.136+05:30The Overture: Part Two<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“He did what?” exclaimed Lord Eugene Harkady, spittle flying from
his mouth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“He played music, my lord.” There was a nervous shuffling of feet.
“Then he killed everyone.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Why is he still alive then?” Eugene Harkady ground his teeth in
frustration. This, the finest, most glorious hour of his rule, was slowly
turning into ashes in his mouth. He took a deep draught from the pitcher he
held and threw it away in disgust. The wine, which had tasted sweeter than
honey not so long ago, now tasted worse than dog’s piss. The guard in front of
him did not meet his stare.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Kill him. Kill him now and bring me his head,” he grunted, his
festive mood evaporating like the morning dew. “Or I’ll see yours struck from
your shoulders.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The guard hurried away, leaving Lord Harkady behind with his
troubled thoughts. She’d warned him, he remembered. She’d warned him this may
come to pass. Damn the hag, Eugene swore inwardly. Damn her and her obtuse
prophecies. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">His thoughts were interrupted by a soft noise from his doorway. He
turned sharply, drawing out his dagger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Father?” Niall was peeking hesitantly from behind the door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">With his curly, blonde hair and bright blue eyes, ten years old Niall
looked nothing like the man he called his father. Where Eugene stood tall and
broad, Niall was small for his age and slight of build; his fair skin stood in
stark contrast with Eugene’s darker features. The boy was trembling slightly,
his gaze fixed at the weapon in Eugene’s hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” he asked, sheathing his
weapon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Niall shook his head in response. “There’s too much noise, father.”
The child clutched weakly at his clothes. “And I’m afraid.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">A deep seated loathing filled Eugene to the very core. The child was
just like his mother, soft and weak and utterly useless. Not useless, he
corrected himself. This slight, weak child would ensure that the name of Eugene
Harkady would live on forever. Eugene smiled grimly on the irony.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Go to your bed,” he commanded. “I will send for you shortly.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">For a moment, the boy looked like he might put up resistance. But
the flash of defiance vanished as soon as it had appeared. Eugene nodded
satisfactorily to himself; the gutless child would dare not defy him when the
time came. If only this night could have passed without incident. It was to be
the night of his crowning glory, until it all threatened to unravel with the
coming of that infernal stranger. Damn the hag, he swore again. Tonight was the
night he had not wished to invoke her; and yet tonight was the night now he
must.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">* * * * * * * * * * * *</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The Stranger hauled himself over the wall with relative ease and took
stock of his surroundings. The courtyard was bare, as was to be expected. Lord
Harkady had sent most of his troops out into the town looking for him, leaving
his own keep relatively undefended. A few guards still patrolled the walls, but
fortune was in the Stranger’s favour. There was no moon in the sky, the clouds obscuring
what little light remained. Even the torches lit at regular intervals seemed to
emphasise the gloom than alleviate it. In a way, it suited the Stranger. Most
of the guards were local lads who had drafted into Lord Harkady’s service for
two square meals, some respect and easy coin. It wasn’t something they deserved
to die for – at least not yet. He glanced around once more to ensure there was
no one in sight and trotted off towards the keep looming in front of him.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">* * * * * * * * * * * *</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Eugene felt the cold wind rising around him, whipping at his clothes
even as the leaves on trees just a short distance away seemed unaffected. The dead
man near his feet seemed to shudder for an instant and dissolved into nothing
before turning upright at the edge of his vision. It seemed to be dancing, if
it could be called that, in a disjointed manner. Eugene thought he could make
out three dark shapes rushing towards the body from three different directions.
He blinked, and the shapes disappeared.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Kill you must, or die you
shall...</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> a horrible screech seemed to fill the
entire night sky.<i> Fell him you must, or face
your downfall...<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“Who is he?” he rasped, the buffeting winds making speech nearly
impossible. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">When the past is not the
past...</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> The dead man was still dancing to its
awkward rhythm.<i> When Death shirks from
duty...he rises strong and fast...born of blood, of earth, of grass...he comes
reforged...Abelor the last...<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“The last of the Abelors is dead,” Eugene shouted. “The boy is nothing.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The response seemed to be more fervent gyrations and a rise in the
wind surrounding him. Ice crackled under his feet, but the chill that he felt
didn’t have anything to do with the dropping temperature. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">The past ascends on wings
of death...it rises strong and sure...he comes with memories of wrongs done...he
comes with vengeance so pure...<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The dead man halted, seemingly confused; the wind died away as the
unholy cacophony stopped. The gaze of its red, glowing eyes seemed accusatory.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">This one that you bring
us... it is not sufficient...</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“With you, what is?” Eugene replied venomously, glad to be able to breathe
freely again. “Just one more night! Help me claim what is mine, and I will give
you all that you ask for!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">There was a sharp crack, and Eugene Harkady suddenly found himself
flat on the ground unable to move his limbs. The dead man sat on his chest. The
red glow in its eyes had taken on a dangerous sheen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You will...give...usss....” it spoke with a harsh sibilant hiss,
the mouth moving at odds to the words spoken, “...you...who...were
granted...power...by...usss?” There was a brief pause as it seemed to formulate
the next sentence. “Do...not...presume...to...be...our massster...Eugene
Harkady...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">“You...need...me...” Eugene croaked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The red eyes seemed to consider this. “Yesss...but do not....think
yourssself...indisssspenssable...” it tilted its head, thick white fog pouring
out of its mouth, “bring usss....the...boy...and we...ssshalll...ssseee...”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The dead man disappeared just like morning dew evaporating at the
first touch of light, but Eugene could hear its final message.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">We will meet again...before
the night passes...as an unpaid due shall be demanded...life and death and
shadow cross paths...he comes again...Abelor the last...<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Eugene Harkady got to his feet. Just one more night, he told himself,
just one more night of putting up with the hag, just one more sacrifice to be
made. The boy would finally play his part. And he’d be granted power over death
and life, the power to make his own destiny. He walked down the path to the
keep; the stranger would be dealt with without any further delay. Behind him, the
thick white fog roiled on in the little clearing in the woods; twisting,
turning, waiting.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-64823865676191823812015-05-01T00:45:00.002+05:302015-05-03T11:42:07.897+05:30Something or the Other - Chapter 1: The Beginning, begins<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The beginning,
as with everything else, depends upon the perspective. According to some, the
universe just came into existence as it was one fine day – fully furnished with
customised galaxies and designer star systems. Others believe there was nothing
in the beginning – no time, no space, no life, nothing but the endless void.
All the matter was supposedly crunched up in one tight little ball that, like a
terminal gastric patient, decided it could take it no more of its internal
pressure and blasted away in the most spectacular event in the history of the
universe. The beginnings of my misadventures, however, were extremely humble,
being as far from the Big Bang as the Eiffel Tower is from Uranus. But things
were about to get interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I can
dictate”, I said moodily to Ritwik Singh as I threw down my pen in disgust,
“better than this lousy idiot”. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were in the
middle of a lecture, making a show of jotting down the ‘notes’ in our
‘notebooks’. Others were busy making notes; I was busy admiring the professor. This
one was a real beauty. Short of stature and dark of skin, his mug was a great
piece of art – abstract art. And on top of it all he was really, really
arrogant. He was supposed to be teaching us the Fundamentals of Information
Technology or FOIT, but was essentially reading out paragraphs from the
prescribed book that caught his fancy. Oh yes, we get books prescribed to us,
much like drugs and painkillers; only they aren’t effective (the books, that is.
The drugs could rock the party).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Bloody idiot!”
Singh said with a passion and to no one in particular. I couldn’t be sure
whether he was addressing me or the professor, but for the peace of my mind I
assumed it was the professor his abuse was hurled at.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Bloody idiot!”
I echoed him happily. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So much for a
fresh start, I thought sardonically. I was tired, plain and simple; tired of professors
boring us with the irritable habit of reading paragraphs that packed enough
punch to put a person high on espresso in coma; tired of them showcasing that
modicum of authority in their hands called internal marks; and tired of the
college just a week into college life. I was also tired of jotting down notes
without really knowing what I was writing. So, in the true blue spirit of the
rebel, I decided to draw figures on the back page of my notebook instead. Swords
and shields, yin-yang stuff, stick figures, aliens in UFOs, birds and the trees,
happy naked kids running around in the sun, Egyptian hieroglyphs; you name it,
I drew it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You there! Is
there a problem?” a voice cackled. It wasn’t a bellow (there was not enough
authority), but it brought me out of my trance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I am talking
to you, the one on the fourth bench.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I began
figuring out which person on which fourth bench was being addressed, and had my
answer soon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You, next to
Mohan! You, with the specs!” the cackle had gone up a notch higher and was now
threatening to become a screech.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Someone nudged
me. I looked up to stare at the professor’s face, which was dark with anger (as
if it wasn’t dark enough already).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Me?” I
inquired with an incredulous expression. He nodded angrily. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">This is a fine start</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, I thought. It
hadn’t affected me as much to be pointed out in front of the whole class as it
hurt me to be called ‘the one next to Mohan’. Didn’t the professor remember my
name, despite having asked the entire class for introduction thrice in three
different lectures? I was hurt at this apparent slight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Why aren’t you
noting down?” he asked me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I kept silent,
resisting the temptation to point out that his entire lecture could be found word-to-word
in my FOIT books had I bothered to look, and resisted following it up with a
reply on the lines of ‘I was trying to be environmentally conscious by saving
both ink and paper’. The silence had its effect. He marched down from his
elevated altar (the classroom was like a church; only noisier, smaller and less
peaceful). I stood still.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where’s your register?”
he demanded, and I showed him the rough notebook.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No fair register?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Utter and complete
silence greeted his question. He flipped through the pages irritably.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where are
today’s notes?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The disquieting
quiet continued. He stared at my face, I stared at his. The entire classroom watched
the spectacle with interest. People in India have this particularly charming
habit of standing on the by-lines of a public scene and enjoying the free entertainment
on offer when someone else is in trouble. I speak from experience; I’ve been amongst
the spectators plenty of times. Thankfully, the bell came to our rescue just
then, signalling the end of the lecture and our uneasy standoff.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What’s your
name?” he finally asked. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik Kargeti,
Roll no 40,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He opened the
attendance register and probably marked something on ‘Roll no 40’. There were
disappointed sighs throughout the classroom at the apparent anti-climax. Maybe
I came across as a poor, tongue-tied kid to the teacher and many of my
classmates. I didn’t care. It wouldn’t do to screw my internals just for the
fun of harassing a professor. Not so quick, anyway. His time will come too,
eventually.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">* * * * * * * * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And so, the
structure of a crystal is generally decisive in determining the co-ordination
number of the crystal.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was the
Chemistry lecture and one of the only classes where the professor actually knew
something about what he was teaching. His name was Anoop Shrivastava, but we
didn’t know that for the first few lectures, instead calling him the ‘Sir with
Pen Drive’ after the big yellow Kingston pen-drive he always had hanging down
his neck. He, unlike other teachers, hadn’t been too keen on intros. And,
unlike many other professors, he projected an aura of knowledge and authority.
Plus he was fun. He liked to take a break at the end of each lecture and joke
with us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“But sir, how
do we determine the co-ordination number from the structure of a crystal?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Well, that’s
easy. It is the number of equidistant atoms from a reference atom in the
crystal lattice. Let me show you,” he said, demonstrating the crystal lattice
on the green board. “Is it clear now?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Asking that was
a big mistake; questions peppered him from all corners of the classroom. It’s
like that at every new place you see. People are extremely eager to make an
impression, generally a good one. I hadn’t understood what coordination number
was either, but I had the Chemistry Wizard Ritwik Singh sitting right next to
me. I could ask him explain it anytime I wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Okay, so who
is the one with the funniest bone around here?” he asked once the questioning
voices quietened down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, as you may
have guessed, I am fairly entertaining and can be quite puntastically funny
when I want to be (see what I did there?). Anticipating my classmates to chant
my name like a holy hymn, I took a deep breath to calm myself and prepared
myself for the widespread acclaim.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Madhav!” I had
already half-way out of my seat when they cried out in unison.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Those who have
been in a similar situation would realise how embarrassing it is to stand up to
receive recognition, only to see it being awarded right in front of their eyes to
someone else. Dazed and disbelieving, I plopped down back on my seat like a
sack of potatoes with as much dignity I could muster and craned my neck to see
who this Madhav was. My jaw dropped in shock and disbelief. A dark-haired,
dark-skinned, slim boy resembling a weasel was strutting his way to the podium.
The first three buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a lean, stick-thin
frame I felt like snapping in half. My jaw dropped even further when I realised
Singh was also busy urging Madhav to go take his rightful place as the funniest
lad in the class. <i>This is what Caesar
might have felt as he was stabbed by people he thought his friends</i>, I
reflected, <i>this is what it feels like to
fall from grace when your own friends deceive you</i>. I shrunk back into my seat
to sulk and nurse my injured feelings, having lost all faith in any justice in
the world. Madhav, on the other hand, went up to the podium with all the pride
of an Olympic medal winner and the grace of a lynched weasel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So, you’re the
funniest person. What do you do to make this lot laugh?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this simple
question, echoes rang out from different corners of the class, making it feel
like a fish-market. No, the analogy is wrong; a fish-market would’ve been less
noisy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Tiwari sir’s
mimicry!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“He’s really very
good at mimicry, sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“He can mimic
most of the Bollywood stars too.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Okay, show us
something,” Anoop sir ordered as he dragged his chair to a location with a
better view. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The weasel complied
with the request and began his performance. Our new public entertainer was from
Kanpur, the city with which I had had a hate-hate relationship going. I wasn’t
real sure it was going to improve. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What happened
to you?” Singh, who’d studied for three years in Kanpur, looked at me crossly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What’s it to
you?” I replied sulkily. I had been most hurt by the defection of my own
personal Brutus, whom I’d entertained through boring lunches and even more
boring classes, and pulled no stops in letting him know I did not like it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Suit
yourself,” he replied with a shrug and turned back to watch Madhav perform. The
fact that he genuinely was funny only added further insult to the injury, more
oil to the fire, rubbed salt in the wound – you get the gist. I sulked some
more, consoling myself that one day I would get back at everyone for this
treachery. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bell
tolled, signalling the end of the lecture and start of the lunch break. One by
one, my classmates filed out with their lunchboxes, leaving me wallowing alone
in my misery. All, that is, except my bosom buddy Singh, who was bent over his
notebook and busy scribbling in it. My mood had lightened a bit since the
recent Weasel-gate scandal just a few minutes ago, but I was still feeling
sulky. I was not on talking terms with the rest of class, but the pity was they
didn’t know it. They didn’t know because I wasn’t talking to them, and telling
them that I wasn’t talking to them would have kind of defeated the entire
purpose. I had relented in Singh’s case though; only he was too busy scribbling
something in his notebook to truly appreciate my magnanimity. I ignored him for
a while, but eventually curiosity got the better of me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What exactly
are you doing?” I asked Singh. He said nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I asked again.
He still said nothing. I thought about leaning down from my perch atop the desk
to see what the fuss was about, but then thought better of it. Then I thought
again and leaned in to see what he was writing. What I saw surprised me; it was
a list of groceries he planned to buy that evening, and some that he had bought
the previous evening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Fuck you!” I
said dispassionately. The bloody ass still did not grace my comment with a
reply. I felt like rapping the side of his head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Phlegmatic, which
by the way does not mean I had a heavy cough or cold, I surveyed the almost empty
class. Apart from me, Singh and a couple of real studious types who had stayed
back to discuss what the professors had taught (or narrated, or dictated, or
sang, depending upon their style of “teaching”) since the morning, the class
was empty. Some were busy scribbling in their notebooks. I didn’t bother
peeking into their notebooks to see whether they were revising or just making a
grocery list. I had better things to do with my time (brood, for one).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Bollocks</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, I thought with disappointment, <i>this is college</i>. There was hype
surrounding college life that just wasn’t real. My life had once again fallen
into the boring tedium of leaving the house in the morning and returning in the
evening. The professors weren’t worth it; there were no fun or extra-curricular
activities to speak of. Except Ritwik Singh, my friends were practically
non-existent, and there wasn’t even a remote chance to get a girlfriend anytime
soon. In fact there weren’t even enough girls in my batch. Those that were
there were not worth a second look, which coming from an Adonis like me is
pretty damning. Lectures were boring, nothing was happening. Au contraire,
everything was non-happening. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To while away
my time I did a quick calculation of the male-to-female ratio of my class which,
I realised with a start, was poorer than Haryana’s state average, generally
considered to be the worst in the country (Haryana has 827 females for every
1000 males, or exactly 8.27 for 10. In my class, there were 7, maybe eight
girls in a batch of 60. You do the maths). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">Bollocks</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, I swore again, somewhat
passionately. This wasn’t what I’d planned, but then again when does life ever
go as you plan it? Fate, it seemed, had something else in mind for me, and I
would have bet whatever you had in your pocket it wouldn’t exactly have been
rosy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">* * * * * * * * * *<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What exactly
are you doing?” I whispered furiously at Singh, tugging at his shirt. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People were
returning to the class after the lunch break. He said nothing. I asked again.
He continued to say nothing. I opened my mouth again, but then decided to keep
it shut, getting a particularly obnoxious sensation of déjà vu of having had
the same conversation with someone at some other time (or maybe even the same
person at some other time).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hey, come on
over,” Singh beckoned, “come over to our seat”. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No, this
certainly was going as planned. He was inviting Madhav to come sit with us. But
hey, even the best-laid, well thought-out plans get fucked, and mine wasn’t
even very well laid or particularly thought out. I almost moaned out aloud in
disgust. The Ferret-face was already at the seat, bringing in his entourage as
well. It contained Harsh Rajan Shahi, who stood up leaning like the Tower of Pisa
at roll-call, as well as Sumeet Yadav and Saras Dubey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“There isn’t
enough space for two more people on the bench,” I put in helpfully, wishing
Ferret-face would leave and take his posse with him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Singh
wasn’t taking any. Mohan Sahni, being a helpful prick, left on his own accord
to sit besides Nilima Gupta, who sat on the row ahead and had a very uncanny
resemblance to a very popular and universally despised item girl in appearance.
Now there were seven of us, and the seat was ideally designed for seating four.
Five could have been seated with some adjustment (a very Indian trait. We are
very compromising people), but seven was definitely out of question. The
problem was solved when Saras, Sumeet and Harsh decided to sit on the vacant
bench behind. So, it was me in the corner, Mr. Ferret-face next to me in the
middle, with Ritwik Singh and DP on the right-most corner. Madhav tried to
initiate some conversation; I grunted the suitable reply and continued chatting
with Mohit about something just as the professor was droning on about something.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In fact, I was
more interested in the bench in front than my own. Next to Nilima sat Lavleen
Kaur, a stick figure exactly like the ones I was drawing in the FOIT lecture,
and Surjeet Bagga, who had formed a quick bonding with Lavleen on the fact that
they were both Punjabis. I was busy checking out all three girls, while
appearing to talk to Sahni. None of them were perfect, but desperate times call
for desperate measures, and I was real desperate at the time. So, here I was,
busy covertly flirting with three girls all at once without even talking to
them (so covertly they didn’t even knew) when my eternal nemesis, Mr.
Ferret-face once against decides to poke his finger into my matter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Nilima, got a
spare pen?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nilima shook
her head; Lavleen obliged by offering her pen instead. My blood boiled at this
unrequited intervention. <i>Goddamn it</i>,
I swore inwardly,<i> I could break his
prissy neck and hand it to him on a silver platter</i>. Just the thought of
such an absurd deed cheered me up a bit. I visualized it with eyes closed, and
smirked. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In fact, I was
still visualizing that pretty scene when I heard a very stern, “Are you
sleeping in my class?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I opened my
eyes with a start. Shit, shit, shit! I cursed myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What’s funny?”
The Maths professor, N.D. Tiwari, glared at me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What’s funny?”
I said, regretting it instantly.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He looked at me
crossly as if I was demented (and probably thought I was on drugs too, or
something equally hazy). As he walked down the long way from the green board to
my I seat, I suddenly remembered I still had that stupid smile pasted on my
face. Cursing myself for getting caught in such a fix, I made an appropriately
sober and mournful face. The transformation was spectacular – while earlier I
had been mooning like drug addict, my face was now composed in an expression
that belonged to a funeral procession. A prof grilling your chestnuts over not
paying attention is as tedious, and about as fun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where’s your
notebook?” He said, looking at the rough register at my desk. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Haven’t
brought it,” I replied shameless, and hoped it didn’t show. When you get called
to stand up in every second lecture about something, shame somehow doesn’t
enter the equation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where are you
noting the lecture?” He asked again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wasn’t. I
held up the rough register. He examined it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This isn’t
what I taught in this lecture,” he commented.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">How bloody insightful of you</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, I
thought to myself, maintaining the poker-face expression. He flung the register
theatrically.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where are
today’s problems?” He shouted, shooting spittle over my glasses. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I pointedly
removed my spectacles and cleaned them vigorously before putting them back on.
It took some effort to not point a finger at him in reply to his question,
reminding myself he held fifty marks in his hand. He glared at me for a few
moments to establish his disgust and finally came around to the business end of
it all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What’s your
name?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik Kargeti,
Roll no. 40,” I replied almost without an effort. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My head was
spinning by the time he asked me to sit down. Four days into college, and two
professors had already noticed me for unbecoming behaviour. <i>Good going</i>, I thought bitterly, <i>I might even get a third one soon</i>. And
by the gods, I did.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, it surely
wasn’t my day, but I did not need a further confirmation. Our next lecture was
on Professional Communication, i.e., about etiquettes, body language, mannerism
while conversing and language employed when dealing professionally; we, after
all, were professionals in the making. There was a talk about pronunciation,
and the way people give certain signs from their body language. It all bored me
no end. I had had too tough a day to focus on this stuff, and was anyway busy
watching the scenery outside the window. The blue sky was littered with white
clouds that hid the sun. It was beautiful. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes you!” someone
called. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ignored it,
having no doubt in my mind that I was the one being addressed by the speaker. With
the kind of day I was having I’d not have been surprised if some local
dignitary got hurt in a car crash and the blame was levelled upon me, despite
the fact that I do not own a license, or an automobile, and do not know how to
drive. In all honesty, they would have added those to the charges against me. I’d
have been slightly disappointed if they didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You there, specksy!”
came the voice again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Someone sure
was feeling inventive with words. I still ignored it, having done my fair share
of grovelling for the day. Then I felt someone bonk my head, which was a bit
more difficult to ignore. I turned around with murder in my eyes to find Singh pointing
towards the professor (I swear to God if it was anyone else, I would have
planted a fist on the jaw, fair and square).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Prof’s calling
you,” he whispered helpfully. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Prof, Saras
Shukla, was leaning forward with both his palms planted firmly on the table. It
was his favourite stance when he was teaching.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You have
trouble hearing?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few of my
classmates sniggered; I simply marked them out for future confrontation. Singh
shook his head (his small head). He wasn’t paying attention either, but he just
seemed glad he wasn’t the one pointed out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I asked,” he repeated,
“if you have trouble hearing?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, sir,” I
replied, when what I really wanted to say was ‘What? Can you repeat your
question?’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You seemed a
bit lost in thought,” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, sir,” I
replied plainly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No? Hmm”, he
seemed to ponder over my response. “Then tell me, what I was talking about,
just before you interrupted the class?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I disturbed the class</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">? I thought
sullenly. <i>You’re the one who’s so keen on
knowing if I have a hearing disability</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You were
talking about how the posture in which one sits or stands in front of his peers
determines how they treat him. If one sits straight in front of a senior, he
thinks one is eager, disciplined, capable, attentive and willing, and thus makes
a favourable impression. If one sits with a slouch, then he or she is
considered incompetent, lazy, and compromising by all, his seniors, juniors,
and colleagues alike. In front of colleagues and juniors, one should sit with
ease, and grace, but with a distinct control. It grants one a sense of power in
their eyes, and thus earns respect and admiration.” (See? I didn’t have a
hearing disability. I heard it loud and clear. I just wasn’t paying attention
to it.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And?” He
replied simply.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And what?” I replied,
surprised. There was more?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And what were
you doing, staring out of the window? Enjoying the scenery?” He asked, ready
for the kill, “It’s not bad, I’d give you that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">So</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, I thought to myself, <i>he does want to harass me</i>. It is
honestly very complicated why teachers first ask you what they’ve been telling
when they think you’re not paying attention, and in case you answer them
correctly, ask you what you’d been doing when you were not paying attention.
Why can’t they cut to the chase and come straight to the topic at hand?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I wasn’t
looking at the scenery,” I countered, “although, now that you’ve brought it to
my notice, it’s not bad, I’d give you that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He laughed. “You
weren’t?” He queried with a quick wink, “Then what were you looking outside
for?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Counting cars,”
I lied smoothly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He looked
puzzled. “And how many have you counted so far?” He asked again, refusing to
give up easily.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From the corner
of my eye, I saw around fifteen cars belonging to faculty members that were
parked directly beneath the building.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Eight,” I lied
again. He laughed again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I like your
quick thinking,” he said finally. “And your wit”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">You’re not the first one</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt;">, I thought
to myself with a smirk, <i>and you sure as
hell won’t be the last</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So what
exactly were you looking at out there?” He asked. This time, I laughed (to
myself that is. Outwardly, I gave an impish grin).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The scenery,”
I replied. He smiled back knowingly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What’s your
name?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I gaped at him
open-mouthed. The only reason he would ask for my name was to mark it in his
register for future reference, and here I thought I had done enough to save
myself from any further remonstration. But there was nothing else to do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik Kargeti,
Roll no. 40,” came the well-rehearsed reply. <i>Damn you</i>, I swore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He asked me to
sit down; I promptly sat down. Singh was still shaking his head (his small
head, I noticed again. Funny how these things stick with you). <i>Damn you too</i>, I swore at Singh. I damned
the rest of the class in attendance with (un)happy abandon to make myself feel
better. If the professor had trouble with me for not paying attention again, he
was free to do whatever he wanted about it. I’d had enough. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Okay,” the
professor flopped in his chair after a while and massaged his temple, “you all
are going to write about your first day in college, and read it out aloud.” He
checked his watch. “You have fifteen minutes.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The entire
class began to scribble frantically; I did too. At least, it gave me something
else to focus on except my dismal day. I’ve always believed creative writing
has been my forte. But then again, I’ve also believed I play good football; and
that I am a witty, charming, good-looking human being who is sensitive yet
tough; and that I am a secretive, uber cool dude like James Bond, only sexier.
And so I penned down my frustration on paper. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is a
problem with me, you see. I like perfection, and although I am far from perfect,
I am the most perfect imperfection I can be. No, that’s not the point. The
point is that I write something, then edit it, then cross it out, then rewrite
it again in a different manner, edit that too, and cross it all out, and start
writing again. I am confused as to what approach must be taken – witty,
sarcastic, emotional, touching, mysterious or escapist – with the end result being
an extremely confusing all encompassing jumble. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fifteen minutes
turned into twenty. Half the class had already finished and read their
narratives. Without being too critical, they were dull. Boring. I could have
done better after taking two sleeping pills and sleepwalking all over the city,
waking up with a headache and a hangover, and finally after taking two more
pills, in my sleep. Saras Shukla was watching me like an expectant father (It’s
just an analogy. I wasn’t expecting his child. Or anyone else’s for that
matter).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You finished
your piece, Ritwik?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Not yet,” I
replied.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Twenty-five
minutes. Almost all the class had had their narratives read.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Finished?” He
asked again. There was an edge in his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Twenty-eight
minutes on the clock. There was no time to stand up and read. I hurriedly
zapped through the end of the narrative and ran up to him just as the bell
rang. Shit, I thought again, all that hard work, all that ingenuity, for
nothing. The class started to trickle out of the hall. I was still standing by
his side. Don’t get me wrong, I’d have ran out the first chance I got, but for
two things – one; he still had my register, and two; I knew he would appreciate
what I wrote. I wanted to bask in the praise. Singh stopped back, standing at
my side (role-reversal. Now it was I who was looking at Saras sir as an
expectant father), whispering in my ear, “Ask him for your copy. We’re going to
be late for the next class.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like I cared. I
wanted to be praised, to be told how beautiful the language was, how
intricately words were connected together to give just the right inflexion of
mystique and grandeur, how there was a subtle…..<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Not what I
expected,” he said simply, “not good enough”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I jerked out of
my reverie. <i>What</i>, I thought. My mouth
echoed my thoughts. It came out rather like a croak (I was very, very
astonished at that moment).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What?” I said
again with more composure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He shook his
head. I wondered if there was anything in it; I also wondered what kind of
sound it’d make if I hit it with a hammer. Would it reverberate like a hollow space,
or would it make a squish like a ripe melon? (I still wonder. I should have
tried and tested)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You see, the
prose is too prolix, and the words, though captivating, are not too
imaginative.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Easy for you to
say, I thought bitterly. If he could have done better in twenty-eight minutes
precisely, I’d have danced naked all over the Piccadilly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Also, you’ve
drawn the start long but you’ve ended it abruptly”, he mused, “The ending, in
particular, needs some working.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As it would; I
ended it as quickly as I could within the deadline. Twenty-eight minutes, I
reminded myself with a deep breath.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Anyway, it’s
better than most,” he said, returning my notebook.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tears stung the
back of my eyes. This was the final straw, the ultimate humiliation. I gathered
my notes and bag and went out of the class, just in time to run smack into
Ferret-face. He was looking positively and disgustingly cheerful. I made myself
a silent promise to reshape his face.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What
happened?” Singh asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Mass bunk,” he
replied matter-of-factly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He saw my
expression, nodded from me to Singh, his look questioning. I waited patiently
for him to open his mouth so that I could hear the satisfying click of his jaw
dislocating when I planted my fist in it (well, I really was in a mood). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Singh shook his
head (his small head. I won’t repeat it again, promise). “He messed with the PC
professor,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Him too?” The
shock was apparent on his face. I scouted for the next sweet spot I’d hit after
his jaw and settled on the nose.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What, you’re
trying to create a world record or something for pissing off Profs?” he added
with a snigger, “Ritwik Kargeti, world record holder for the maximum number of
professors pissed in one day”. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe he caught
the threat of violence in my expression or the bloodlust in my eyes, but
something caused him to shut up. He changed tact and put a consoling arm around
my shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Shit happens, <i>yaar</i>,” he said earnestly. “It’s just the
first week. There’s still five more months to go in the semester.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, just the
first week. And I’d had just about as much I could have taken.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-73485612822153303552015-04-27T21:43:00.002+05:302015-04-27T21:43:31.326+05:30A Face That Launched a Thousand Ships<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I could spin
enchantments with poetry and prose,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I could capture all
beauty with rose petals of gold, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Waxing lyrical
unfettered, of the heavens and stars,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Things so near, things
so far,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>On and on I go,
throughout the night,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Through dusks, through
darkness,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Till the dawn of
light,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But when you ask for praise,
I have none to give<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>These words, they fail
me,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>In my time of need,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Should I recount the
tale,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Of my falls and slips,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Of how I was regaled,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>By the face that
launched a thousand ships.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I laugh, I tease,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I joke and cajole, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And yet I find myself
ever falling,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Down through the
rabbit-hole,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The line of your jaw,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The curve of your
lips,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh I have lost my
heart,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>To the face that
launched a thousand ships.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Do I praise your
nature which beguiles<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Do I mention how
sweetly you smile,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A smile with soft
promises, feathers and whips,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Upon this face that
launched a thousand ships.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tell me now, once and
for all, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve searched for the
answer through day and nightfall<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tell me this and let
it be done<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve searched and
searched, and I’ve found none<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve tried not to love
you,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve tried not to
fall,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve tried to resist
you,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I’ve done everything
to stall,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But I come undone with
a promise so fertile,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>That glint in your eye,
that mischievous smile,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A prey to your grace,
to your feminine wile,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A stranger in my own
heart, a vagrant, an exile,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And as I fall apart, I
pose this final quip,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>How does a man resist
your charms,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And your face that
launched a thousand ships.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-1685385337780318602015-04-07T16:16:00.001+05:302015-04-16T17:05:55.552+05:30Chapter 0: The Very Beginning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first day in college is a life changing
experience – stepping out from the comforts of home and parental supervision,
away from the known and into the unknown. It marks the beginning of a cycle of
maturity, of developing from an adolescent into adulthood. You have to make the
right decisions, and you have to take responsibility of those decisions. There
is a lot of meaning attached to college – so much so that it can sometimes be a
bit too much to process for a 17 year old fresh out of school. For me on that
fateful day in August, however, the most pressing concern was not that of the
impeding responsibility; it was about reaching college on time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It started with the traditional Indian
ceremony of <i>tilak</i> in Lucknow – a long
drawn out, slightly irritating ritual which is meant to bless a new endeavour.
I was in the courtyard of my sister’s place, waiting for my mother to complete
her ritual with a growing impatience. My father was standing next to me in the
courtyard, as was Rajesh <i>jijaji</i>. Renu
<i>di</i> was standing at the door with her
two little brats.<i> </i>A quick glance at
the watch informed me it was 0810 hrs; my college was due to start at 0900.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Here, eat this.” My mother held out a spoonful
of sweetened curd for me to eat. I frowned, but complied.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hurry up <i>maa</i>,”
I said, feigning irritability. “We are already late.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She smiled indulgingly at me and anointed my
forehead with the sacred paste. I touched her feet to complete the ritual.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Come on,” my father was pacing around in the
courtyard with an agitated expression on his face (he has a short fuse). “Do
you want him to miss his class on the very first day? He already got up late
enough to begin with.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Being the model son that I was, I said nothing
about being up late the previous night discussing trivial topics such as my
career and professional future, and whether I should switch my branch in my
second year. I motioned to my mother to hurry up and walked towards the cab.
The driver was standing at the gate, smoking. I coughed involuntarily as the
acrid smoke entered my lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“<i>Chalo,
bhaiya</i>,” I said, asking him to back the car out. My father and mother were
going with me to see me off to college, as was Rajesh <i>jijaji</i>. My family stayed in Bareilly (part of the reason why I
opted for a college in Lucknow), and were unfamiliar with Lucknow’s outlay; <i>jijai </i>was to act as their guide. Our
driver started the car and soon we were out of the society’s gate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Babu Banarasi Das College, please,” announced
my father. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Disaster struck as soon as the words were
uttered. Another car, which was coming in from my left, hit our car a glancing
blow to the rear, smashing the taillight. Our driver stopped the car and
started hurling abuses at the offender.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Look at this, you fucker,” he shouted. “Look
at what you’ve done.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The offender, being a true UP <i>wallah</i>, barely slowed his car before
turning the corner. The driver hurled a few curses after him, and then got back
into the car. This time, however, he drove slower than before. Much slower. I
glanced at my watch – 0830 hrs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We are going to be late,” I commented as our
driver, stuck in the traffic, honked his horn. “This driver is very tardy.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe it was what I said that sparked the
reaction, maybe it was the way I said it. Maybe after his heated exchange a
little while ago my comment finally pushed him over the edge, or maybe it was
just whatever he’d been smoking finally hitting his sweet spot. Hadn’t I
mentioned at the very beginning that being on time was my major concern? Well,
you could now add staying alive to the list of priorities. His feet floored the
accelerator, breaking the traffic signal and leaving a traffic policeman
whistling and waving in his wake.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Watch where you’re going!” my father screamed
at the driver as he turned into the wrong lane.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Is he drunk?” I commented, holding on to my
seat for dear.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My father shook his head, expressing his
ignorance on the topic. <i>Jijaji</i> tried
to sniff any traces of alcohol from his vantage point in the passenger’s seat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Not drunk,” he passed the verdict. “He just
seems to be naturally crazy.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The driver seemed oblivious to our discussion.
He, as a matter of fact, seemed utterly oblivious to everything in the world,
including the traffic on the road. He zigged this way and zagged that way
without a care in the world, drawing out more curses from my father and screams
from the rest of us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t want to die,” I sobbed, holding my
mother’s hand. “I’m too young to die.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Don’t worry. Everything will be just fine,” she
said, patting my head reassuringly. I looked up and saw she had her eyes
tightly shut. I don’t have to say I didn’t feel very reassured just then. I
tried closing my eyes to see if it helped, but somehow my imagination made the
situation much worse than it was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I genuinely do not know how we managed to
reached the college. The car had twisted and turned this way and that, breaking
every rule in the traffic rulebook and a few others that weren’t even there.
The rest of the details were a bit hazy due to the trouble I had processing the
cars whizzing by my nose and my entire life flashing by in front of my eyes,
but I believe it had something to do with my mother’s prayers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Here you are.” The driver announced, stopping
the car with a loud screech in front of the college entrance. No one moved for
a full minute, disbelieving the evidence of their eyes. I clambered down with
my bag and touched my body to see if any part was missing. Thankfully,
everything still seemed to be in order. The rest of our party disembarked as
well, taking deep breaths to reassure themselves they still could draw breath.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What the hell was that?” my father lost his
cool, turning red with rage. “You could have gotten us all killed back there.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“But you’re alive still,” replied the driver
casually. “And you got here five minutes before time.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My father’s red face got even redder than
before. Just as he was about to blow his top, <i>jijaji</i> interjected smoothly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Leave it, <i>chachaji</i>,”
he said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll take care of him.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Words were exchanged between the driver and
Rajesh <i>jijaji</i>, with <i>jijaji</i> doing most of the talking. The
driver simply nodded. Cash exchanged hands and he was off on his way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Got rid of him,” <i>jijaji</i> informed cheerfully. “We’ll get another ride for the way
back.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once the shock of the terrifying drive wore
off, I took a long look at the place that was to be the site for my new
beginning. The massive brick red building loomed large in front of us.
Surprising, all the excitement that I’d imagined at the prospect of joining
college had steadily trickled away the closer I got to college. Standing at the
entrance then, I seemed curiously devoid of any feeling, any emotion (it might
have been a side effect of the gut-wrenching journey). In fact, my parents
seemed more excited at the prospect of going to college than I was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Your
first day in college,” father slapped my back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“My first day in college,” I agreed, a little
foolishly. <i>Thankfully alive</i>, I
thought to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“My son is a big boy now,” my mother was
positively beaming. I returned her smile and nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was time to go. I touched my parents’ feet
for their blessings. My father kept his hand on my head in benediction; my
mother, on the other hand, chose to lavish my cheeks with kisses. A few students
entering turned their heads to watch the family drama playing out. I turned
beet-root red as a group of girls giggled at the sight of my mother
straightening my tie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Enough, <i>maa</i>,”
I disengaged myself from her grasp, feeling slightly irritated. “I am a grown
up man now.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“My dear son, all grown up and going to be a
college student,” she said, pinching my cheeks. “Aren’t you darling?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I refrained from pointing out that grown men
do not have mothers pinching their cheeks, nor do they have parents dropping
them off on their first day in college. I was not a little schoolboy on his
first day to kindergarten. No, I was an adult (well, almost) who could make his
decisions and take the responsibility of his life in his own hands. With such
determined thoughts swirling through my head, I bade my farewell and started
walking towards the entrance with resolute steps.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And turned back almost immediately. The big
black entrance gate perched ominously underneath the darkened horizon suddenly
seemed as appealing as the gates of Mordor. I knew I was supposed to pass
through them, but somehow the intimidating build and daunting presence did not
make me feel very welcome. Doubts which I hadn’t realised existed suddenly
sprang up from hidden corners – was I mature enough to handle college? Was I
mature enough to stay away from home and take care of myself? Would I be able
to do something good in college and life, or would this all be just a big
waste? Would I be able to adjust at all? <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Go on, son.” Someone nudged me in the back,
almost tipping me over. I turned to find myself looking at the round-faced
visage of my father with a smile on his face. “Get going.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’m trying.” I muttered underneath my breath,
turning to face the gates again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I looked down in order to assure myself my
feet hadn’t turned into lead bars fixed in a vat of concrete. It felt like a
childhood nightmare come true, only thankfully I had my pants still on (don’t
you dare laugh. We’ve all had one of <i>those</i>
dreams). I turned back with a pitiful expression in my eyes. My father’s smile
had turned into a smile-cum-grimace, partly because of the stifling humidity
and partly because of my inability to move forward. My mother was beaming at me
over his shoulder and nodding her encouragement as she probably urged me to
walk when I was a toddler (I never did. I ran instead. Always shot for the
stars, I have). My father’s profusely sweating face, however, was definitely
grimacing more than it was smiling by now, steadily growing red again. Taking
my hint from the warning signs, I walked through the entrance with a rapidly
sinking heart into uncharted territory.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now for those who do not know, the first day
in an Indian engineering college is not the fun, amazing experience that it is
generally portrayed to be in popular culture. There are no awesome people
around looking to welcome the freshers into college, there is no music playing
in the background, no hubbub of a hundred conversations going on over coffee,
nor are there students meeting and mingling with each other like there’s
nothing else for them to do. To a fresher, the atmosphere in an engineering
college feels like a jungle – tightly drawn, right on the edge. It is deathly
quiet, and the only students can be seen are the ones generally rushing to
attend a class or away to avoid one. Moreover, there was a threat of seniors
lurking in wait, stalking, looking for a fresher to walk into their trap
unaware. As I walked down the long road to my building, all the stories of
ragging that no one ever missed a chance to recount began to swirl in my mind.
Left and right I glanced, wary of anyone who looked askance at me; with my
brand new uniform, my crisp tie, my side parted hair, my boyish, slightly
child-like appearance and the bright orange <i>tika</i>
on my forehead, I probably stood out like a beacon to all the seniors as a
potential prey. I looked around, searching for something, anything that might
provide me with a tactical advantage. Aided by my high powered glasses, my keen
gaze zeroed in a thin, long-legged individual ambling along pleasantly some
distance ahead. His outfit marked him as a fresher, just as I was. Following
the first rule of the forest – there’s always safety in numbers – I went from a
walk to a brisk trot to catch up with him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi.” I said, huffing slightly from the
exertion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi.” He replied with an easy smile.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Which year are you from?” I said, eyeing his
crisp shirt and brightly coloured tie with interest.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The abrupt question wiped the smile off his
face. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“First year, electrical engineering,” he replied,
eyeing me suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I am too.” I extended my hand, grateful to
find another companion soul. “Ritwik Kargeti, Electrical first year.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He looked relieved. “Dipen Prakhar
Srivastava.” He took my hand in his bony grip. “We’re classmates, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, I guess.” I agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An awkward silence fell between us after that
initial exchange, the kind of silence that falls between two people who know
they ought to converse with each other, but cannot figure out how to. And it
was in silence we walked down the long road to our building, looking rather
like the number ten (or zero and one, depending on the perspective) – he with
his long, thin body, and I with my short, slightly pudgy self. My entry in
college, barring a life-threatening joyride, had passed off without too much of
an incident. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As is the tradition with any new class,
professors came in one by one. Introductions were asked for time and again, and
introductions were given with due diligence time and again. The first half of
the first day whiled away giving intros no one really cared about. By the
afternoon, I knew all there was to know about DP. Well, the stuff that I was
interested in anyway. He was born and raised in Lucknow, lived in Indira Nagar
locality, passed his standard XII ICSE boards with 87 percent marks and was
generally an all-around good guy. I quickly decided to befriend him. College
for me was chance for a new beginning after the fiasco of my intermediate
examination (loooong story, this one), a chance to wipe the slate clean and
start afresh. No more bad lot, I promised myself, I was in Lucknow for
education, and that is all I was going to focus upon. At least, that was the
general idea. Unfortunately, that twisted being called destiny, as we all know,
has a particularly obnoxious habit of throwing up a few surprises when you
least expect it. It was going to deal a particularly curious hand to me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was sitting by the window next to my new
best buddy DP at the third bench of the furthermost corner. It was lunch, and I
was already bored. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hey Ankush,” I turned to Ankush Srivastava,
the third person on our bench. “What’s up?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ceiling,” he replied, focused on the notes
that he had written down in the previous lecture.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I resisted the urge to hit him on his head.
“Where are you from?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Sultanpur.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’m from Bareilly,” I continued in an attempt
to keep the conversation going. “Must be lovely place, Sultanpur. A typically
quaint, picturesque town complete with fields and farms.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Nah man,” he finally shut his notebook. “It’s
a hellhole. I just wanted to get away from it for a while.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We sat in silence for a while as I tried to
figure out a way to restart the conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What do you do for fun?” I asked Ankush as
his hand inched towards the notebook again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The moving hand froze. “Fun?” he replied,
obviously confused.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes, fun.” I replied, with an amused
expression on my face. “The thing that you have when you’re enjoying yourself,
remember?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, I don’t remember,” he replied stoically.
“I’ve been preparing for IIT the past three years.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That explained the sincerity and lack of
humour, I thought to myself – the IIT hay fever. There were 1.21 billion people
in India, out of which nearly 1 billion people either wanted to become IITians,
or wanted their sons and daughters to crack the entrance. Students spent years
in IIT coaching and tuition centres in order to clear the entrance and be
selected, for becoming an IITian was supposed to be the cure to all of life’s
ills. It mended broken families, brought people closer together, and even
helped someone’s love life back on track. It was, and still is, India’s Holy
Grail for most students of a college-going age. I patted Ankush on his back in
sympathy; he nodded his head and went back to his notebook. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With nothing else to do, I assessed the
classroom. Now the first day in college is like the opening of a new mall or
apparel store – people are excited about what’s on offer, walk around a lot to
gauge if there is something they might be interested in, like some things
instantly and dislike others in a moment, and tend to gravitate around the
corners that they find most appealing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hey,” said DP as he plopped down on the
bench. “What’s up?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Nothing,” I replied absently, as my hands
worked at removing evidence from the preceding day– a roll numbered sticker
left over from an entrance examination – on their own accord. It was lunch, and
I was horribly bored.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So I was just talking to Promit Khare,” DP
enthused, “He’s from Lucknow itself, from Mahanagar Boys. Nice guy.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Who’s Promit Khare?” I asked, finally
managing to get the little chit unstuck.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That guy there,” he replied, pointing out a
stocky guy of medium height with a unibrow like a Neanderthal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yeah, seems like a nice guy,” I agreed,
trying to keep the sarcasm out of my tone and the chit from sticking to my
hand. “What’s that thing there, though?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What?” DP turned in the direction my finger
was pointing, giving me just enough time to slap the still adhesive slip of
paper with a pat on his back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Never mind, it was nothing,” I patted his
back again, making sure the slip stuck well. I looked around to see if anyone
had registered the offense; no one seemed to be interested. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one, that is, except one rogue-like
individual sitting in the last bench. Being the only person in the class wearing
a denim shirt and jeans, he’d naturally stood out from the rest of the class
from the moment he’d entered. That, combined his thick beard and an apparent
disregard for the professors’ authority, added to his impression as a
disrupting element.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He smiled at me at the prank. I returned the
smile, not wanting to come across as hostile with such a rowdy individual. What
I hadn’t counted on was him wanting to chit-chat. I felt a little surge of fear
pass through me as he approached my desk.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi,” he said, calmly removing the sticker
from DP’s back.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi,” I replied evenly, assessing him. He did
not seem as threatening up close; as a matter of fact, he was slight of build
and shorter in height than I was (not many people are). That fact gave me
certain confidence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi,” DP said as well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What’s your name?” He asked. His voice was
deep and slightly gruff.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Dipen Prakhar.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">DP and I looked at each other with confused
expressions on our faces.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’m sorry,” DP said apologetically, his
normally cheerful disposition slightly dampened by the confusion, “but which
one of us are you talking to?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Him,” the guy told DP as he slapped the paper
slip back on his shirt and winked at me. I suppressed a laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi. Ritwik Singh, from Mau,” he extended his
hand.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi. Ritwik Kargeti, from Bareilly,” I shook his
hand warmly, glad to find someone who shared my name.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Why don’t you come over to my seat? The
lecturers are boring anyway,” the other Ritwik pointed to the backbenches.
“It’d be fun.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Taking into account how I was looking for
something fun just a few minutes ago, the offer should have been appealing. But
I was reluctant to join him; this guy had managed to ruffle more than a few
feathers in just three lectures, and I did not want to be counted as a bad
apple in college (particularly after my school days). I was still looking for
an answer when DP interjected.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yeah, why not,” he said cheerfully. I looked
at DP with murder in my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 2.4pt; mso-para-margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left: 0in; mso-para-margin-right: 0in; mso-para-margin-top: .2gd; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">However, despite my misgivings, DP and I soon
shifted to the last second-last bench in the middle row with all our belongings.
Ankush chose to stay by the window; partly because we didn’t ask him to move
with us, and partly because there was no more space available on the bench,
what with a sweet looking Mohan Sahni already seated there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we talked through the rest of the day, I
realised I had formed an incorrect first impression about Ritwik Singh. The
bloke was a good four years elder to me and despite his outward appearance had
a first class working brain. He had been preparing for his IIT entrances for the
past three years, making it to the IIT extended list on his first attempt
before losing his way in bad company. Moreover, it seemed we shared more than
just the first name. He too had joined engineering to redeem himself in his own
eyes, just as I had; he too shared a similar ideology as I. I was happy to have
found such good friends on just the first day of college. What I hadn’t
realised, though, was that fate had just rolled the first throw of the dice.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-85317298343304002772015-03-23T14:27:00.000+05:302015-03-23T16:44:55.182+05:30Song of the Martyrs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Remember
remember March the twenty-third,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Remember the
martyrs, the boys that were,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Born they
were in distress and plight,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>In shadows
and chains, in a nation that cried,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>They made a
promise, a holy vow,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Holier than
jihad, holier than cow,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>United they
stood in their belief,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Their blood
would be spilled for nation's relief,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>At an age
when we fool around, goofing and drinking,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>They starved
and fought oppressors unthinking,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Where we
think of luxury, of comfort, of opulence,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Their thoughts
were fixed on the nation's independence,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Where we are
reluctant to part with our possessions,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>They gave
their all, for the cause of their nation,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Remember
remember March the twenty-third,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Remember the
martyrs, the boys that were,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>They dreamt
of a nation, united and free,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Their dreams
lay trampled in a heap of debris,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>The tunnel
goes on with no end, no light,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>The nation
they dreamt of is nowhere in sight,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>The nation
still cries, the tears have dried,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>It cries for
those heroes, the ones that have died,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>For they were
lucky, those that have gone,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>They never
would witness the mess we've wrought</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>We are the
seed, the fruits of their blood,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>We the
degenerates, the sickened, the crooks,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>And today we
honour their sacrifice,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Their
bravery, their memory,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>With
deceptions and lies,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Corruption
and treachery,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Young and
foolish, they might have seemed,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>But they were
more men than most men have been,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Fools they
were, till the very end,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>But better a
noble fool, than a foul reverend,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Remember
then, March the twenty-third,</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Remember
those martyrs, the boys that were...</i></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-82955104240071476502015-03-16T12:56:00.000+05:302015-08-04T11:55:23.798+05:30The Overture: Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The inn was overflowing with spirit and sound. The serving wenches ran hither and thither, spilling foamy ale in their wake as the townsfolk mingled with one other.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“More!” Demanded the captain as he banged his empty tankard on the table.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“More!” Echoed his yeoman happily, eager to get drunk at their lord’s expense. Not that the innkeeper ever demanded any money from Lord Harkady’s men anyway, but tonight marked a special occasion and the small town of Charham was experiencing the magnanimity of their tyrant. Seven oxen roasted on spits along the town centre; ale flowed freely and easily. The innkeeper reached for another cask. With the profit margin, he would be a rich man at the end of the night.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The door swung just as he pried the cask open. It was strange, he noticed, how the newcomer cast no shadow. Even stranger was the way the hubbub died as he entered the inn with his black holdall and headed straight for the innkeeper. Even the usually boisterous yeomen had taken to whispers upon the new arrival. Only the Lord’s Pet remained unaffected, scribbling gods knew what on the floor.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“What can I do for you, guv’nor?” The innkeeper said evenly, gauging the new entrant. The man was dressed in a black shirt with matching breeches tucked inside black, knee length boots. Somewhat surprisingly, a pink wide-brimmed hat adorned his head. His features were hidden behind a ragged beard with streaks of grey, his age seemed indeterminate. But it was his eyes, the innkeeper noticed, that really set him apart. Onyx black eyes, deeper than the deepest fathoms of the oceans, older than Time itself. Despite himself, the innkeeper shivered a little.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The newcomer seemed to take stock his surroundings. The innkeeper knew what he would see. The walls needed a fresh layer of paint, the bar could do with replacing, and the inn could benefit from an extra stool or two. Faded tapestries hung on the walls, all marked with the Harkady sigil – a pair of crossed axes, gold on black.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The innkeeper cleared his throat. “Do you need something?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The man placed his hands on the bar, chains rattling as he did. Two antique-looking guns peeped over his shoulder, bound by thick chains to his arms up to the elbow.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Yes,” his voice was deep, but not coarse, “but I’m not sure you can give it to me.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Innkeeper was perplexed. “What would that be?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“I want information.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Information about what?” The innkeeper cleaned a mug nonchalantly with a growing sense of dread. He cast surreptitious glances towards the group of yeomen sitting across the hall, but for now they seemed to be content spilling ale from their tankards and slapping the serving girls on the rump.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“About all this.” The stranger swept his gaze around the room. “What is celebration about?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The innkeeper relaxed. The man was only curious, it seemed.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“It’s been ten years since he came to power.” The innkeeper picked up another mug and started wiping it. “He is celebrating the fulfilment of the Prophecy. Tonight he consolidates his rule.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Is he, really?” The stranger seemed to consider this. “Interesting man, your Lord Harkady. Must have been, to have got to where he is today.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Yes, interesting indeed.” The innkeeper glanced nervously towards the yeomen. While the others still seemed to be engrossed amongst themselves, the captain, who seemed drunk only a moment ago, was watching them with interest. A thin bead of sweat trickled down the innkeeper’s neck.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“If you don’t mind now, would you rather have some beer?” He asked desperately.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The stranger simply shook his head and gestured towards the Pet.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Who’s that?” He asked, pointing towards the little boy in the dirty robe.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“One of Lord Harkady’s fancies, I believe. He brought him here when he arrived.” The innkeeper said. “Look now, guv’nor...”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The stranger got up and walked towards the little boy.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“What’s your name, lad?” He asked, not unkindly.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The boy wiped a runny nose on his sleeve. “What’s it to you, mister?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“It may well be everything, little one.” The stranger ruffled his hair and took out a violin from his bag. “You know what this is?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“O’course I do.” Came the indignant reply.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Of course, you do.” The stranger agreed. “Do this for me, will you? Run along to the innkeeper and order a bowl of his best stew. Go on then, there’s a good lad.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The child watched the stranger with suspicious eyes, but soon the prospect of free food overcame his suspicion. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Let the lad eat to his fill. Here's something to cover the expenses." The stranger threw the innkeep a coin. A chill ran up the innkeep's spine once more as he caught sight of the gold coin. It carried the seal of the Abelors.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"This coin is cursed," he hissed through his teeth, aware of eyes upon him.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The stranger simply shrugged. "Gold is gold, cursed or no."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I will not take this!" The innkeep threw the coin on the floor.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Your wish," sighed the stranger, throwing another coin up to him. "Here, have a silver one for your troubles."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Grumbling, the innkeep pocketed the coin and served the Pet. The stranger tuned his violin, strumming it every now and again till the individual chords became more coherent. Music flowed like a river in flood. It was a simple tune, yet profoundly sad and wistful. A hush fell over the inn as the soulful rendition entranced every soul, dragging one back to the happiest days of one’s life, the best memories, of things that were and never shall be again. And then, just as soon as it started, the music stopped. The violin lay smashed on the floor.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Fancy yourself a musician, do you?” The captain of the yeoman was breathing heavily, his face red with anger and exertion. “Music has been banned by the lord himself.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Your lord, not mine,” the stranger said equably, “and I am more of a composer, I believe.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Hear that lads? We’ve got a real composer here. Here in Charham, our very own composer! He’ll play music for us.” The captain gave a chuckle. “Tell us, what will you play now?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The yeoman abandoned their drinks and surrounded him, their swords in their hands. The man smiled again as he stood up; it was not a pleasant smile.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Think of it as an Overture to Death,” he said darkly.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The innkeeper had heard of Quickdraws, master gun-men adept at getting accurate shots off in rapid succession. This small group of legendary gunmen could bend their bullets and do things with a gun that people couldn't even dream of. What he hadn’t expected was the speed with which the chained hands drew out the guns from their holsters with barely a tug, nor had he completely comprehended how the expertly guided movements cut through the yeomen leaving only the captain standing feeling slightly stupefied. All the eyes in the inn had turned on the tableau, as the stranger and the captain stood facing each other in their own private world, like a remote island far out in the foamy blue ocean.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Run,” said the stranger. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The captain obeyed without hesitation. He was well out of the door when the stranger turned and fired a single shot. There was a distant grunt and the heavy thump of a body hitting the ground.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Can’t do that with swords, mind.” The stranger chuckled, winking at the innkeeper. “I’ll have a jar of your strongest ale, a loaf of black bread and a bowl of stew the lad is having.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The innkeeper stared at the stranger, his mouth agape. “You just...you did...but how?”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
“Wrong questions, guv’nor,” the stranger said, restringing his violin. “The question you should be asking is why, and what now.”</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The innkeeper wondered about that and shuddered. Haunting music filled the inn again, the wistful melody from the violin playing a more intense theme now. The Overture to Death, he’d called it, and Death would come soon, one way or the other. He was certain of it; Lord Harkady was unlikely to leave this little incident go unpunished. But for now there was only the music, and that was the only thing that mattered.</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-47710675532972905762015-03-05T01:13:00.001+05:302015-04-06T11:14:01.622+05:30Something or the Other: Prologue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt; text-align: justify;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ritwik sat in the foyer, tapping his feet nervously. The praetorian
sitting guard over the desk looked up from her keyboard and arched an eyebrow
at him. Ritwik gave her an uneasy smile; the receptionist responded with a
twitch of her blood-red lips before turning her attention back to her computer
screen. With nothing more to do, he pulled out his phone and browsed through it
for the umpteenth time; Vaishali still seemed to be offline, her best wishes in
the morning having been the last messages that he’d received from her. He
contemplated calling her up, before discarding the idea; she had been
overloaded with work the last they met. Ritwik slid the phone back in his
pocket and browsed through the document in his hand again. It felt very heavy, but
he knew the weight came not from the sheets of paper, but from the significance
this document held as something that could make or break his fledgling career. He’d
been anxious when he told Vaishali what he was going to do; his anxiousness did
not improve with the seemingly endless wait he’d had to endure. Tired of
waiting, he got up from the couch and approached the front desk.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How much longer would I have to wait?” he asked.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Your query has been forwarded to the relevant department, and will
be addressed as soon as possible.” came the reply.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ritwik was unimpressed. “Can you not give me an approximate
timeframe?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Wish I could, honey.” The receptionist shrugged, sending ripples
down her ample body from bun to bum. “Please take a seat. Someone will be with
you shortly.” She turned her attention back to her computer; the blue homepage
of a famous online networking website was clearly visible in the mirror behind
her, with several chat windows open.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I’ve been waiting for the past,” he made an exaggerated show of
checking his watch, “two hours. I’d expect someone to have responded by now. Is
the submissions team free?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She shook her head; half her makeup seemed to shake with the motion.
“The submissions team is busy.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was a brief ping, followed by another chat window opening.
Ritwik could make out the name Zaheer in the mirror.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“When will they be free?” he queried, his impatience growing.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t know.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Can I know your name?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Farah.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Thank you, Farah. Is the editor free?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No.” The woman was still busy typing away with merry abandon and smiling
ever so often. Ritwik took a deep breath to hold his temper in check. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Will he ever be free?” He asked in a deceptively soft voice.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t know.” She replied with all the pragmatism of sky-diving
without a parachute, her eyes still fixed on her computer screen.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You should; it’s your job.” Ritwik replied sweetly, in a tone that
could have cut through diamonds. “Could you arrange a meeting with the
publishing head now, honey, if halting your extremely busy online social life
in order isn’t too much to ask?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-GB">That</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"> caught her attention, he noticed with grim satisfaction. Hastily
minimising a window where Zaheer was asking her what she did in her free time,
she picked up the receiver and dialled a number. The phone was picked up after
two rings; introductions were made, followed by a brief nod.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The publishing head would see you now.” The relief in her tone was
apparent; Ritwik noticed her wrinkles relax behind the facade of cosmetics.
“You can wait in the conference room.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Thank you <i>so</i> much.” he
replied, picking up the document and entering the conference room. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Within a minute, he was joined by a tall, balding, bespectacled man
with a face resembling a disgruntled Australian pig. The man was shabbily
dressed; his shirt was half un-tucked with betel stains all over. Optimism and
sheer bloody-mindedness seemed to have played more of a part in his trousers betraying
the temptations of gravity than the faded, chipped belt that he wore. His shirt
was grotesquely extended by his potbelly; if capable of feeling, the buttons
would have screamed in agony. His mismatched coat hung loosely over his
shoulders as his small, squinty eyes appraised Ritwik.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Sit down.” he ordered Ritwik, who complied without a question. “I
am the publishing head, Vinod. Farah told me you wanted to meet me.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes sir,” Ritwik replied, “I have a manuscript that I’d like you to
look at.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I only look at manuscripts that are going to be published. Is your
manuscript going to be published?” Vinod deposited his ample bulk in a chair, slouching
like a sack of potatoes.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I do hope so.” Ritwik replied earnestly.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hope? Hope has nothing to do with it.” Vinod fumbled in his trouser
pockets, pulling out car keys, mobile phone, a packet of tobacco, a soiled
handkerchief, another set of keys, a notepad and a pen; he zeroed in on the
notepad, flipping it open. “What’s your name, young man?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik Kargeti.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik, Ritwik, Ritwik...” Vinod browsed through the notepad,
flipping page after page with his tobacco stained fingers. “There’s no Ritwik,
but there is a Ridam here. Are you Ridam?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No sir. I am Ritwik.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Are you sure?” The permanent scowl on Vinod’s face seemed to be
deepening.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Absolutely positive sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hmm, a pity; we could have used a Ridam. We’re supposed to publish
his book but I don’t have a clue what it’s all about. He’s well overdue a visit
anyway for the final round of editing. Are you sure you’re not Ridam?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I am Ritwik, sir.” Ritwik replied, exasperated.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes yes, you’ve already told me that a thousand times. Why do you
have to be so repetitive?” Vinod snapped irritably. Ritwik wisely chose to keep
his mouth shut, pushing the manuscript towards him instead. Vinod glared at it
suspiciously, as if he’d been passed a ticking time bomb.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What is it?” He asked warily.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“The manuscript, sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ridam’s?” Vinod asked hopefully.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, sir. It is mine.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And who are you again?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik, sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik who?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik Kargeti, sir.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Vinod flipped through a couple of pages on his notepad.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t know any Ritwik.” He said finally, slamming his notepad
down on the table. “Do I?” He added hesitantly, browsing through his notepad
again just to be certain. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t see any Ritwik, but I do have a Ridam here. Are you Ridam?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ritwik felt the publisher’s beady eyes watching him expectantly as
the world around him started to spin. He felt like banging his head on the
table, and promptly did so;<i> </i>the
spinning universe seemed to be back in order after a few bangs.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What did you do that for?” Vinod queried, seemingly both shocked
and curious. Ritwik got up from his seat and walked towards him.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It helps me put things in perspective. You must give it a try
someday.” Ritwik grounded out the words through his teeth, all semblance of deference
now vanished. “I want you to listen, Vinod, and I want you to listen very
carefully, because I will not repeat it.” He paused to ensure he had the
publisher’s complete attention. “I am Ritwik Kargeti. I am neither Ridam nor
any representative of his, and I do not want to hear his name from your mouth
again. If I do, I will make you regret the day you started maintaining a
notepad. I am an author, and you do not want to test my imagination. It will be
very painful for you.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A small gulp from Vinod told him his vague threat had shaken the
scatter-brained publisher. Encouraged by the impact of his words and spurred
onwards by his frustration, he continued in a louder tone. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I want your publishing house to represent me in publishing a series
of high-fantasy novels, the manuscript for which has been submitted to you
three times to no avail. I have been led and misled by your team over and over
again. My manuscript seems to have been the only one burned in a fire, or
chewed upon by rats in your basement. The latest excuse was that their copy of
the manuscript had been lost while moving office, which I don’t really believe
has changed its location. Now they want me to resubmit. Resubmit! That’s three
more months to have another excuse ready!” His voice shook with passion as he
slammed his palm down in front of Vinod. “No more resubmissions! This ends
now!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A bead of sweat dribbled down the curve of Ritwik’s oval face. He
was breathing heavily, and his face was red with anger and frustration. Vinod
was looking askance at him.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Do you have to shout?” he asked, mild irritation showing on his
face. Ritwik sighed and slumped on a chair.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, he felt deflated. “I just wanted someone
to look at the manuscript.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Vinod brightened up. “Why didn’t you say so before? Let me have a
look.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He snatched Ritwik’s manuscript out of his hands and peered at the
cover page. “What’s it about?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s about the fight between good and evil. It draws heavily from
Indian mythology, which has been restructured to fit a mythical world. It is a
story about honour, duty, sacrifice...”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Basically, all the things that no one gives a crap about.” Vinod
threw down the manuscript on the table. “Listen, kid, I’ve read what you’ve
written,” he motioned dismissively as Ritwik glanced at the unopened document,
“and it simply won’t cut it. Nothing to do with you, you understand; it’s about
what public wants. People don’t want to know about honour and glory and all
that claptrap – no! They want entertainment. They want what Sunny can offer
them.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Handpump?” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, the other Sunny.” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ah. Strawberry condoms?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Close, but no.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“An erection?” Ritwik ventured hesitantly. The conversation was threatening
to unravel once again.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Yes!” Vinod exclaimed. “They want sex, they want entertainment. They
want their protagonist to be like them – greedy, needy, desperate. Look at your
most famous Indian authors today. All they’ve done is repackage sex into
stories. But their stories sell like <i>garamagaram</i>
chai because of one ingredient - <i>masala</i>.”
He flung his hands up dramatically. “People don’t want all this nonsense about
honour and duty and whatnot. It’ll just make them feel worse about their
pathetic lives.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Vinod settled back in his chair with arms folded across his chest;
his face lit with a beatific smile and his benedictory gaze settled on Ritwik.
Ritwik felt a response was expected of him, but words failed him. He reached
for the manuscript, still unopened, still unmarked.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So you think this won’t work?” he said finally, in a very
disappointed voice.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Vinod shook his head. “Sadly, no. We won’t be publishing that one. What
was your name again?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik.” The voice was a whisper, nothing more. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Ritwik? But I see no Ritwik here.” Vinod was flipping through his
notepad again. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You won’t.” Ritwik turned and walked towards the door. Farah gave
him a reproachful look as he walked out of the conference hall, but swiftly
resumed her online socialising. Ritwik didn’t care; he was too far through to
care anymore. All the hard work felt wasted – all those painstaking hours spent
completing, editing, rewriting and reediting the manuscript seemed
inconsequential. He had staked his professional career, his relationship, his
entire future for this one break. And now he could see everything tumbling down
the drain. His phone vibrated as he walked out on the street. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hey.” Vaishali’s voice on the other end was chirpy and full of life
as usual.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hi.” he replied tonelessly.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What happened in the meeting?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“They rejected it without even giving it a read. They wanted
something which appeals to the masses, something with <i>masala</i>!” his vision blurred; tears threatened to overwhelm him. “They
say there isn’t any scope for what I’ve written.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“That’s not true. You’ve written it very well, and people would want
to read it.” Vaishali tried to encourage him. “You can send it somewhere else,
you know.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, I won’t. I’m done trying.” his voice broke. A tear rolled down
his cheek. “I’m done.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hey, don’t talk like that.” Vaishali chastened him. “You’ve had the
imagination to think of something remarkable, the ingenuity to put it on paper
and the courage to follow your dream. How many people can do that?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ritwik remained silent, tears streaking down his face.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“They said they wanted <i>masala</i>,
something to appeal to the masses?” Vaishali continued when Ritwik did not
respond. “How about your college memoirs? It made for a good read, and gods
know there was plenty of <i>masala</i> in
it. That could get their attention.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ritwik stood dumbstruck for a moment. Of course, the college novel! It
would require major rework, but it would make for a good read. He might have
had the manuscript somewhere on his laptop. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Thanks a ton.” Ritwik hailed
a cab. “I’ll call you later.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Upon reaching his place, Ritwik quickly switched on his laptop and
searched all his files. Over and over again, he patiently trawled through. The
manuscript was nowhere to be found. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t have it.” He informed Vaishali over the phone. For the
second time in the day he cursed his luck. “I guess it got deleted when I
formatted it.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Don’t you have it in your email?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Nope.” Ritwik replied, deflated. He had browsed through his emails,
and found only bits and pieces. “There are a few chapters in the mail, but not the
complete thing.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Don’t lose hope.” Vaishali consoled him, her tone soothing. “Why
don’t you rewrite it?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Rewrite?” he said incredulously. “So much has happened since I last
wrote it, especially with Naina...”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His voice trailed off. Like everything else about Naina, even the
barest mention of her name could still cast a shadow between them.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Include everything in it then. You’ll do a splendid job, I’m sure
of it.” Vaishali’s tone was cheerful; only a momentary silence preceding her
reply betrayed her hurt. “Where would you start it from?”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where everything starts.” Ritwik started typing,
apprehensions of moments ago forgotten. “From the very beginning.”</span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-78102214744136515182015-03-01T16:41:00.000+05:302015-03-01T16:48:24.809+05:30I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">"I am the beginning, I am the end,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Never seen, yet ever-present,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">All-encompassing, omnipotent,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am the beginning, I am the end.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Your mother, your father, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Your kith and kin,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Your virtues, your values,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Temptation and sin,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Your greatest foe, your staunchest friend,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am the beginning, I am the end.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Whisper in the wind, drops of rain,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">A lover’s embrace, heartbreak and pain,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I cause you to stumble, I grant the will to stand,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am the beginning, I am the end.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Destroyer of worlds, harbinger of strife,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">Creator of universe, giver of life,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am what forever shall be, I am what never was,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am the beginning, I am the end.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am the meaning of existence,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am what death portends,</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 2.4pt;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB">I am the beginning, I am the end."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-1155741970983271362015-02-12T11:38:00.002+05:302015-02-12T12:17:19.630+05:30Autumn for life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The swamps dry up, the sky turns a lovely shade of blue,
flowers blossom and the rivers clear. The cool wind blows as green leaves turn
brown before falling to the ground. The
sun shines bright, and a crisp breeze gusts through, ruffling the yellow
cornstalks. Yellow appears as the order of the day; it is the time to harvest.
Autumn is nature in bliss; it is the end and it is the beginning. It is the
time to be reacquainted with your inner self, a time to forget and recover. It
is the time to rejuvenate in the season which is the epitome of change. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Make way for something new, something different,
something beautiful; something you have not done for a long while. Go for a
walk on a carpet of leaves, shedding your past like the leaves of a tree. Take
a swim in a clear river under the beautiful blue sky, let the breeze caress
your skin; let it awaken the lost spirit, that forgotten bit of you. Take a
leap of faith off the highest cliff and dive into the deepest fathoms to find
the treasures hidden inside you. Lose yourself in nature, and find yourself
anew – remade, reformed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Run – run as you’ve never run
before, through the fields and over the hills. Harvest the positivity and
indulge yourself in introspection; find what is best about you. Burst forth
with laughter in this season of festivities and dance on the bones of your
gloomy memories; it is the season to rejoice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Go for a hike in the flirtatious
wind; lose your heart and lose yourself in the pleasures of life. Experience the
excitement and passion to the fullest, as if there was no tomorrow. In the season
of fall, enjoy the gift of life; fall in love – with yourself, with nature,
with everyone around you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">But as with all good things, the autumn
will not last forever. It is the nature’s way of saying that all beauty will
scatter, that everything shall have to end. Make the most of it in full bloom while
you can, or wait too long and see it all fade away into nothingness; the
promise is always there, the promise of returning one day. Every facet,
every aspect of this wonderful season teaches us something – something about
ourselves, about the world, about the essence of life itself. Autumn is the nature’s
way of marking the importance of change; before you reap, you will have to shed
it all.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Autumn is the essence of life; it
marks a vital variation. It is the chance, it is an option. It can be beautiful,
it may be frightful; it can be inspiring and it can be melancholic. There are
no pauses, no rewinds; nothing ever changes, and yet nothing is ever left the
same. Change is the only constant, change is the only eternal. It is death, it is
life; it is everything in between. So accept it, embrace it, live it; you are a
part of it and you have a part to play.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>Credits: </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><i>Bhavesh Guliani (Main article plot)</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-80040538490964952872015-01-21T12:25:00.000+05:302015-01-21T16:37:15.050+05:30Atithi Devo Bhava: Welcoming Obama<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Indian culture
has always been a very warm, welcoming culture, with a special emphasis on
hospitality – just look at the current furore surrounding the visit of the
United States President, Barack Obama. News channels and media outlets have
been obsessing about everything Obama round the clock for the past few days –
his BlackBerry, his car, his planes, his security arrangement, there is nothing
that has not been covered, uncovered and recovered during the past few days.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It
has been reported that fifteen thousand CCTV cameras have been installed specifically
for Obama’s visit, and that a seven layer security has been placed around
Rajpath; nearby slums have been vacated and cleared away, traffic is being diverted,
automobiles are stopped for frequent checks, and a massive cleanliness drive
has been undertaken to clear the key areas of any rubbish or garbage heap
(Swachh Bharat mark II). It is even mentioned that the US First Lady, Michelle Obama, will be gifted one hundred Banarasi Silk Saris. In short, no expense is being spared in order to make
Delhi safer, cleaner and better-looking for Obama. <i>Athithi Devo Bhava</i> indeed.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">A few questions
have been raised, however – why this preferential approach? The United States
of America have been notorious big bullies on the world stage, used to
privileged treatment, shaming other countries with impunity and getting away
with it. How else do you account for their incessant meddling with the functioning
of every country, from Europe to Asia, Americas, Africa and Middle East? They
have been on one end or the other in many theatres of conflict – Korean
peninsula, Vietnam, the Gulf, Iraq, Somalia, Afghanistan – trying to cover
their own vested interests by using humanitarian aid, peacekeeping and regional
stability as excuses. Following “We do it because we can” ideology, not only do
NSA and the FBI spy on the US citizens, but the sleuths at CIA are also adept
at monitoring other countries under the pretext of intelligence gathering and
security – including the nations allied to them. Coming back to the Indian
context, the Prime Minister of India, Narendra Modi, was denied visa in 2005
when he was the Chief Minister of Gujarat on the pretext of the Godhra
massacre, while dictators like General Parvez Musharraf were welcomed with open
arms, despite Pakistan’s known involvement in sheltering terrorist cells and
leaders (including US enemy number one, Osama bin Laden, trained by CIA. The irony is heavy).
US diplomats in India were accorded diplomatic immunity and highest security,
whereas an Indian deputy consul general, Devyani Khobragade, was hand-cuffed
and strip-searched like a drug dealer on alleged counts of visa fraud and
underpayment. And now we’re watching our government bending over backwards on
television prime time for Obama’s visit to India. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB">Do not get me wrong – I do not hate the United States of America (I just don't like it very much. Never really have liked bullies). I merely question the timing of these measures </span>– w<span lang="EN-GB">hy are all these steps being
taken; why now? </span>True, Delhi is
due a major revamp; type Delhi news on Google and you will find news of
murders, rapes, accidents, thefts shading every other news article on Delhi,
but one cannot help but wonder if the same efforts that are aimed at making our
privileged guests ease up a little (they would never be truly content, no
matter what is done) could not have been implemented earlier. Could not have those fifteen
thousand cameras help prevent
the rape and death of many a <i>Nirbhayas</i>? Could not have these stringent security check of vehicles and service providers prevented many cases like the Uber incident and rape of foreign tourists? Could not have the
police patrolling prevent many thefts and murders? The list of what could have been done before Delhi’s name was
tarnished for good could go on and on.<br />
<br />
The questions are endless; the answers nowhere to be found. The money used to buy those one hundred silk saris Michelle Obama would never wear could have been easily used for to uplift the same slums which are even now being uprooted; those cameras installed along a narrow corridor could have helped the law enforcement officials to prevent many crimes and bring many perpetrators to justice, if spread out throughout the city. Is the safety of one Barack Obama that
much more important than that of a common girl? Is flattering one Michelle Obama much more important than improving the living conditions of hundreds, even thousands of slum-dwellers? The answer, it would seem, is a
yes; it is clear we value our guests much more than we value the residents of this
country. Long live the spirit of genial hospitality!</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Still, the changes
are welcome – it is high time solid measures were implemented in lieu of
endless hollow promises. One can only hope that this much-needed overhaul is
not temporary. Special accommodations have been made to make our special guest
feel very special indeed; let us hope the show of goodwill rubs off on the city
as well.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-3892630445144597412014-10-29T00:05:00.000+05:302014-10-29T00:05:18.075+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h1 align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<u>The Girl on the Metro<o:p></o:p></u></h1>
<h2 align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN;">A #notsotinytale courtesy Tarun Yadvendra Srivastava<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
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There were plenty of
reasons not to love her, and yet I did. She was probably not the one to
standout from a crowd, but she still caught my eye. What can I say, love
blossoms on a Metro ride. Nothing like a half an hour packed like cattle in a
compartment to make you feel romantic. The crowd, the stench, the heat(this,
despite the ACs, at the butt end of October) – if you’ve shared that together
and survived, you’ve found your soulmate. But enough about the Delhi metro, you
probably know all about it(and if you don’t, well, you will when you visit
Delhi. It is hard to miss), I was talking about a girl. So this girl, you see,
was not something exquisite, and yet to me it felt she was. She wore mascara,
and her dress was vibrant with every colour from the rainbow(and a few others
you don’t see till you’re out of your mind, probably after a couple of hours on
something very illegal). She was a psychedelic nightmare(it felt she’d walked
out in that dress on Holi, and decided against throwing it away), and I fell
for her headlong. Maybe it <i>was</i> the
stench of the collective scum that are Delhi-hites(myself included) that did
wonderful things to my brain and send blood racing through my heart(and other
organs that I won’t name, but if you’d understand what I’m implying at if you’re
familiar with Fifty-five Shades of the Colour Blue). Her iPod was playing music;
I could hear her humming with the beat(though if I’m honest, she might have
been a <i>little</i> out of tune. But I was
too busy falling in love to pay any attention to that). The poison that is love
started seeping into my brain and took hold of my senses. Our eyes met for a
brief instant, and there was brief spark, as if the air between us was
charged(it could have been sweat dripping into my eye, but as I said, my
attention was elsewhere). I wanted to tell her I loved her, and it took a
considerable effort for me to stop myself from acting like a complete fool(I am
making up for it by writing this). I wanted to tell her I loved her with all my
heart(and I am surprised I still mean it), that she had my heart in a way no
one else did(except, ofcourse, McSpicys). And then the train stopped. She got
out, borne away by the same crowd that brought us close. How I wanted to stop
her, how I wanted to follow her out, how I wanted to talk to her. But I did no
such thing, for I thought at the time that I was being idiotic(and because
recently it is criminal to stare at a girl for more than six seconds, and I don’t
think stalking her would be taken too kindly). Metros come, metros go; crowds
are a part of it, and so are girls. But believe me when I say this, no other
girl has held my attention the way she did. I am a bit flawed as a person, yes,
but I believe in the strength of my conviction. I love her with all my heart,
even though we never exchanged a word apart from the occasional “excuse me”(which
is a non<span lang="EN-GB">sequitur</span><span lang="EN-GB"> </span>on
a crowded metro), and I pursue her as I’ve pursued nothing else(no, not even a
McSpicy). I remember her smiling sheepishly, and every day, I travel at the
same time on the same route, hoping to catch a glimpse of that smile again. I
hope that one day I will find her, catching a glimpse of that dress which
looked like a riot of colours, humming along to her own music, amongst the
crowds. I hope...<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-60866691557827266922014-10-27T23:49:00.000+05:302014-10-27T23:49:06.627+05:30The Indian Girl<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Hello, who so ever is reading this. I am a girl, a quiet common girl from a quiet common part of a quiet common town in India. For the sake of privacy, I will not be disclosing my name, but for the sake of convenience let us just call me Pinkie. Now you would wonder how come a common girl, a nobody, is writing an autobiography. To that I answer: It is not only the rich and the famous who have the right to write about their lives. Common people experience just as much and more in their lives. It is the everyday occurences, the small things that happen to us that basically define who we are, and what path we take in life. As for the second part, I am not a nobody. I am an independent, modern girl who has her own identity. I might be a face in the crowd for now, but atleast that face is my own. But there will be time enough to argue on my rights later. For now, let me take you through my life and decide for yourself.</div>
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I have been born and raised in the same town that I live in, in a house which already had two girls. In some parts of this country, I'd have been either killed before being born, or after it. Fortunately enough for me, my parents were not the kind that thought a girl a curse. I guess sometimes they did wish they had a son, but then again, they were a part of a society that believes a girl is someone else's wealth. I don't blame them even if they did wish so, for they brought us up the way they would've brought up sons. I was always their favourite of the three. Comes with being the youngest of the lot you see. I could play mischief and still get away without being punished while my elder sisters would be disciplined for much less. Life was good during those days, fun and play and not much trouble. But life, as you know, has a very queer way of giving surprises. We got one when we least expected it. My father was employed in Allahabad bank, and was posted in Moradabad. He used to come down every Friday, spend the weekend with us and report back to his office on Monday morning. As my father was packing his bags, I came up to him and asked him: "Is it necessary for you to go papa?"<br />He just smiled and kissed the top of my head, picked up his briefcase and left. There was nothing new there. He'd gone hundred of times in the same manner. Only this time there was a catch. He never came back. Atleast not the smiling father that I remembered, the one who used to take pictures of us. Heart attack, we were told. Common enough, murmured the people who came to pay us their condolences. He was a nice man, they said. Life goes on, they patted our heads and said. I couldn't understand a word of it. I was six and a half, and already fatherless.</div>
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A lot of people lose their fathers. Some never even see them. And then there are those very few who have their fathers, but never get to know them. I atleast was fortunate enough to have known my father, to have played with him and have him pick me up to place me on his shoulders. But all that was in the past. My childhood had ended before it even started. I had to grow up and mature faster than was natural. We could not sulk, for the harsh reality of the moment was that my father was gone, and my mother was left with the responsibility of raising three girls on her own. No house, no property, for we lived in a rented flat. No support forthcoming from the family. She could have taken the easier option. She could have remarried, for she was not that old. She could even have fed us all poisoned food to end the misery. But she chose to do things her own way. She got the job in place of my father, took a loan, bought a plot and built a house. It took a lot of effort and perseverance from her end, but finally she did it.</div>
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Things turned towards a smoother curve after those torrid seven years after my father's passing. We had our own house, my eldest sister had married and settled down. My elder sister had finished her studies and was working. As for me, I enrolled in engineering. Drawing and sketching always used to fascinate me, so I went for civil engineering. I made a few friends, and was generally having a good time of it. But there still was something missing in my life. I'd seen struggle first hand, I had been through pain. The easy life, the kind which does not deviate or inconvenience appealed to me, but I'd been through too much to have been satisfied with it. I found an outlet in dramatics. Streetplay were my forte, because I associated with it. I met a lot of people who thought the same as I did, who were dissatisfied with the kind of society that we were, and wanted to make a difference. I don't know whether it all made a lot of difference to the society, but we did our bit, and it made a difference to me. I'd found someone who could fill the empty space in my life, who could set things right with just a smile and a quick joke and set my heart racing. He had his flaws, and he had his strengths. I fell for him headlong, and he fell for me. One thing led to another, and now, here I am, 26 years old, wife of an officer in the Indian army, expecting our first child, thinking back on my life and how it is no less exciting or interesting than a movie stars. There are a lot of things I have skipped, a lot I haven't told you, but I guess that would have to wait for another time. Now you decide, for yourself, was I right or wrong?</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3517899460855669329.post-47634727535493113182011-08-15T11:56:00.000+05:302015-01-02T12:56:05.074+05:30Happy Independence Day?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>15th of August, 2011 is the day my nation celebrates its independence for the 64th time.</i><br />
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This curious thought struck me at an inappropriate time, an inappropriate place and with particular savagery(I still have the blues from the strike). The time was 08:32 PM, which isn't generally a time when thoughts strike me(this hard anyway), when I was sitting at McDonald's munching a Pizza McPuff, which isn't particularly a place which provides the fertile grounds for such(or indeed any) thoughts. Still, the thought bothered and nagged me, and I decided to do something about it(my first impulse was to choke and strangle it. When that didn't work, I settled for writing an article). But this particular thought didn't let up there. It kept irking me, irritating me, poking and prodding at my subconscious, hoping to elicit a response. <i>Go away</i>, said my mind to it. The thought turned a deaf ear towards it(a practice I find helpful. My mind has a mind of its own, and keeps whispering to itself, which confuses me no end). This thought, unlike so many else, wasn't happy going away. <i>15th of August is the day my nation celebrates independence</i>. Yes, I knew it, have known it since I first formed conscious thoughts, and could have done without the reminder. There are enough reminders of an approaching Independence day - you have adverts in television, with everyone from movie stars to newspapers to chocolates and liquor brands all waving tricolours, you have <i>netajis </i>in their spotless white kurtas and topis(and big stashes of very <i>black</i> money in various offshore bank accounts) giving speeches about how this nation is a beacon for all the nations in the world, how the ruling party is spoiling the culture and heritage of India and how we all should take up arms against this <i>phoren</i> <i>sarkar</i> and lead the country to a brighter future, messages of a nationalistic flavour pouring from people you rarely hear from, and more recently, posting messages on various networking sites - Happy Independence day. All in the spirit of independence.</div>
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Frankly, it disgusts me, all this petty politics and cheap stunts in the name of the nation. It used to be simpler when I was younger, when I was too innocent to look besides the gimmick of "nationality", when I really looked forward to this day with pride and joy(apart from a loathing for the march-past that was to be held in school), when I could believe what I wanted to. But, alas, all good things come to an end. That time has passed, and I can no longer turn aside from such spectacles without a sense of guilt, shame and loathing. Do not get me wrong; I do not hate my nation. Rather, I love it profoundly- what shames me is the filth, the muck, the apathy hidden behind our nationalistic fervour, my own included.</div>
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<i>64 years of independence. Proud to be an Indian. </i>Proud of what? The steady worsening of our national debt? The rising unemployment? The migration of talented, smart individuals to greener pastures? The increasing obsession with foreign services, or the corruption and rot, from the highest office to the bottom-most rung? What, exactly, should we be proud of most? How can we celebrate <i>happily</i> with these issues still burning under the veil? Maybe that's what makes us Indians - ability to adjust to any situation(as shown recently by an underwear brand), or our unique quality of being in the midst of terrible hardships and still being content with ourselves?</div>
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<i>Bullshit. </i>That is what it is. We adjust because we can find no alternate way. We conform ourselves to provide minimum resistance to adversity. We're content because we don't think we deserve more. We're the classic pigeons - if we cannot see the problem, it cannot see us. We have self-esteem problems; we constantly undervalue ourselves so that others might take advantage of us. <i>Proud to be an Indian</i>, they say.</div>
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Most of us are glad to admit there are problems aplenty in this country of ours, that a solution is very urgently required. Most of us would be only too glad to rally behind someone who is ready to uproot all the problems and turn the nation on its head, as demonstrated recently when the nation rallied behind Anna Hazare and his fight for Jan Lokpal(everyone, from the common man to spiritual leaders stood up in support. Politicians echoed out promises and slogans from all corners possible on this round earth. They still ring in my ears). The cry and the hue has faded, all that remains is the echo of our own sound taunting us. At least, we can console ourselves that it was a start, wasn't it?</div>
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The idea is all well and good. Only, we're looking at it from the wrong angle. The problem is not with India- India is not weak, India is not corrupt, India is does not need fixing. Sixty-four years ago, our nation had hopes, it had dreams, aspirations. India was a giant in slumber, ready to awaken. What has happened since? We've steadily run the nation into the ground, walking over its identity, trampling its hopes and crushing its dreams, stripping the giant of its stature and throwing it to the wolves. We are the culprits, the ones to blame - us, each and every one of us. We are the ones to be pitied, we are the weak, we are the corrupt - we the pillars of India. We, the masters at blame-shifting and adjustments. We, the people of this country, the I in India. We have lost our identity, lost our faith in ourselves. We do not think of ourselves capable of anything. <i>If there is a fault, there is always someone to blame</i> seems to be the national mentality these days. We blame the politicians for corruption, all the while handing over a Rs. 100 note to the cops to avoid a <i>challan</i>. 1.21 billion people, looking for an excuse, a reason. Why should it be so? Why should we look to shift the responsibility of our actions, why should we seek to blame someone else? Do we lack the courage to take responsibility? Or have we just lost lost the initiative after two hundred years of foreign domination?</div>
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Whatever the reason, things have to change. No, that's not right. Things have to be changed. We should change them. We are the pillars that hold this nation, and we have to be strong, infallible, incorruptible. The change must be started - and it must come from within. The filth and the muck is too much to be swept away by a single man or act, but for 121 million people, it is not a difficult task. We must change ourselves, our practices, our habits. The cleaning should start with self. Only one can truly be aware of one's own faults and shortcomings. Start with yourself, and the nation will be freed from the shackles binding it, holding it back from finally being what it should be. We have the potential to reshape our destiny; about time we realized it. Only then, would we truly be free.</div>
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<i>15th of August is the day our nation celebrates its independence</i>. Let us find a day of our own.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03601382758014306846noreply@blogger.com1