Wisdom

When you touched me, my dry branches turned out to be green

2011-11-29T22:57:00.006+05:30

Most likely ‘Dil hoom hoom kare’ would be the only Bhupen song I listened to before his death. A gentle composition it truly was and the song incredibly touched me - the haunting tone and the apparent ease of rendering stuck my thoughts, almost five years back on a pleasing winter evening at Shilparamam, Hyderabad - when I listened to it for the first time.

It was a typical concert at an open air setting and the singer there sung it reasonably well, I remember. Back home I listened to Bhupen’s original. I was never good at Hindi and the chaste words of Gulzar were almost impregnable for the novice in me. Later, it took years for me to finally get, to some extend though, into those intoxicating lines.

Who was Bhupen for me? Frankly, yet another celebrity name from the North East, one of those ostensible legends of the Hindi speaking world in a large general context, whom south Indians never really bothered to listen or follow seriously.

Nevertheless music surpasses regional precincts and this Bhupen song too did, in class. Just a single listening - even my unsophisticated heart beat for him and I become his fan, the old man’s crunchy voice seized my awe, instantly!

Then the bard named Bhupen Hazare who lived, loved and laboured for the glory of music and to the delight of his fans all across the world was totally new to me. I wasn’t aware that this song was from ‘Rudaali’. I didn’t know that the movie was directed by his soul mate and companion of 40 odd years Kalpana Lajmi, and most notably I didn’t know that the music was composed by Bhupen himself. But I knew one thing – deep stillness of meditation and splendid energy of action merged in this classic composition.

Afterwards, as and when I listen to this four minute song, even for my naive ears his voice and music roars like a shower, springing agonizing loss, muted sorrow and a tenderness that was as moving as it was burning.

Agony stems when we lose some thing and not when we gain. Doesn’t it?

Why agony at the root of this song? Perhaps agony is fundamental to all human emotions - agony of avoidance, agony of abandonment, agony of defeat, agony of dejection, agony of hopelessness, agony of neglect, agony of every thing - every innate loss in life.

The agony of a heart that gasps in fear, that is afraid of the thundering clouds; the untold agony in tear drops that leave the eye – the very first stanza itself sets an immaculate tone for this tender melody.

And we always loved melancholy in music, I believe. Life’s lust for darkness is not simple desire for bottomless shadow; infact it is the craving for the faintest ray of light within. In these agonizing lines one seeks a ray of light, a lustrous ray of tiny yet dazzling spark of hope.

But the root of the song lurks when the singer gloomily renders in a base pitch -
‘when I undo your bag parched leaves fell,
but when you touch me my dry branches became green.
And now I should keep this body
(touched by you) away from every thing else,
(perhaps to keep the sanctity, that would probably be possible)
but whom am I going to show my mind that you saw’?

Why? – Why do life’s wishes reach us at unexpected of the moments, in the most capricious manner? Why not in our way when we truly seek them? - when I reached out you were detached and bleak, oozing mere coldness and apathy, but in time when you touched me I turned out to be fertile and prolific. This stands true for any feat in material life. When we actually acquire the hard fought goal the feat sadly becomes, some how meaningless or redundant.

Language has the power to take one’s soul out into the night, make it soar to the stars, and then rip it apart and send it crashing right down to earth! A muted pain stirs right through the words of this song and it is this very tacit pain that haunts us long after the song.

Bhupen’s aged voice gently flows –
’oh moon you are up and high
and are divinely showering light and brightness,
but your light only burns me,
how am I to reach you, you are well high over the balcony
and that I have shed my wings!’

It leaves an untold soreness in our hearts.

Do we not silently chorus - ’and my heart fills with fear and gasping!!’ – when he finally concludes? We do. Not to mention, this composition is tough to sing, but he made it look so effortless with grace.

Visual of any splendid, snow clad peak refuses to cease from our memory, for ever. In our mind it waits further exploration and stays alive in bliss. So does this eternal Bhupen song.

Yes - We keep listening, oh no humming along with Bhupen da...- ‘dil hoom hoom kare’
(Photo: Courtesy - bhupenhazarika.com)

I wish Pakistan could win this cup….!!

2011-03-26T01:57:00.010+05:30

Oh it’s really raining cricket these days!

The knock out stage of game’s extravaganza evolves to its fascinating end. Cricketing feelings every where - news room discussions, expert analysis, sentiments from the street – now electronic media here in India is speculating over Prime Minister Manmohan Singh’s assertion to attend the World Cup Semi finals at Mohali, Chandigarh between India and Pakistan, slated for next Wednesday. He has sent his invite (it seems) to his counter part in Pakistan and to their President too, if the initial reports can be trusted. At a time when Secretary level talks and occasional political meetings on summits’ sidelines don’t bear much fruit is it the turn for cricket diplomacy?

I’m quite passionate about cricket; slightly to the puritan’s side I do adore both forms of the game - ODIs and test cricket. I simply love watching men in blue playing premier edition of the game’s most prestigious event, perhaps the last in the careers of elderly greats Sachin and Sehwag. When a match is on, in those moments of anxiety, just to have that sheer pleasure of watching them live taking guard, against best of the bowlers in the business, pondering each and every ball, I always used to be in a pensive mood in those afternoons when India plays - with all my compassion for team India’s cause.

But this time – just this time, I honestly wish Pakistan could formidably sail past our men all the way at PCA Stadium, Mohali and could march to the legendary Wankhade to play the grand final on the 4^th of next month. I wish they could jubilantly lift that prized trophy too. I wish Afridi’s green army could collect the coveted cup from our PM or ICC head or who ever it may be - and burst into euphoria in front of a packed house at our own Mumbai, I wish a strife torn nation, our own twin could forget her pains and indulge in gala celebration for a while, I wish….

Am I anti Indian, disloyal, treacherous? Will you call me seditious?
I sure hope not.

Yes, I really want Pakistan to win this cup, the same ‘cup that matters’, as our media famously calls it these days. If it happens, Afridi will not just lift a gold and silver plated 11kg cup, but he will lift the spirit and fortitude of an entire nation, a nation which is now filled with conflict and despair and riot and gloom.

Set backs every where - devastating natural calamities, alarmingly rising religious fundamentalism in all walks of life, a crippling economy, ever weakening government institutions, dwindling authority of state which fails to provide minimum living space to its normal citizen, tightening grip of a transcendental army, liberty and free speech increasingly fading from the corridors of societal life, a sorry picture indeed. When panic, gloom, misfortune and despair fill the streets of Karachi, Lahore, Peshawar, Rawalpindi and else where, a whole nation need some thing to cheer about, some thing to keep their heads high, for a while at least, among the comity of nations.

And a world cup win can exactly do that.

We have nothing to lose, we are a comparatively better off nation, with different other means to lift our national spirit and pride, lot many things to feel good about, thriving economy (inequitable gains though), noisy yet stable democracy with better institutional mechanisms, bigger venues to display the grandeur, opulence and influence, louder voice and greater clout in the international arena with a confident outlook altogether.

Pakistan’s has been a wonderful cricketing team throughout this tournament – a bunch of street smart, massively gifted, spirited cricketers. If the Mumbai crowd can full heartedly cheer that Pakistani squad in the truest of the spirits for their cricketing prowess and for nothing else at a world cup final, that would erase the bloody images of fanatic young men indiscriminately firing at innocents inside the CST and Taj, and the psychological scars there of – for ever.

That spoilt young man at the Arthur road jail waiting further trial and eventual execution should not be remembered as the face of Pakistani at Mumbai any more; rather it should be a jubilant Afridi or Umar Gul shaking hands with Indians on a spectacular arena. It can send an incredible political point across the border much louder than any ‘track – II’ diplomacy – that we treat you with dignity, respect and love provided you play by the rules and reciprocate – true to the spirit and tradition of this land.

Last time India played Pakistan in a world cup match in 2003 at Johannesburg, S. Africa. The situation was electrifying, eventually India chased Pakistan down thanks to that superb knock from little maestro - Tendulkar; however the game wasn’t played at the highest levels of sporting spirit. Passions flew amidst players, animosity, hatred, sledge and acrimony filled the air. I hope this time Pakistani team will be given true warmth, respect and support on and off the field when they step down to play here.

A win at the 10^th edition of this tournament is not a solution for all those ails of present day Pakistan – still it matters a lot. Some achievement, a feel of success, accomplishment, how much ever cosmetic it is, a cricket crazy society will get a boost for sure if their men can triumph at a major event in some sport and that win will be sweeter if that happens in India and that too passing past the hosts.

Let Pakistan have that victory. After all we are the same brethren unfortunately forced to exist on two sides of a dividing line agonizingly drawn in the course of a distressing history of 65 odd years.

I wish Afridi and his men all the success!

(Photo Courtesy : hindu.com)

Meeting the Maestro

2009-05-24T03:07:00.007+05:30

We started on a rainy Saturday to Stratford and had to take two trains, as renovation works were happening in few lanes, to get there from Birmingham. Stratford, in the Warwickshire County was a drowsy tiny town, much smaller than what I expected and it took two hours from the Midlands area (where I stay) to reach there. Stratford upon Avon, as the town is called, is a little but well kept train station; no sooner did we reach there than showers started pouring outside. Town seemed like a shaky portrait with a hue of light colours in the back ground, almost empty streets and limited traffic and a nervous breath of chilly breeze in the air; December for no reason is a good choice to voyage in Britain, length of day time is awfully less with recurring mist and uneasy snow fall.

It did not take much time for us to locate the ancestor house of the bard; it was quite close to the town centre. A 16th century wooden house which recreates the family life of the times of the poet was a small two storey cottage and it had a painting gallery near the portico. The solid but serene pathway from the gallery took us through the garden to the un-usually large wooden door at the entrance of the house. I was happy to spot a Tagore statue inside the compound. It was an utterly different world for me when the old lady, apparently the guide there, invited us inside and led to the interiors. Semi polished stones paved the floor, its air and ambience was nothing but perfect for a sheep trader’s home (as it was in my mind) and a flood of memories engulfed me.

My high school class, now I’m sitting in one of the middle rows and Krishnan Nair (the Principal of our school) narrating the legend of Julius Caesar; panicking Brutus, their patriotism, friendship and tribute to each other and the grace of all other characters. The total class is silent and now I listen to Mark Antony’s speech, Krishnan Master shouting at the peak of his pitch:

”Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him; The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones, So let it be with Caesar … The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault.”

It was appearing in front of me, my eyes following the artistic moves of Krishnan Master, his imposing acting skills flaunted, and I’m marvelled to glimpse the celebrated characters right in front. Our respected teacher, a famed ‘Kathakali’ artist and a strict disciplinarian, is an English scholar and a Shakespeare enthusiast. He used to memorise major plots of Shakespeare’s plays and perform them for us in the class. In those ‘one-act’ plays we gleefully watched Macbeth and King Lear, Viola and Orsino and all the major figures from Shakespeare.

He was a blessed actor. In the class room, he was able to shower on us the essence of those plays, the very essence which was fresh and alive within me when I stood inside the house, yes only a hand’s breadth from my eyes the birth bed of his dearest poet. The old guide there, dressed in the traditional British robes of olden times, in her charming voice explained to us the history of bard’s family in the most interesting tone and I deeply wished my passionate master (now an octogenarian) were with me. We roamed around the house for few great hours, captured the scent and scene of that historic home with few stills and started wandering outside in search of other major Shakespeare attractions in the town.

Stratford was hazily snowing outside.

We walked down the town to the Holy Trinity cathedral where the poet was buried. England’s most visited parish church, under that roof the wizard of Stratford called William Shakespeare was baptised and there he does his final sleep. Dimly lit candles from the side stands were quiet as if they were frozen in time, blended with an incense like fragrance there seems to be a deep smell from the past that filled the air, very less visitors braved the chilly December day to the church in fact less than twenty. We sat there on the carved wooden seats of the big altar, few empty minutes withered by. On our top giant glass patterns of windows portrayed resurrection from Holy Bible and the threads of silken rays oozing out from them coloured the shades inside the chapel.

Again, under one of those shades, I could sense Krishnan Master there, I felt like watching him, without myself being watched – this time as Othello (and Desdemona as a far back ground voice). His eyes were sparking wild.

”Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light:”
”Who’s there, Othello?”
”Ay, Desdemona.”
“Will you come to bed, my lord?”
“Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemona?”
“Ay, my lord.”
“If you bethink yourself of any crime”
“Unreconcil’d as yet to heaven and grace,
Solicit for it straight.”
“Alack, my lord, what may you mean by that?”
“Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by.
I would not kill thy unprepared spirit;
No, — heaven forfend! — I would not kill thy soul.”
“Talk you of killing?”
“Ay, I do.” *

Love and passion and revenge and obsession, every thing was there in his eyes. It was there in my eyes too. I was awakened by the whispering call of my friend.
Just outside the cathedral, river Avon was flowing; as it would have always been, silent and steady.

* Final conversation between Othello and Desdemona from ‘Othello’
(In the photo: Krishnan Master)

Solitary Reaper

2008-12-07T22:32:00.006+05:30

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings? -
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

~ Solitary Reaper : Wordsworth ~

To stop India's heartbeat

2008-10-19T16:12:00.000+05:30

In the series of manifestos flashed by the terrorist outfits of modern India, the latest message from the perpetrators are meant to ‘stop the heart of India from beating’, it seems! Once again urban India witnessed another naked attack on the civilian establishments of the nation on a normal weekend, this time at the capital, New Delhi.

The shades of a similar script of an ugly story unveils here too, with India Mujahideen, SIMI version 2, put the attack as a tribute to the martyrs in Kashmir. In the most elaborate written manifesto and video show e-mailed to the media those behind the attacks announced that ‘scores will be settled evenly’ and for the first time made reference to the conflict in Jammu and Kashmir – ‘the injustice and pain inflicted on Kashmiri Muslims during the amaranth crisis once again landed you in great trouble,’ it proclaims.

After sixty years of sovereign administration we find our populace struck up with the lexicons of ‘our people’ and ‘your people’ in our celebrated secular state, let us shamefully keep our heads down. In some other parts of the country like Orissa, still there is ferocity ready to come out at the slightest provocation when in contact with people outside religion. What is under question is the identity of being Indian when the terror outfits and religious extremists charge the total nation with words like ‘never ending hostile hatred in your hearts against our religion and people,’ the email the media received soon after the Delhi blasts says that the bombings are intended to ‘prove you our ability and potential to assault any city of India at any time.’ When news rooms are filled with debates and discussions soon after the serial blasts, the very question that challenge the wits of a common man would be where do I fit into - ‘you’ or ‘we.’

Religion and religious identities are being hijacked everywhere when the manifestation announce that ‘from now onwards, we won’t cry alone.’ Those identities, despite the total efforts of the liberal heartbeats, still tickle at the sub conscious of this great nation and its men belittle themselves and find it easy to resolve the issues on religious grounds, a gloomy fact. When members of minority communities find it difficult to rent or lease in several neighbourhoods in Mumbai and Bengaluru it shows the pathetic situation we have fallen to.

It is total agony to the millions who are no way related to your game or our game, but with a simple label of religious minority tagged to them. Spirit of tolerance in our society is clearly dwindling and every time the administration is simply coming up with statements appealing peace and restrain from the citizens. It would not be surprising if a Hindu version of India Mujahideen reiterates on the same coin a similar foolishness at some other part of the nation victimising few hundreds of innocents in their own craziest manner. The juggernaut of religious fundamentalism and violence rolls on the Indian mainland and are we ever going to mature from all these non sense blasphemy and fixture, where no one is going to win?

No administration, how ever powerful can completely wipe our religious extremism. We can be pretentious, as we were all these days, can arrange peace marches, can easily be rhetoric about the secular outlook of the nation, can boast the rich mix and multitude of diversity in our civilisation. Still there are prejudices deep inside, even the educated minds strive in their sub conscious to prove the superiority and originality of own belief and philosophy and they are shamelessly reluctant to acknowledge that truth, simply because it is truth, naturally manifests itself in different faiths. Unless this prejudice is thrown out we will always find ourselves in our road to nowhere.

I Died For Beauty

2008-07-13T21:16:00.003+05:30

I died for beauty but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
"For beauty," I replied.
"And I for truth, the two are one;
We brethren are," he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
~ Courtesy: Emily Dickinson (I Died For Beauty) ~

Stalemate

2008-07-06T12:38:00.005+05:30

The limited boundaries of the sixty four squares were realized early enough. They appreciated peace according to the scale of unity which they attained in their mutual relationship, and within that limit they found happiness which spreads through time that moves, the things that vary, the life that breeds, and the thoughts that surge inwards. She opened with white and the game had a gentle launch, they respected each other, and the moves were quite predictable and simple for an onlooker. It was as it should be.

The rule of natural selection found its full way and the centre board was equally shared and none of them showed early aggression. In regular intervals they exchanged pieces and smiles, with a silent satisfaction of calculated moves. She looked smarter and she was. It was a beautifully set battle field. She castled on the king side and fused to the traditional Ruy Lopez, with out much variations an early enpassed pawn out reaching the ‘C’ was nullified by her knight and the chances of an open file was barred, easily.

Middle game - The flames were glowed and the hammers started firing, amidst dust and discordance a musical note was being set. He was not prepared to castle, geared up for attacks on both the sides; his queen side was weak when he lost two pinning pawns which defended the bishops. He accepted the detached fact and followed the evolution. But his knights did the ploy, they manoeuvred all across the board and threatened her king to move first to G2 and then to H1. Through out the middle game he flaunted chasm of ruin in the ethics of his moves, in the realisation of positions ahead, not in a supreme sky of negation but in the bosom of a superlative spirit of confidence. Towards the end game he played ruthlessly, but all he could manage was a stalemate!!

And on top of those squares painted thick black and white, he spotted her in truthful tears..!!!!!

~ക്രോധം~

2008-05-27T23:10:00.004+05:30

"മുക്തിക്ക് വിഘ്നം വരുത്തുവാനെത്രയും
ശക്തിയുളൊളൊന്നതില്‍്ക്രോധമറികേടോ
മാതാപിതൃ ഭ്രാതൃമിത്ര സഖികളെ
ക്രോധം നിമിത്തം ഹനിക്കുന്നിത് പുമാന്‍

ക്രോധമൂലം മനസ്താപമുണ്ടായ് വരും
ക്രോധമൂലം നൃണാമ് സംസാര ബന്ധനം
ക്രോധമല്ലോ നിജകര്‍മക്ഷയകരം
ക്രോധം പരിത്യജിക്കേണം ബുധജനം"
--അദ്ധ്യാത്മ രാമായണം : അയോദ്ധ്യാ കാണ്ഡം--

Sunny Days

2008-05-11T22:33:00.005+05:30

The peaceful soul beckoned at the first rays of the day, my room on the second floor of the building was lit by blonde rays of the rising sun, my frenzied fan was trying to give a little action to the air within, the mosquito repellent smiled like a plum mango from the corner plug, buzzing rhythm from the fan motor welcomed the heat waves leisurely to my special space, I reached my hands out to switch it off, that three winged bird complained before coming to grinding halt.

I just gazed at the flower at its centre, the soul suspended the thoughts, the slight cover of my hair on the fore head felt the sweat, those two drops were caught there; I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

My conscious woke up, the soul did not, I did not ask either, bed was hot, my drawing was hot, my kitchen was hot, the vessels were hot, the shower was hot inside the bath, the water was hot, it stabbed my feeble skin, soul sobbed, a realm of secret paradise in my wits where memories of experiences confessed came out with a strange feeling. I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

My cautiously pressed dresses were hot, my bag was hot, and my shoes too were hot, I locked the room and started to office, the sun was glowing brilliantly outside, it outshined the soul. I stepped into the train which came with waves of hot air, in that chaste flash of loneliness I realized; I see the world not as just existence, but as painted in the figure, colour, sound and character.

I coughed, a mere expression of emotion, breathe of my fellow passengers burnt me, heat happily danced around me, I yielded unconditionally. My glass covered office was hot, my dear desk was hot, my adjustable seat was hot, my dancing keys were hot, LCD screen in front sent fire and tricked me, I saw sparks of fire in all the eyes around, they burnt me, soul narrowly escaped, I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

Down the road traffic was thriving, bumper to bumper, every one sought to make their presence felt, not a single inch of space on the road, the lone ‘Gulmohar’ by the end of the lane silently bloomed full, the soul rested there in intense activity where sheer serenity and constant power met at the same point, it was odd though; wind from the south approved dust, approved despair, approved heat, soul was left helpless, I felt the solitude, felt the vacuum, felt the pain, I shut my eyes tight. It’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

It’s dusk now; I could see the distant gas burner spitting fire from the chat shop where I use to have the evening chat. The ‘Pani Puri’ itself was hot, soul protested, receded; the current of sentiment that it stirred in my mind was vague, it was an impression which needed a specific world to please me, I attended to the murmur of a new temper which pledged me the right to a new region of mystery, still I felt the absence, felt the vacuum.

Back in my room, I lay flat on my bed, from where I left it in the morning my three winged bird made a full circle and fired up for further cycles, I was searching for joy, the joy without any outline, which can interpret itself into any figure, the same joy of a singer which is translated into a song, the joy whose surname is love, stimulated the singer within me and divided myself into two to have within me the other self as the hearer, and the exterior audience was just an extension of my inner soul.

Once again I stared at the flower at its hub, the sweat that struck at the forehead in the morning pulled the essence from my oily hair, dragged my pain down to my wide open eyes, my vision blurred, the wings of my bird blurred, I buried my lasting absence there, buried my unending vacuum there, buried my perpetual pains there, and tears started freely flowing out.

Yes, it’s the month of May here, sunny days are back here, summer days are back here.

It's not cricket

2008-05-10T17:10:00.005+05:30

As a kid, when there was no television at my home, I remember how I use to watch the cricket matches from the neighbouring house. It was early 90s and all boys in our neighbourhood with great enthusiasm and passion watched every time when India played an international match. No fancy commentators, no glamorous analysts who move the viewer more with their receding dress line than with their knowledge of cricket, before and after the game, no statistical scrutiny; it was all about 11 men, three wickets on both the ends of a 22 yard pitch and the battle between a willow and a metal ball; we just counted runs, wickets, wins, loses, the surmounting ecstasy and tears.

Be it England, Australia or West Indies, as and when McDermott, Ambrose, Gooch or Azharuddin stepped into the ground the battle drums banged within our modest hearts, ‘The Oval’, ‘Lord’s’ and ‘Eden Gardens’ were all re-fabricated in my neighbour’s little drawing room, the game was happily close to each one of us, good old days, quite before we read the fairy tales of match fixing and betting and it was the game that was watched and followed with fervor.

Cricket as a business is not a novel idea, Kerry Packer the Australian media conglomerate did it way back by introducing the faster version of the game and assorted with his business interests and the budding world acknowledged it. As an ordinary Indian, cricket was there in my blood and during the college days, even after the match fixing episodes and confessions of cricketing Gods about their involvements, I bunked classes to watch Team India playing somewhere at a distant corner of the planet. Even there I could easily equate nationalism with cricket.

Today, when I go home from work, when I surf through the channels, I could see the big guns of the game charging under different banners, I just take a deep breath and switch my TV off, am I indifferent? No, I’m the same, still I love playing this game with friends in my courtyard. However, now in India, for the first time in the record of the gentlemen’s game, the teams are privately owned, and this business phenomenon is going to edge out this game as a public service and popular institution. As it happened in my case, I lost my interest in this melodrama called IPL, where cricketers are estimated like cost bulls, and are acquired up by the tremendous rich; a giddy merge of affluence and celebrity and a keenly watching flamboyant media who fêted the auction drama as the feat of new India of open market!

I just could not digest; apologies.

Culprit: BCCI, the open body sharing the privileges to the game in public reliance, has privatized this national asset. Justification: They are imitating the English Premier League, the most commercialized avenue of the most admired game ever introduced in the planet, the mesmerizing ball game. There teams are ballooned with international stars, and every team has its own fan following dating back to the early years of the twentieth century. It is an archetypal form of the pastime played at its most spirited and challenging character without diluting any custom of the game so as to suit the demands of the media or the public, and most notably without any added ‘hungama’.

Are we heading only to imitate the pits of European football? Extensive link with fraudulence on and off the ground, charges of enticement and fixing, trade offs amid team officials and agents, and most importantly the pathetic misbehaviours of twenty something over paid stars, who are always kept in the lime light by the far winged media papa racy right at the beginning of their careers from the teen; is it not a better thought, right before going into the obsession of the cricket edition for the league in India, to see the flip face of the English league?

The million plus bids of Dhonis and Symonds and Pontings are not because of their cricketing standards, but for their mass drawing clout. Cricketers are sheltering booty based on their apparent augmentation of the worth of their franchise, which is not the same as the augmentation of their respective cricket teams. The design of IPL has boosted the international reflection of the wealthiest cricket board, BCCI and they carefully premeditated whopping deals close to 2 Billion, from broadcasting and sponsorship, ruthless range of revenue assured regardless of the eminence of the product on offer.

Clear variations between the working IPL franchises and well acclaimed open market model in the supporting media can simply be seen; franchises themselves do not drive in an open market, since each one is assured a domination in its own city, but at the same time they enjoy the right to utilize an array of public resources at modest charge, state associations aid the IPL by providing the infrastructure including the grounds (as they just cannot fight the BCCI) and the players, but at the same time the customary rights of members and associations will not pertain to IPL games, this is a blunt disrespect. Proprietors will take the teams as throwaway possessions.

The English league got life when the first division clubs pulled out from the Football league, and this can take place in the case of IPL franchises as well. Some day they too can announce autonomy and start dictating a separate language for their players. It must always be remembered that business values are not always equated to the cricketing values.

For the so called ‘cricket fan’, (not sure how many of us really watch cricket now a days), Ranji trophy and domestic cricket will advance into yawning oblivion, and IPL is not really available as a popular game, it just targets a metro cluster with superfluous earnings, in their 20s and 30s (still just a minority). The established commercial addresses that hold the teams will undoubtedly strive to amalgamate their players and their already recognized brand values (which these players acquired through years of patient cricketing virtues) within their superior stratagem and use it where ever possible to improve the vending of their other products and to boost their corporate image in common, is this expected out of India’s most popular sport?

The franchises owe nothing to the game, the ultimate mission would be profit, it’s just the part of their business and the carefully chalked out plan of IPL is a new business model from their master drawing boards; when BCCI or any state cricket association craft profit, in theory at least it should be brought back to the game, but in IPL profits generated will continue with the team proprietor, so money will actually be taken out of the game. And about the talents in the game, is there genuine room in this faster version of the game to distinguish the genius of a Tendulkar or Dravid from any aggressive hitting, momentary, over paid, second rate player in the IPL T20 game? For most players, compensation for one IPL match will be countless times what they could take home from a complete five day test match; 3-4 hours spent under the beaming flood lights of a metro stadium, nerves kept in front of the roaring crowds and the ability to hit the ball to the distant corners of the ground, with little weight to skill and style, this indeed is an astonishing setting for easy wealth for a fortunate few, which in the long run will compel the real mettle of test cricket to the sad romantic sidelines of reminiscence.

In fact the IPL, akin to other privatizations is the blunder of the strategy and it is not all inevitable, as perpetually clarified by the endorsing media, and it reflects in our societal framework the authority of the ultra thin public branch that benefits from it. The startling figures paid for the star players are summoned as the testimony to the command of fresh Indian market, and it fits to the self image of India’s privileged and their middle class emulators. The big rewards here emphasize the aspirational individualism which the corporate media promotes and the only aspiration is to make extra riches.

Indian cricket is a cultural enterprise bent over numerous decades by cricketers and cricket lovers. It is just because of their sweat that currently the BCCI and the franchisees have it as an artifact and a market to abuse it. It is not about cheer leaders or product endorsement and it is not a venue for film fraternity to show off.

I shall be patient, Meera...!!

2008-04-19T13:28:00.004+05:30

Dear Pride,
Now you can accept the plight
and try to stoop, to kiss the earth.
The ground is wet, the weather is fine
And you will be at ease;
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Strength,
Now you can lighten your hands,
where pain tremor you the most-
while clutching the slightest weight
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Ears,
Now you can passionately go off
With the fuelling chanting-
of cut throat facts and dusty prejudices.
All in the same sweet venom – words.
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Sight,
Now you can silently burn-
the colours of the amended truth
The dancing wind that blinds you-
is a mirage, it cannot sustain
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Dear Mind,
Now you can consume the thought-
and ooze them out with pleasure-
as hot as you can.
Then digest the inward time in you-
to gallop through your own peace
You can lose today
For a gain later, be patient.

Meera,
Now you are too much a burden
For me to carry all the way
But I can lose today
For a gain later, and I’ll be patient for ever!!

An ode to the rain

2008-03-30T19:16:00.004+05:30

"It was too early and-
the plays have locked down.
And there was nothing else to do
than to roam around in circles-
in hunt of the preceding
patterns of your fancy light!

The chase blessed me a bizarre down pour.
The shadows you presented at hand
were soothing enough to keep my smiles on,
the regrets as well.

All it was a hymn,
not incredibly nice though
But there came a rainy day feeling
yet again, a nagging old hymn
odd enough to pause me
Yet it went on and on,
and I could not stop watching!

Well I thought I was over you dear,
but I guess, may be I’m not.
Coz every time when I let you go,
It looks like solitude is all that I lost.
You were marvellously smart,
to blind me with your spreading wings!

You turned up when I least expected,
and went on and on,
I wish I could really blame you
when you tipped crazily on my hands
as there were no two drops the equal ... !!"

Nishidati Fuji

2008-03-30T13:59:00.003+05:30

There are individuals who have attained their life eternal, and they wandered about the world. They wore no special symbols, only their deeds were centred in the elevated being and were totally under their grip. They were lenient, considerate and courteous, to others. Those seers lived and suffered and rejoiced and died as other mortals, but had no doubts in their minds, no fear too. Hence let us assume, the road ahead the humanity might be long, tough and dangerous, but there would always be a promising breath of spring in the air.

As a matter of fact, their conscious were intensified and so their lives in the world were more vital. Nishidati Fuji, the founder and preceptor of the Japanese Buddhist order Nipponzan Myohoji was a glow among them, a power of the truth, which he struggled and attained, and helped for the development of others.

I was fortunate enough, along with couple of my friends, to visit one sanctorum of his experiments, a peace pagoda in Darjeeling. This little known Buddhist establishment is just outside the ever mystifying town of Darjeeling, the hillock jewel in the crown of British India. Darjeeling is a tourist’s paradise but this is a less frequented spot, we learnt from the local response to our query.

Nishidati Fuji was born in 1886 in Japan and became a monk at the age of 19.He travelled widely in Korea, China and Japan, and warned the problems of breeding militancy of Japan. He came to India and became an associate of Gandhiji. Throughout the Second World War he prayed and regularly fasted for its early finish. When it was over and when his country was recovering from the effects of atomic bombs he turned into peace Buddhism. In 1946 he started building Peace Pagodas as a symbol and accord of mankind, as Pagodas itself is an embodiment of Lord Buddha’s being, and it radiated the messages of truth and non-violence.

In 1969, as a part of Gandhi’s birth centenary celebrations Fuji Guruji built India’s first peace pagoda at Rajgir, Bihar. He built more than 70 peace pagodas all over the world. He started anti nuclear and disarmament movements in Japan, Europe and United States and former Soviet Union. This he did through organising peace marches, fasting, and prayer conferences in which his followers participated in millions inspired by him.

He travelled a lot, but chose Japan, his home land, and gazed at the beauty of universal brotherhood from his existence, kept his love and peace for countless ages, which had not been enough for him, that would melt any stone in the tenderness of it, if touched by the breeze from his magic mantle, to attain Nirvana at the age of 100 in 1985.

Trivial

2008-03-05T23:43:00.001+05:30

Window to the west

2008-03-03T23:19:00.004+05:30

"Open the window to the west,
And disappear into the air inside you,
into the sky of passion inside you,
Meera,
Were you looking for me?
I'm here in the next seat!
Your shoulder is against mine."
~Kabir Das~

Perceptions

2008-03-02T00:26:00.004+05:30

Are we afraid of God? Let me ask myself, Am I afraid of God? I feel I’m. I know he is omnipotent, omnipresent as well. My upbringing, the readings, the conviction, the morals, all these days taught me that he is every where, taught that even I’m the God! Then why should I feel scared of him?

By the way am I calling God him? Is he male? Or may be my manly eyelids aspire he were a male. God can be female too; in the most popular deities of Hindu dharma, there are prominent Goddesses too. When I refer God, am I mentioning any one of them, Saraswathi, Laskhmi, Durga, or are they assigned to particular occasions? It can be, some where my sub conscious was educated, each Goddess for particular cause, for strength, for wealth, for learning, for victory. Oh then we cannot spot to a singularity that this is God, oh God itself is plural, quite perplexing!!!!

Or is he (now it can be she too) just an emotion which renovates the world of appearance into more cherished world of sentiments? Or is he a set of traits which stimulate my emotional qualities? But at times is he not linked to our own selfishness, rather than absolute emotions? Being Godly is being unselfish and it can be unfinished too.

God was an evolutionary idea for me. As a child the small Lord Krishna photo kept at the corner of the mediocre ‘pooja room’ in my home, where mother light the evening lamp, for my folded hands, tightly shut eyes, for the 8 year old kid, that 10x10 inch frame was God, the matchless fear to whom he confessed, requested, beamed, innocently. He was commanding and listened to my pleas, needs, at times despair, (after all at that age what was there to be worried), however, it was a compelling fear, a mark of obedience to fold my hands in front of the frame fusing to the middle class values. When an enhanced room and a place was given at my home, God was upgraded, the frame was replaced by a bigger idol of Krishna, the yellow robes, the anklets, the flute, the ‘mayilpeeli’, oh he was handsome, I remember, just as my mythology taught, yes my God was good-looking, he was gorgeous, and I was proud.

Any way, God was a revered figure in the house hold. He (or she) demanded respect when ever I passed past the nearby temples, unknowingly I chased the elderly gestures, touched the heart in front of the deity, folded the hands and pretended to ask some thing, oh I should please my Lord, my modest mind was mutely mentored, this is the way to pray, which even today I follow; yes I’m dutiful, I stick to my values. The very presence of God is realized (or acknowledged) in all the occasions, without fail.

Later God was described as a truth, a timeless authority, splendour and superiority, an intellect of precision, transcending all quantitative standards – a perception of secret satisfaction. There are many temples of all sizes in my home town, during childhood I never frequented them, but for the rare festive occasions, and pilgrimages were less I must say. During college days, God became more fashionable, we all had relatively bigger tasks, larger issues, better desires, and superior ambitions, obviously God became a necessity, each religion had their own God, and their own days for worship. If my Muslim friends visited the mosques on Friday afternoons, Christian guys had Sundays, the pious day, well enough to stay occupied than sleeping the day out. We were confused, being Hindus (oh, in the meantime there came a pretending noble thought, far beyond the reach of ‘ism’s Hindu is a dharma, a way of living and not a mere religion, so anything can be excused!) we did not set apart a special day for any cause, at least we never practiced, slowly started visiting temples nearby; I realized what is expected out of me. Thus slowly God stood for excellence, with discord of belief about excellence. Later he was the righteous knowledge of the path to unselfishness, the eternal truth.

By the way did I take God with religion? It is a fact; we take everything allied to God with religion. But for me God stood for unselfish truth for the satisfaction, truly personal.

Why do we elucidate so much about God? Is he not beauty? Then what is beauty? Do you remember the last time when you witnessed beauty? And why is it called so? With a school boy’s curiosity did I not watch the beauty contest held first time (even last?) in India with passion? When the skimpy Venezuelan lady, the name which is too insignificant for me to hold in my little memory for that long (yes beauty fades, then why should I?) walked with tiny diamond crown (they called it the world beauty title), and a gentle pay pack, did I not sit in disbelief? Was it not the teenage girl in my neighbourhood with wide open eyes much beautiful than the half naked (!!) South American. Oh shouldn’t complain, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, or I must be blind.

Much was heard about Goa, the sprawling beaches of the former Portuguese territory - they have been the most adored Indian holiday locale, then why were they not appealing for my eyes when I visited there and why even today the little known quiet beach near my ancestor home more beautiful to me? Why do I passionately equate beauty to those sands where we built towering dreams, watched the setting sun, quarreled with cousins for the broken play ball made of coconut palms, why am I relating memories to beauty rather than abstract considerations? May I call beauty as character? Then what is character? Is it the essence of life inside a being? It must not be a logic, but must be a magic which works at the world of appearance, producing harmony, an inter relationship. Will it not give a power to raise in the individual an intimate feeling of reality?

Excuse me; when I reveal beauty as some thing related to individuals and locations am I not narrowing myself? Poets sang the beauty of the flower, the river, the little bird, the charming lady, the seasons, the nature, the sunlight, the darkness, the stillness, the silence, and what not. Is it not the magic of character in all these which define the beauty? Don’t you think that there is a rhythm which is in the heart of all creations, which moves in all the atoms and in different measures fashions the voice and the deaf, the rose and the thorn, the dawn and the dusk, the sweet and the sour? And don’t you harbour the lovely thought that it is not a relationship of facts that weaves the pattern of beauty but is the sense of oneness of our thoughts and the character of the object which radiates it? At least, I do.

Again what is the pattern of beauty? When I watch a cricket match, say India playing Australia, a perfect test match at a crucial juncture, Aussies chasing a possible target and are 3 or 4 down for twenty some thing, and if Steve Waugh walks in with that trade mark chirpy smile, is it not the character that is dictated in the field by the Aussie legend which enthralls the normal Indian fan inside me to enjoy the cricketing beauty that is unfolded in the century that is followed in the doggy determination of the baggie green captain which denied a probable Indian sweet victory?

In a crowded city tram, the betel chewing, dark, dirty, bald fellow carrying metal scrap in the bag which is as old as him, when he offers the seat to an elderly woman, in that air of thick disgust, when he acknowledges that thankful smile back, is it not that gentle gesture that pours in the onlooker the sense of beauty in those shining betel clad teeth and the smoky face?

And character is bonded with laws of beauty every where, in the acquisition of all awareness, in the faultless dignity of the human stature, in the wild excitement of the rains, in the earth’s green layer of pasture, in the blue tranquility of the sky, in the ruthless self-restraint of winter, in breathing the exercise of all powers and in fighting evils, in a hard won success, and at times in the un avoidable failure, it is everywhere which radiates beauty. When I stand in front of that sanctorum, with my hands folded, packed wisdom winds from behind murmurs in my ears, beauty is everywhere, showing that bonds of law can only be explained by character embedded in love.

And then what is love? Is it a movement of unending vibration, a movement at its outset infinitely swifter than anything that we can visualize, and at the same time at absolute peace, rich and full? There every thought and feeling can be an act. Love is where a sentence need not be whole but the idea is understood, where the language need not be applied still one is understood, hence it is total understanding. But there is an inescapable element of pious stupid innocence, which equates the subject and object of love. I always wondered watching the childless old couple in my neighbourhood in their late seventies understanding each other at the slightest wink of each other’s eye, the resonating rhythm in their communication and the care they impart. They often quarreled on the silliest chores, but the time tested love vibrated the rays of innocence and the humblest trust in the fading eyes of that poor farmer couple who sweat out their days to meet the ends. It gave glow to those eyes and their beauty was held there.

We all are mortals, normal human beings, with the purest essence of emotional existence. Evolution process of the world must have tried to bring the elements of truth in every being. It is this evolution that teaches individuals their views, rights, beliefs and ways. Life will always evolve towards a critical mass of truth, towards the revealing of a greater meaning, towards the justifications of the selfish 'I' inside all of us, and all are perceptions, how we see things and most importantly how we want to see ourselves.

Santiniketan

2008-02-24T00:29:00.005+05:30

"The child learns so easily because he has a natural gift, but adults, because they are tyrants, ignore natural gifts and say that children must learn through the same process that they learned by. We insist upon forced mental feeding and our lessons become a form of torture. This is one of man’s most cruel and wasteful mistakes" ----Tagore

Birbhum is a quiet district in the mid Bengal, and Bolpur a tiny slumber town in Birbhum, about 150 km away from the Bengal capital, Calcutta. The place was very peaceful, as peaceful as a bloomed rose, probably this attracted Debendranath Tagore, father of Rabindranath to name the place, Santiniketan, and later it was there his more famous son started the school of his ideals, ‘Patha Bhavana’.

The Gandevta Express from Calcutta reached Bolpur by 9:00 AM, it was drizzling, in February it’s an untimely rain, as it was not a festival time, not many tourists were seen, and the small station itself conceded a miniature mould of the sleepy town. With multiple carry bags and camera, we attracted rickshaw drivers’ attention and soon we were encircled by a large gang. Somehow we found our way to the station clock room, we wanted to keep our baggage somewhere safe.

People were friendly everywhere, we never felt alienated, when the officer in charge of the clock room insisted to have locks for the bags, Jayadeep went outside to get one, it started raining, the land of Gurudev welcomed us with nature’s musical note.

To have the true sense of a Bengali town, we started walking, Santiniketan campus is 20 min walk from Bolpur railway station, the streets were narrow, cycle rickshaws are the most popular mode of transport, dirty road side eateries, pan shops, few better off tea stalls, groceries, and the ever ferrying cycle rickshaws, very few odd motorists, it was a miniature cross section of Calcutta.

When it started pouring heavily we got into 2 cycle rickshaws and headed towards the University, it took hardly 5 minutes for the young rickshaw driver to cycle us to our destination, though not having much idea about the topography of the campus he took us to the gate of one of the Santiniketan canteens. The canteen was a modest one, few young students were found having snacks there, talking loud, it was difficult for me to cop up with the mustard oil used in the dishes. We met there a faculty of French studies of the University; he gave us basic idea as where to go and what to see. We thanked him and walked towards Uttaraayan, the Museum complex once used by the poet.

This place near Bolpur was selected by Maharishi Debendranath Tagore to practice mediations. Rabindranath started an experimental school known as ‘Brahmacharya Ashram’ here with an aim to train students in close association with nature in the style of ‘Gurukul Tapovana’ of ancient India. Later an international university named Visva-Bharati came up as a centre of Indian culture. A great lover of nature, Tagore planted trees in and around the Ashram and gave it a green appeal. He initiated several festivals to celebrate seasons, and these were free from any religious narrowness. Our vision was vividly rich with a mix of orange, yellow and green colours all over the campus, the uniform for junior students were orange and yellow, department buildings were grey, typical of any old educational institution, theory classes were held in the open air, and we learnt that if it rains, it would be an off day. Bubbling little kids were found sitting around large trees listening to their teachers, a tremendous scene for people coming from metros. Photography was taboo near the classes, a peaceful serenity filled the air, and we roamed around the campus in disbelief and headed towards ‘Uttaraayan’.

Santiniketan is famed for the Baul singers, the nomadic minstrels of Bengal who sing songs of love and devotion on the ektara, a musical instrument similar to violin but with a single string. The campus is dotted with palm, eucalyptus and Sal trees. Uttaraayan is a complex of five houses where Rabindranath used to live, and the lion share of ‘Gitanjali’, the collection of poems which fetched Nobel Literature prize for him was penned here. Uttaraayan has a museum and an art gallery inside. It took more than 2 hours for us to see them. The Rabindra Museum, inaugurated by Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru in 1961 has manuscripts, letters, paintings and gifts presented by various dignitaries of foreign countries, Tagore’s hand written letter refusing to accept Knighthood, his Nobel Prize medallion and citation, and personal items of the poet. Even today the students graduating from this University are given leaves of the ‘Sataparni’ trees at the annual convocation ceremony. Prime Minister of India is the chancellor of this university.

In the afternoon we met few Kerala students there, doing their Masters in Fine Arts; it was a pleasant surprise, to meet people of the same tongue at this interior Bengal village. They gave us more directions about the must see locales and gave us their cycles to travel. Santiniketan is a pollution free campus and students and faculty irrespective of their position use them. While roaming around in the campus we passed past the settlement of the Santhal tribes, just outside the campus. Santhals are a tribe still not polluted by the modern societal life. On the way we just stopped outside a Santhal hut and talked for a few minutes with an old man who was found sitting outside, we were amazed to see the information he has about Santiniketan and Amartya Sen. Incidentally Amartya Sen’s home is inside the Santiniketan campus and quite nearer to the Santhal settlement.

In the evening we went with the Kerala students to see their works, Ramdas, Sajeesh, Anoop, Aruna, each student in MFA final year will have their own room for their works, they call it studio, and they can go there as and when they feel like and give way to their creativity. Students stay inside the campus itself, we watched their paintings and sculptures, listened to the interesting descriptions each one has to give for their works. ‘Kala Bhavan’, the department for arts in Santiniketan is one among the best in the world. It was all disbelief for me, while standing among those students, Santiniketan, the one which I have read about, heard about, talked about, thought about, that dream unfolding true just in front of me, in that lush campus, among the students, in an air filled with their ideas, their thoughts, their dreams. Our train to New Jalpaguri was at 10; we thanked them for their hospitality and left the campus by 9.

Back inside my train couch I recollected one virtue I noticed in Santiniketan, there was no false improvement on anything, everything natural, without any pattern, be it the structure of the campus, the mode of thought, or the way students live, the growth there was following no pattern, it simply happens simultaneously, which is holy, may be that is why the Santhal tribes still exist inside the campus. Indira Gandhi was groomed there, so also Satyajit Rai, Amartya Sen was christened by Tagore himself in that campus, I felt the greatness of the soil I stood the whole day, and the thought itself was enthralling for a peaceful siesta.

Way leads on to way

2008-02-19T22:52:00.005+05:30

"And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference"

~ Robert Frost - 'Road Not Taken' ~

Change

2008-02-01T17:54:00.000+05:30

We may find
when all the rest has failed;
hid in ourselves,
the key of perfect change!
--Aurobindo--

kuRai onRum illai.......

2008-01-26T15:15:00.000+05:30

What differentiates music from a piece of poem? Both have their own aesthetic beauty. Is it the composition, the temper and ease with which it is rendered, the tone, the tune, what makes the authentic difference? There are sure songs which we cannot penetrate, like a clogged flap, but some songs are simply released, we can enter them and rather seal behind the surface. There we run into something that vibrates, shines, sparkles. To find the essence in the music we are obliged to stride back from the shell, withdraw deep inside, and leave in, farther in, silent and still. There we locate some thing humid, tranquil, and affluent in substance and it leaves a species of gentleness, an evidence of some thing perpetual on a nonviolent facade of stream, where frontier of time no longer exists.

How often do we blend spirituality with a composition? It is habitually transformed to a superior rank of coherence with melodic co-existence. Krishna (or Lord Krishna) is a potent image in the Indian mythology. People of all ages can effortlessly bond themselves to the mould of Lord Krishna in one manner or other. Of the triumvirate, Vishnu stands for the perpetuator and his most popular incarnation legend is that of Krishna. For the public outlook of the ordinary man, this myth and icon is simply approachable and digest able. Be it the stealing of butter from the neighbourhood, or the ‘rasaleela’ among ‘Gopikas’, or the prowess against the uncle, as the legend says, the ruthless ‘Kamsa’, Krishna was always a vibrating veneration and lovely affection in the Indian faith.

The Tamil song ‘Kurai onRum illai’ (I have no regrets) sung by MS Subba lakshmi in her delightful lace of music and prayer was penned by C Rajagopalachari which depicts the purest notion of a commoner with all acidic regrets, with a split of human grief, but by a flair of dissolving them into private responses of an all in all novel worth, about the divine and his quest in the normal world. ‘Kurai OnRum Illai’ itself defines the intensity of craving in the subject’s (devotee’s) mind to the sovereign, the super power. There is no grievance, what ever she has, how ever she is, she is content, nothing further required, ‘I have no complaints’, the womanly voice repeats, mellifluously.

Kannan is the amiable boyhood insight of Lord Krishna, and while the female in the voice seeks to it, it reciprocates the maternal love in the term, which revitalizes the entire womanhood. When the pitch of the voice diminishes it arrives down to Govinda, a full-blown representation of Krishna, as it is professed amid the mass. Hence as a mother and as a child the woman within the singer, the woman inside the appeal is fulfilled with what she is and how she is.

It can be the voice from the behind, can be of the sightless, who is deprived of the elation of colours of the planet, even then the internal observe detains the merry dignity of the polite colours of her darling lord, the sense of care and possession of the Lord embraces the mood, and when she reiterates ‘kaNNukku Theriyaamal ninRaalum enakku, kuRai onRum illai’, with outshining modesty, clutches the uneasiness of truth as restricted by her own intellectual limits, and admits what she is given is worth it and does not argue any further.

When do we solicit? If we are in need; what if the requirements are recognized and met even before they are sought? Then what is the call for an asking? Venkatesan (or Balaji) is the South Indian unparalleled esteem of Lord Krishna, and Tirupati, the seat of him; he who stands elevated among the seven hills is the possessor of the entire affluence on earth. What is the valid need, if he is standing there to account my wishes, to answer my prayers, to wipe my tears, of asking any thing? It is a ceaseless contempt, and the female is fulfilled.

And she knows very well, when the Lord positions at the back, he stands behind the gloom of the worldly desires, and only those who comprise the beam of knowledge can attain him and she is not believing herself amongst them, admits that she is in the darkness and never treats herself one among the ‘maRai Othum NYaaniyar (those who read Vedas), she just aspires to be in the ordinary, among the humble and does not clamor the thought of any complaint. She is eternally happy.

She is acknowledging the primacy of God, the stature which she never dares to accomplish. ‘kalinaaLuk iRangi kallilE iRangi, silaiyaaga kOilil niRkinRaay kEsavA’ - You are standing on the rock, in this Kaliyuga, your build is enduring’, she declares. The woman uses the word ‘Varada’, though she seek no special blessings, and she very well knows that no power can stop him, and she is assured that when the mother of an ocean of blessings is standing In her life, why should she be complaining? The song ends with an eternal call to Govinda and proclaims that what you seek is within you.

As one of the commonest human being, chances are that we may watch a sunset and almost merge with it and inhale vivid happiness, as a normal music lover, we may listen to M.S.Subbulakshmi, singing ‘Kurai onRum illai’ and drop our self in the delight of every word, pitch and note of the song and almost sense elated to another edge of life and breathe the same contentment and of course, melt in tears of joy.

Shadows are dark

2008-01-25T18:50:00.000+05:30

Meera,
'You are white, I'm brown;
but, look
both our shadows are black'.
(Alas, I forgot; blood is thicker than water)
-- Courtesy: Chullikkaad --

I shall shut my ears, Meera

2007-12-30T15:23:00.000+05:30

Meera,
When I read,
I read your eyes
with the eyes of the polite spirit.
And when I asked,
I asked you to feel
the feelings of the famine
from the past.

And then I passed,
I passed your stillness
to feel that peace
with retained ease.
And there I opened,
I opened at your (own) shade
the glorious moments of
poise and faith.

And soon I sought,
I sought by testing
the infinite test of experience.
Hence I yielded,
I yielded to the seduction
of brains and practice
from the dictated paths.

But there I stood,
I stood upright
As firm as a rock,
amid the havoc.
And Meera,
If you (still) want me to shut,
I shall shut my ears
to the melody of my heart.

But, remember
(though I shut)
I coded in my psyche
The melody that I heard
and the lesson that I learnt.

Decibels of Love

2007-12-29T11:00:00.001+05:30

What is a conversation? A word, idea, command, order, or even flow of love, lively emotion? Our emotions transform the world of outer shell into more cherished world of sentiments. It brings to us ideas, vitalized by outlook to suit the life stuff of our nature. How can beauty be related to conversation? The purpose of a talk is the production of loveliness where as splendor in a talk has been a mere instrument and not it’s inclusive and vital worth.

It was a normal Friday evening, on my way back to home from office, the whole city flying to the nests in the dreams of a wonderful weekend, I was in no hurry, leisurely walked down the second platform of the Begumpet railway station, have to catch my MMTS train to Chanda Nagar, it was 8:15 PM, a terribly chilly December nightfall in Hyderabad. The platform was noisy; bursting of passengers waiting for the Mumbai bound Hussainsagar Express. The scattered baggages, kids running around, porters squeezing through, it was gladly colourful.

A small group of older citizens came walking behind the lane, next to the over bridge, all woolen clad, cracking some jokes, laughing at their peak pitch, one was a Sardar, others must be Telugu, but they all spoke Hindi, must have shared the same office in their prime or must be living together in a local neighbourhood, I have seen them quite a few times in the same plat form, as natural they left a buoyant feel in the tone. I walked till the end of the platform to spot a bare bench, where I use to lie down if alone, almost outside the station, the book vendor came rolling his cart, and I did not raise my head.

By 8:45 the Hussain Sagar Express arrived, thriving mob and the crawling suitcases filled the air, porters busily took orders, and few police men were walking. The train use to stop there for few minutes. People were busy settling down; friends and relatives of the travelers surrounded the bogies in large number. The long siren was given, standard announcements, the monster metal vehicle parted with the station, far-off waving of passengers to their beloved ones faded round the corner at the next turn in the track, gradually rest of the mass started melting down, deep air and an uneasy stillness filled the emptiness in the platform, my train was at 9:05, few more minutes to go.

Two seats away from mine I noticed a couple, probably in their early thirties; the man, he was assembling towering action with the hands, which I could not stop watching. He was wearing a designer shirt and a denim pants, a bulky bag on his shoulder, and the lady, sitting with her legs crossed on top of the seat was in a mediocre salwar, had dark un usually petite eyes, a tiny nose ring glittered the whole face, which supplemented the glow from her eyes, she was following his feat with ease and thrust. All the way the man’s face and hands said every thing, he was dumb, how ever, his eyes were animated, his energy was steadily sustained in its activity and she was shaking her head in answer, was composed, peaceful and serene.

They were conversing, ideas were generously flowing, the lady too was responding with her hands, both of them were dumb or at least he was, I could not make it out, but could sense the smart chat that was flowering there. With all the known lexicons in my store, with all the tuned decibels in my repertoire, in all my faculties of passion and creativity I could never be so very expressive in ideas, that smooth in chatting, that free in conversing, that pure in loving, while giving voice to my thoughts, I must confess. Their conversation was a delight to watch. I could observe them for hardly few minutes, perhaps less than five, my train arrived and I could not afford to miss it and I left those angels of inner voice in the frozen oblivion of Platform no 2.

Life

2007-12-06T15:12:00.000+05:30

"Replica of life
created by life and form will go,
Leaving behind
an illusion of light and shade"
--Tagore--

'Aaditya Hridayam'

2007-12-05T17:35:00.000+05:30

Fear

2007-11-16T20:07:00.000+05:30

In time we hate that which we often fear.
&
In a false quarrel there is no true valour.
Courtesy : William Shakespear

Smiling Shore

2007-11-07T14:23:00.000+05:30

The stream was always steady, it never care to bear any mark of the past. Hundreds of boats sailed on top, in the calm mood, in the dancing temper, and in floodwater; none could script any scar, any hazy fancy mark. Close to the shore, the boat was consciously empty, only to keep some room for benevolence, was tied to a thin, delicate mast. The subtle mast bonded the vessel to its heart, the smiling shore.

Hurrying men passed by, no single traveler rowed the vessel to ferry the muddy water to the greener bank of their dreams; the liner reserved itself open to brace the entire blue sky above, peacefully with the little mast, the quiet cohort. Every time a flood arrived, the boat stirred closer to the mast, closer to the shore, narrowed the span of the time-weathered cord, which bonded them to infinity. Boat made full circles in the stream and each circle drove the mast close, clear and dear.

It was raining; as the mast witnessed silently helpless, the intense waves came from the blues and the vessel conceived the whole hammering drops onto its virgin bosom. The under current was stubborn, which shook the mast, trembled the string, troubled the vessel, hit it hard; the roaring clouds and the ominous lightening dictated their despair. The shower was soporific, a heavy wave threw the boat towards the shore, it hit the mast hard, and hard enough to painfully break it, but the mast hold the vessel to withstand the fuming current. The flooding water crossed the haughty borders set by the shore. The boat made repeated circles, half sunk, surfed through the rippling waves, just to find the mast holding it to the heart.

The smashed shoreline was still smiling at the mast!!

Close your eyes, Meera

2007-10-30T12:25:00.000+05:30

Meera (the forgotten),
What, You cannot remember those spices?
But my eyes were never dull,
As you filled their voids
With those spices of happy excitement-
and your gratitude.
All that made me wise.

Meera (the lost),
Did you know, you were never charming?
Just as the wind outside
Though I never crossed my see-through passage
-for your silent honoured guest.

Meera (the messenger),
Are there any flowers
In the tiny garden of your kingdom?
Do they have honey
and wild bees wooing around?
Did they ever nod,
when their comrade breeze ask
the stupidest question, ever known?

Meera (the beloved),
Were you alone, all the way?
Come; be seated, next to me.
And hold me, as tight as you can.
I shall tell you my empty tale of gloom.
But once the fancy sigh is over, allow me to forget,
For ever.

Meera (the hunted),
What, you shot my little bird
And made it dumb?
Do you know how to mock
and voice her songs
In the same melancholy tune?

Meera (the angel),
Close your eyes, you cannot help.
Did you over step to the unknown shore?
I offer my pride to your feet,
Close, close your eyes,
lest you will not be forgiven.

Meera (the stupid),
Let my tears cleanse this mirror,
where I use to spot myself all the day.
Before you rob it from me for ever.

But....Meera (the truth),
here (is that) I'm right and
you are not wrong!!!

Going with the heart

2007-10-26T18:51:00.000+05:30

I have not taken the first step in knowledge;
I have not learned to let go with the hands,
As still I have not learned to be with the heart,
And have no wish to be with the heart or need,
But, that I can see, the mind-is not the heart.

I may yet live, as I know others live,
To wish in vain to let go with the mind-
Of cares, at night, to sleep;
But nothing tells me that I need to learn
to let me go with the heart!

Courtesy : Robert Frost (Wild Grapes)

Bubbles of Bliss

2007-10-15T20:28:00.000+05:30

A pleasant September morning, on my way to office, as usual in the little compartment of the city local train (they call it MMTS in Hyderabad) from the Chanda Nagar station. I have special affection for these quite little coaches, less people, less talks, less hassles, but the same windows, the same sky, the same breeze, the same serenity at less cost, my choice was apparent. Hyderabadis are notorious for their rage for entering the speeding vehicles, true to the tradition two young guys jumped into the train no sooner did it touch the platform, I had to brush them, who stood on the doorway to head to my calm seat away from the opening. I spread my news paper to have a quick look, there were very few passengers, and I was relaxed.

Soon, I was distracted by a teeming child’s voice which filled the blending emptiness of the coach; the MMTS trains are as neat as the city itself and always present a pleasing experience for the outsider. He must be less than 8 years, trying to have a grip on his dirty pajama, and a coloured box with soap solution; with a purple cap, he was a typical kid you can spot in any Hyderabadi lower middle class Muslim neighbourhood.

He bit a pumpkin straw which he drew himself out from the box and water droplets oozed out. His younger sister in a light red frock, was around, and he was trying to woo her, spoke Urdu, for me it looked as if he was convincing the little pretty how amazing it would be to blow it into spicy bubbles out of the soap solution. Their mother (or grandmother, as she looked quite old) was unmoved, less interested, was dozing; the thick burqua revealed only her closed eyes and she appeared very composed unmindful of the little ones in the coach.

But the boy was busy with his act.Running around, searching for a better seat, each time he took one, talking to his sister, he was so expressive, the expressiveness found less resistance in the surroundings and the sound, he was unaffected by the burden of facts and thoughts. It gave the surroundings an intimate feeling of reality, the music of the speeding engine in the front itself became an independent object, which assumed a tune which is definite, but a meaning which is indefinite, but still it gripped our minds with a sense of absolute truth.

Now they are sitting next to me, I just smiled, he did not care, his sole attention was in fixing the bottle on the side window panel and to make his sister sit on the seat next, she could hardly walk, must be 3 year old, the stinking marks of an old cold and the oil tints from the curly hair formed a line beneath the starry eyes, she squeezed the little fibre bangle on her left hand, and did not protest when he made her sit on top, they are ready now, I became curious.

The train stopped in the next station, more people poured in, now it is noisy inside, one of the passengers tried to push her aside to him, the protest was instant, the new passenger gave in.

Now the boy piped the air into the little bottle, the dusty liquid inside protested, dazzled inside, blew, a few bubbles came out, train passed a sharp right turn towards hi-tech city and the morning sun’s grandeur reflected on the little bubble with seven colours, the rainbow unveiled but brighter colours were seen on the blushing cheeks of the younger one, in her wide open eyes, and it multiplied to thousand colours at the sight of the bubble, isolated from the straw, mounting to the top. He shrugged her face firmly, to reach the straw, she squeezed it holding it with both the hands, finally a better bubble came, moved away, ascended up, up, up, the whole compartment was illuminated by the glow of their joy, two blissful souls cried, cry of freedom, ecstasy, achievement, the cry of contentment in doing the limit, the dancing bubble went up, further scaled heights to the top of the roof, hit the metal and burst, the two jubilant souls set for their next charge.
The whole compartment is silent now!

They felt their idea of life not as mere logical deduction, but as real as the air to the bird, who feels it at the every beat of its wings, not through any reasoning but through the illumination of feeling. The whole coach, mostly government employees, was watching them, the little ones were great things for us, our consciousness was never dull, the bubble was bubble, the colour was colour, the breeze was breeze and we could not be indifferent to them. We were blessed with the sense of wonder which gave those kids their right of entry into the treasure house of mystery which is the heart of existence.

Mocking Mahatma

2007-10-05T20:09:00.000+05:30

I was watching the Door Darshan live telecast of UPA Chairperson Sonia Gandhi’s address to the UN General Assembly on the eve of World Non-Violence day, commemorating the birth day of Mahatma Gandhi. The speech was short, rather a few minutes of presentation. Despite being on the other side of the political beliefs and ideologies of the party which she belongs to, my silent prayers were for a smooth, flawless presentation and each time she stumbled upon any word out of nervousness, my heart was with her, I saw her failure as mine as she represented the whole of India who gave birth to the luminary personality of Mahatma whom the whole humanity salutes and the land where his ideas were put into practice and succeeded to a great extend though not realized as absolute. She has done a fine home work, and did a fair job, thankfully!

UN General Assembly adorned to have eminent personalities in the history, the cradle of a few renowned orations ever rendered by Indians; a long tradition of voicing our views from that royal dais, right from the record breaking address of first defense minister Sri. V K Krishna Menon through the mesmerizing Hindi vocalization of the former Prime Minister A B Vajpayee. None of them simply spit at the mass in front or to the larger, eager audience across the globe the secretarial text in front on the podium, they were the voice and vision instead, of millions of Indians and the values which we stand for. How far have we come?

Here, on the birth day of one of the greatest leaders India ever contributed to the whole of humanity, world’s largest organization honoured the day with General Assembly session attended by delegates from all parts of the world. With all my due respect to Mrs. Gandhi, let me say, India definitely should have put a better face who could convey the message of non-violence and Ahimsa to a global audience in a better, stronger way on such an auspicious day.

Gandhi lived till the mid of 20th century. It’s just 60 years since we gained freedom. At least a tiny minority of those freedom fighters who burned their youth for the cause of nation must still be alive. We are quite a young nation but within a century after securing freedom, Gandhi and his legacy have become so fashionable among Indians that it can be used for purported purposes. Those who can no way relate themselves to him inherit the name and exploit securely. When the Kashmiri journalist Feroz Ghandi (remember, not Gandhi) married the first Indian Prime Minister’s gorgeous daughter the public image of the late leader was adopted by a whole family. We saw in her the rigour, charisma and burning will power of India’s strongest and most arrogant Prime Minister; the surname Gandhi got acceptance and became anonymous with the Nehru family. It descended through the next generations to reach her sons to revolve around a myth which interpreted itself into election victories and family dominations in the Indian political scenario. When Indira’s over hyped, good looking son, Rajiv inherited power it reached another level and the juggernaut still rolls and the flag is now with Sonia.

The never ending Indian political drama in which members of the Nehru family were brutally assassinated added to the public sentiments and still Gandhis of today are the great grand children of the old Mahatma for the Indian illiterate though they share nothing in common.

Have we, as a nation, not graduated ourselves to come out of this foolish dynasty politics?

Sandhya

2007-08-20T17:49:00.000+05:30

Courtesy : Ayyappa Panicker

Learn to Labour and Wait

2007-08-20T11:56:00.000+05:30

Trust no Future, how ever pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within and God over head!

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Courtesy : H W Longfellow

History makes Sense

2007-07-11T15:17:00.000+05:30

I’m not a historian, never did I learn history as a major subject nor did I read it much, I did my graduation in Engineering and works in an environment where history and related topics are of literally zero use in my daily activities. History and historical thoughts, still I believe, need to be seeded, discussed and taught.

History is not some day’s story of someone else’s past but it is our own story as how we evolved, how we developed, how we were brought up; the introspection of our own identity to the qualified, blossomed social animal and to a larger extend the story of our existence too. To know the information 1000 years back may not fetch you the next day’s meal, but it can tell us the reason why we eat, the way we breathe and the reasons behind each and every human action, the end result of tireless work of numerous historians - the fact, even if we accept it or not.

’Why should you bother what you are, who you will be and what you have to be’? - This is a high degree of individualism and pseudo independent thought. Forget about the civilized human populace, every single species in the whole of universe depend each other for existence, denial of which would be a mere darkening of the truth. We need to keep safe the gains and falls of the past to have a better tomorrow.

Isn’t there a difference between scoring and knowing? Remembering a fact without understanding how it is related to life may score us couple of examination marks, true; but as individuals, we know and grow little; gain as well. This is applicable everywhere. A mathematical formula can be read re read and over a period of time can be memorized, and once we spit it right on an answer sheet we may gain few marks or grades, but those are mere figures, or expressions unless we relate them to actual life; as useless as the dumb information we read from the history books.

It is these insights from the whole string of good and bad experiences make men a developed species. And there helps history and the historical thoughts which make us more rounded as human beings. The means, the ways and more importantly the mistakes our predecessors committed in their lives define ours too and it is foolishness to state that we care them not.

The very fact that incidents of distant past will not leave its traceable remnants makes the job of a historian challenging. It is not the historians who cannot see beyond the nose, but it is those who manipulate the facts for their selfish needs. Is it not the same history that taught all of us to denounce Hitler and the perpetrators of all the genocides over the world? Is it not the same history that taught us that the problems all over the world are always the struggle between the haves and have-nots’? Then how can history be harm to humanity?

We cannot diverge from the truth to say, that only a well written history is the epic of real life. It focuses the actions of men in an attractive and jubilating luminance. Rejecting what is unjust and superfluous, it mixes its picture with real, warm, and well drawn images. Yes, it is a story and all historians are story tellers. He, who controls the present, controls the past. He, who controls the past, controls the future. History is not a single college book or a news paper article published in the past. It is the record of the things that we experienced, united with others. Well written history must always be the result of genius and taste, as well as of research and study. But history, while it throws the light and speaks, confines itself to facts, related to actual events. The absence of a well knit nest of history and historical study in the modern day scenarios does not necessarily mean that history and historians have lost their significance.

The dignity of history consists in recalling the incidents with integrity and accuracy, and in presenting human agents and their actions in an interesting, instructive and informative form. The primary element in history, therefore, is truthfulness; and this truthfulness must be developed in a constructive form. Efforts must be to revive the truthfulness in our history, the integrity of the facts that we push on to the coming generations, the transparency and the open ness to accept, acknowledge and correct the old mistakes, and not to put the blame on history for all our ills.

Yes it is true, history was always written by the victors, but remember, there are no chronic victors in humanity. The only ultimate victor is truth and time; both are fantastic historians!

Wonderfools.....!!!

2007-07-10T12:26:00.000+05:30

Something which is beyond the reach of man but made possible by a conscious, patient effort; may I call it wonder? A calm beach, a mist clad dawn dusty path, hovering butterfly in an autumn garden, a little child’s sweet smile; for me all are wide eyed wonders.

The way to touch all the springs of wonder in us is to get before our eyes as thought, that which we are feeling and doing. The things that we do we think not. What I am I cannot describe anymore than I can see through my eyes. The moment another describes to me the man I am -- pictures to me in words that which I was feeling and doing, I am struck with surprise. I am sensible of a keen delight. I am and I see my being at the same time. These glance from it to the pictures that we see with lively pleasure and all the wonders are so.

A great work when analyzed is a set of detached parts; a poem is a detached set of sounds and Taj is a set of detached set of marble pieces. But an inner medium of love and aesthetic architectural perfection connects those inner elements, discovers a perfect law all through, which is never violated. But this law itself is the limit. It shows what ever it can never be otherwise.

Taj was built in the 1600s by the Mughals, its unending beauty, architectural elegance and people pulling charm will last for ever; whether approved by a private organisation or not. But in the era of globalised corporations and liberalized economies innovative means for churning huge money was always a challenge for the new age marketing gurus. But, out of the box thinking and the geographic and political means to accomplish them the New Open World Corporation, a Swiss, more notably, a Profit Organisation, did it, bringing all the smiles to an array of telephone operators, television channels and all those who are fancied to have the gimmicks for a publicity stunt.

It was never the part of any rat race. The cross sections of the world populace (remember only those) who watch television, surf the net and own the mobile phones voted for the wonders of the world! What? Yes, that is how we define wonder today. Or that is what we are taught, that wonder is decided just like that! Feelings of mystery at the root of all our delights are lost when we discover uniformity of this law. The moment Taj goes for the race and people are urged to rediscover the wonder in it, this delight is lost.

Agra is one of the worstly managed cities of India. Those who made all these hues and cries in the past few weeks should have shown half this enthusiasm when the industrial houses on the eastern bank of Yamuna over a period of time marooned this white wonder. High content of toxic gases in the air, pathetic city roads, highly corrupt public administration all have done much harm to this symbol of love already.

We all forwarded messages, sent SMS’, came out to streets to campaign for the Taj and this cause, those of who did not try any of these, silently watched the fiercely spelt televised debates and analyses aired to our living rooms as to whether Taj will make into the final seven or not. But why? Were all these required? The nation’s precious bandwidth which could have used for some productive purposes went waste for false propagandas. True this would definitely improve the Googling hits of Taj and India at the same time it met the target figures of those who played for it too. All this mess can be bracketed as pseudo nationalism. Had Bill Gates, Mukesh Ambani or Rupert Murdoch wished to include their homes or business houses in the new wonders, they too could have done that. Buy the votes from the company as you buy the shares in the market, float money to support it in the media and public sphere, people will any how come and support and you are through.

Light a small candle in the consciousness corner of your heart, that light will help, be more silent, drop the noise in our head, then, this continuous possession of thinking for any thing and every thing will be stopped, let us be a little wise.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

2007-07-04T12:16:00.000+05:30

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Courtesy : Robert Frost (Nothing Gold Can Stay)

Mother

2007-05-29T13:17:00.000+05:30

Mother,
The folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn;
We play with the silver moon."
I ask, "But how am I to get up to you?"
They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth,
Lift up your hands to the sky,
And you will be taken up into the clouds."

"My mother is waiting for me at home," I say,
"How can I leave her and come?"
Then they smile and float away.

But, mother, I know a nicer game than that.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands,
And our house-top will be the blue sky.

The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
"We sing from morning till night;
On and on we travel and
Know not where we pass.
"I ask, "But how am I to join you?"
They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore,
And stand with your eyes tight shut,
And you will be carried out upon the waves."

"My mother always wants me at home in everything”, I say.”
How can I leave her and go?"
They smile, dance and pass by.

But, mother, I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on,
And break upon your lap with laughter.

And no one in the world will know where we both are.

Courtesy : Tagore (Clouds and Waves)

Hamaara Hyderabad

2007-05-27T14:21:00.000+05:30

It was a Friday again, exactly one week after the black blasts at the revered Mecca Masjid. My way back to home from office. In front of Queen’s Plaza I hired an auto and got down near the Begumpet railway station, the old autowala searched his tiny tin box for the change; 1 Re less, he was not having change, when I nodded in agreement for my loss, he reset his meter, started his vehicle and immersed himself in the puzzling traffic. He did not forget to present me a smile, his betel chewing, broken brown teeth shined, the perfect Hyderabadi style.

Sardar Patel road was literally full, the commercial Begumpet area was preparing for yet another dusk, the end of business hours, vehicles flowing from the nearby airport formed an endless line. The huge neon lit hording on the top of the bridge, on which Chiranjeevi and Nayanthara from the latest Telugu movie, with all the glitters, showered smiles at the pedestrians, the drilling work for the fast finishing ‘Green lands-Panjagutta’ flyover continued, lorries ferrying concrete and sand hurried through the lines, workers were busy, life was normal, the city was the same, everywhere.

Beside the bridge, near the station, I had ‘vada’ and tea from one of the street side makeshift stalls. A short guy with round face served me chutney, he whistled a Telugu popular tune, the curry was hot, spicy and I coughed.

It was evening 6:30; scorching summer sun was retreating, the prayer calls for ‘Magrib’ from the nearby mosque thickened the air, a flock of ash coloured pigeons fluttered around from their hide outs, small boys in pyjamas and white caps lined out from the nearby neighbourhood. The old lady selling bangles and stuffed cotton saris in the shades near the flyover gazed. The city remains unmoved; life was normal, predictable and with ease, as it was in the last one decade; the message was strong, no evil can upset the warmth of brotherhood and the kind shades of universal tolerance, which is deep there in the blood.

The blast had its repercussions but Hyderabad learnt smart lessons from the past, no more infiltrations or outrageous actions, the populace matured, the normal Hyderabadi has grown to a new level of acceptance, now he see his neighbour through the eyes of a human and not through the hatred lens given by the clergy, as he was fooled numerous times in the history. A remarkable, salacious and outstanding achievement.

Yes, it is rightly said, you can fool some of the people all of the time, all of them some of the time, but you cannot fool all of them all of the time. And Hyderabad stands the happy example for this.

Unposted Letter

2007-05-27T13:53:00.001+05:30

<Undated>.

Dear.........,
………………………………………..
………………………………………..
………………………………………..
………………………………………..
………………………………………..
………………………………………..
………………………………………..
………………………………………..

Ever,
Arjun.

Cartoons, Chaos and Calvin

2007-05-25T10:45:00.000+05:30

In the middle ages the kings employed court jesters who mocked on anything and everything. They were entertainers but more importantly critics of the policies in autocracy. They countered sycophancy with legitimacy.

Why can’t we call comic strips the new generation court jesters? In a society where wit and sarcasm are comfortably misused, the comic strip ‘Calvin and Hobbes’ has propagated the virtues of loyalty and love. In a world where humans are divided on the basis of colour, caste and creed they offered us two friends that are not even the same species. But how, being so different, they still manage to maintain a fierce friendship?

Calvin, the main character is six or eight year old boy, lives with his parents, dashes into troubles very soon, breaking any thing remotely breakable. At the same time he is extremely smart, but his imagination and immaturity make success impossible. He represents the piece in all of us that wants to stay a kid for ever – any complaints??

Hobbes, Calvin’s stuffed tiger, whom he believes real, will have life only when Calvin is around. He is the voice of reason, maturity and usually tries to talk Calvin out of nasty ideas. They fight often, but he is perfect best friend and companion.

When differences are too jarring, man cannot accept them as final, so either he wipes them out with blood or coerces them in some kind of homogeneity or a deeper unity. All comic characters are social statements. But Calvin is more than a social statement. He portrays what we think as a kid and how the surroundings react. He is there in all of us, at some point of time or other, whether we accept it or not. Calvin feels alienated from parents, other kids at school, from the little girl down the street, and from the institutional education. To cope with this he retreats into games of his imagination. His behaviour is weird, but this is what most mammals have done for millions of years. For any individual compressed and crowded times has its use when dealing with material things and there he tries for escape. There reality is represented by nightmare, disease by frank, honest revelation of the normal, lowest, crude fact.

Playing is the most primitive method used for training and learning both by animals and humans and Calvin’s escapism too employs play. He develops his own magic circle where games’ rules have nothing to do with the larger universe outside. There he decides the rule, the formalities, the laws and everything is based on his fantasies and interpersonal issues. It is rounded which starts from Calvin and ends at him. He prefer the game of imagination than the game of competition, it’s a game of imitation than limitation. Every time Calvin plays a game with Hobbes they bend the rules in ridiculous ways simply degrade into an argument and disperse.

These two reveal the different facets of human personality. Calvin voices our immature face, echoing the sentiments; on the contrast Hobbes offers voice of ironic maturity, though immune to silliness at times. For Calvin, Hobbes is a walking and talking tiger, full of his own attitude and ideas but for outside world he is a stuffed tiger alone. He is more or less a subjective nature of reality than a doll coming to life.

Let us all revive the Calvin in us and search out for the Hobbes, for a better meaning and understanding of our chaos and ultimately the escape from them.

Foot Note:
Calvin: Sometimes when I talk, my words can’t keep up with my thoughts; I wonder why we think faster than we talk.

Hobbes: Probably, so you can think twice.

If

2007-05-07T12:21:00.000+05:30

"If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!"

Courtesy : Rudyad Kipling (If)

Shadows of Solitude

2007-05-06T15:11:00.000+05:30

When sun sets, the light fades,
When shadow extends its lengthening hands,
When spiraling darkness start reality hunt,
When all the celebrations are drained over,
Cheers down, songs sung, stars asleep in-
blissful haunting silence.
Smiles recede to the next favorite lamp post,
to the alternate luminous wine spots,
without a kiss of gratitude.

And then you realize
that
you are cruelly alone!!

Silent Valley thoughts.....

2007-05-04T15:28:00.000+05:30

To the development thirsty sharks of the state...
To the supporters and promoters-
of the proposed 'Paathrakkadavu' project,
To the State Board officials, beurocrats and above all
To the Communist Marxist Government in power in the state,
To the cautious public of Kerala,
Who still have the courage to see things in black and white
And shout that the king is naked.

Yes, agree, hydel power is cheaper and safer,
And the proposed 70MW project
in the buffer zone of the valley of Paathrakkadavu
Is small in scale when compared to other major ones,
And is just 4 km away from Silent Valley National Park.
The implementation of this multi crore project might help-
A handful of contractors thicken their pockets,
A few officials from the board too lick their salty hands,
The smeared sweet grease; quite natural.
We do not have concerns, its part and parcel of the nation's history
Accepted!!!

But the area where you are going to axe down
On the name of development and power generation
Was declared a national park in 1984.
It is known for rare species of animals,
Plants, birds, reptiles, sweet little butterflies...
A nature's gift with wonderful flora and fauna
One of the worlds rare virgin forests.

Just because it fall under our geography,
Neither Kerala nor India can claim it and exploit;
It is a treasure and an asset for the whole of humanity.
Which needs to be nurtured and protected with utmost care.
Else how do we claim ourselves a civilized populace?

The Sairandrivanam (ancient name of Silent valley)
is situated 1100 km above sea level.
It is blanketed by rare and dense rain forest.
The only home of endangered lion tailed monkeys,
The rain forest that keep Kunthippuzha (the tributary of Bharathappuzha)
Alive, full fledged and vibrant, throughout the year.

Power whether electrical or political must be decentralised,
if it has to reach the grass roots effectively.
A fact; scientifically tried and proven.
We have already set the example
by decentralising official, political power.
The 'Panchayat Raj', the real power to the masses.

Now we need to decentralise electrical power,
the very back bone of any modern society's growth.
We need to think beyond Idukki and Lower Periyar
The possibilities of mini and micro hydel projects
Which cater the local needs have to be explored,
And developed effectively.
They may not churn out million spitting projects,
But that is the need of the hour, in the densely populated state.

The enormous distribution losses can be reduced in this manner.
It is a shame we forget (that we have a long costal line)
It is high time we tapped current from tides
And why the hell do we ignore wind power?
When there is enough scope and possibilities for both in the state.
When the whole world is complaining about global warming
Can the centum literate Keralite be away from the bandwagon?
Don't we too have the responsibility to dial down the carbon?

We should not stumble in the dark;
development has to be understood in the right sense and meaning.
More non conventional methods have to be explored.

But...
Even if power is not generated and we sit in the darkness,
Let silent valley and its virgin inhabitants be peaceful.
Let us leave them alone, respect and honour their right to live
Let us show that minimum commonsense.

Remembering Paul

2007-04-02T10:46:00.000+05:30

"Do you have a drafter"? The husky voice from behind woke me up from my dreamy sitting. I was on my heavy iron chair, my legs on the table in front, looking somewhere to the distant through the small window, room no.2, HS2 hostel, Kothamangalam Engineering college, my second year there. I turned back, a short, fair guy with a finely trimmed moustache and a sweet smile, stood there. I have seen him couple of times in the campus, in the mess hall as well. In fact that was only the first week in the new hostel. Mine was the first room in the long ground floor corridor and always thronged with people for some reason or other. I dusted out my old drafter from the shelf top and gave it to him. He thanked me with a smile and left the room without a single word.

Paul later became a frequent visitor in my room. He often spoke in a low tone, never argued with any one, whenever we were in any serious discussion, he would soon camouflage but listen silently in the corner, with a typical smile. He always had a bizarre inferiority, I felt. He referred all others as successful and himself as incompetent. I did not find much logic behind that thinking, though. He always considered himself as notwithstanding in the professional competition, it was true that he was average in academics and always had couple of backlogs in each semester, which he desperately cleared soon. His only aim was to join the merchant navy through one of his uncles working there, the only reason why he joined Mechanical Engineering. He was a stereotype introvert.

An ardent rock fan, Paul had drummer Vishnu as his roommate. Guitarist Renju was in the room opposite to mine and Paul would always be around to get some cassettes or CDs exchanged or simply to listen Renju humming with his six string in the late night boozing parties.

Paul Bhai, as he was known among friends, was never very close to me, as was the case with many. You can call it a Friday if Paul is found crossing our hostel gate with a large bag on his back; he was somewhere from Tripunithura. Now he would appear on early Monday morning, weekend hostel fun was never his matter of interest.

In the fifth semester I shifted from the hostel to a house outside. Chances of meeting Paul Bhai reduced. The short meetings in workshops and IT centre lasted only a few minutes and formal ‘hi-byes’. We both were busy in our own worlds and I was never that very attached to enquire as what news in his personal space.

Through my other friends staying in the hostel I came to know about another interesting face of Paul Bhai. He was an Anti-Christ follower, a term which I heared first time in my life! One day along with other no-sense updates from the hostel we heared that Renju had a fight with Paul Bhai for his blasphemy when he denounced the Bible and tried to spit on the holy book. We just laughed, we had lot more to discuss, campus, exams, politics, colours, girls, life..Paul Bhai and his beliefs were too insignificant for our busy ‘engineer-in-the-making’ life.

Once on a visit to his room, I noticed on his table a holy cross, marked upside down. Out of curiosity I asked him what it was. “It is our symbol”, he said, “of the Anti Christ followers”. “We have” – he started explaining after a small pause “strong people base internationally and have centres in Cochin and Trivandrum.” I was bemused, saw the shining in his eyes when he explained, the otherwise dumb Paul Bhai was talking hard, he spoke for a while about their organisation, beliefs and ways, about the divine powers which were guaranteed to the followers and the means to achieve them. Unfortunately I could not continue that conversation and never got a chance to resume it again. Drum beats, high voltage Marilyn Manson song blasted from the sub woofers in his room, with some uneasiness; I closed the door behind me and walked my way out. Let me confess that I had my faith in higher ideals. At the same time I had great feeling of delicacy in giving utterance to them.

Sessions, semesters, exams, labs life was fast track. Paul Bhai and his beliefs were silently archived to the fancy corners of our oblivion. A rainy September Saturday, a happy cricket match in our backyard and we were waiting for a little break to resume the session. I saw Didheesh, our batch mate in electronics came running with an umbrella and whispering to Justin, my room mate. The gloom in the air imparting to Justin, Didheesh’s words blurred our vision, shaky chats, silent commands, we locked the doors and got ready soon. We have our eyes which relate to us the vision of physical presence. We have also an inner faculty of our own which help us to find our relationship with the individual, the personality. It started raining heavily outside.

The whole batch assembled silently in front of the hostel. Poignant faculty members too started pouring in. Black flags were hoisted and wreathes were prepared which read in bold, neat letters the batch, department and college names. Buses were arranged and the whole 90 minutes journey was a torture. Thick silence filled the air. His hometown was Udeyamperoor, a small suburb which is hardly 20 minutes drive from Thiruvaankulam. It looked like the whole village was gathered there. His house seemed like a middle class one, we learnt that his father was a contractor and mother a home maker. He has a younger brother with whom he played computer games late in the Friday night before he hanged himself on the ceiling fan. Some of the angry neighbours were found questioning the first set of students from the college alleging ragging be a motive behind his foolish deed.

There in front of the mourning hall slept our Paul Bhai, with a holy cross in hand, in a brown coffin, white fresh smart clothes, thick fumes of incense sticks and Bible chanting all around in the air, the priest was busily giving instructions to the members of the family. That was a macabre sight; we paid our last tributes, prayed for a while and moved aside. The funeral procession started at around 5:45 in the evening, the church and cemetery were nearby, and Paul Bhai was laid to rest in the true Christian traditional manner. We put our last few flowers and customary handful sand on his burial and came back.

It was his quest for divine powers that made him commit suicide. His classmates remembered his words on Friday, when he last attended the class- “I would soon get divine powers”, all neglected it as normal Paul Bhai crap. None realised the depth of his thoughts, strength of beliefs, and the warmth of his ways he embraced in his thirst for divinity. His parents had no clue what went wrong. They were totally unaware of his journey and the association with the new sect. In the college no one questioned his un usual ways of life or his long browsing sessions in the internet centre where he associated with strange friends and beliefs. The dark dichotomy in his lives outside and the other was neither addressed nor acknowledged. There was not a single friend to nip his thought right from the bud.

Dear Paul Bhai, who was divine, what was right? We cannot frankly answer any questions about good and evil, or about what happens after death. We are the music makers, the dreamers of our dreams, we were defeated, and you defeated us, first with your smile and later with your early, stupid, silent exit.

Alphabets, Colours....!!!

2007-03-16T01:38:00.000+05:30

“Nothing different for the play
Walking dusk the same old way
To see those moulded letters,
In Black and White and
In light shades of grey.

Coloured alphabets for me
Are dreams seen while awake.
I kept them glued on-
A bright cupboard door,
Where I keep the salt of my words
For a future rainy day..!

As my silence locked-
Inside must be broken"

Memoir

2007-03-01T04:55:00.000+05:30

Drop my name from the gift
if it be a burden, my friend,
But keep my song.
For you, my words are incomplete,
always..!

Assamee Aawaaz

2007-02-26T13:57:00.000+05:30

Language when thatched into poetry has elegance, when composed into notes bring joy, when sung with love brings harmony, touches the unknown and unseen. Rhythm is generated and regulated by the creative force of an artist. As long as words remain prose, they will not draw reality, the moment they are put into rhythm, they vibrate with radiance.

Last weekend gifted me with a splendid musical evening.

Venue: open air auditorium, Shilparamam, Madhapur, Hyderabad.

Occasion: The closing day of Octave 2007, the North East festival conducted by Sangeetha Naataka Academy and Ministry of Culture and tourism.

A colleague, friend and a silent companion, Anu, was with me, delightfully all the way. The evening was pleasant, the multi cultural, disciplined audience, the natural ambiance and shade-colour mix of Shilparamam, exquisite, as it was, always. The bright dais with the dark background was soon handed over to the virtuoso, Mayoogh Hasarika and his wife Laila Datta Hasarika. Mayoogh is the nephew of the renowned Assameese musician Bhupan Hasarika.

How ever busy our active nature outwardly may be, we have a secret chamber of music inside the heart, where tunes come and go freely, without any design what so ever. In that shell, fire of music’s worship is transformed into lamps of a festival, which is silent and peaceful to the limitless beauty.

The two hours that followed was a journey from law to love, from discipline to liberation, from moral lane to spiritual. Duets, melodies, folk, a blend of songs showered and blessed the audience; language was never a barrier as the words came straight from the heart.

Sharing a River

2007-02-22T22:34:00.000+05:30

A river is an artery of a society, a life line of a civilisation. When men on both ends of a great river divided themselves and squalidly fought each other, she might have sighed, wept secretly deep inside. Still she was kind, fed her children, with all that she had, carried in her bosom the droplets of both love and life. She was a mother in the true meaning of that great word.We humans see truth when the mind is set towards infinite. It is not in the narrow present, not in our immediate sensations, but in the consciousness of the whole which gives us a taste of what we should have in what we do have.

All civilisations are nurtured within walls and boundaries, matured too. Those walls were based on cast, creed, religion, language, and faith which leave their marks deep in the minds of men. This creates a habit of securing all resources by fortifying them and separating from one another. It breeds a strong suspicion in whoever is beyond the barrier and they will have to fight stubbornly for the entry as well as the sharing.After 16 years of wait on both sides of the boundary, in the Cauvery issue the historic final judgement has come.

The imbroglio faced and shaped life and politics in the Cauvery basin better known as Cauvery delta. Emotional barometer touched all time high, erupting volcanic violence when the interim verdict was announced and when provocative statements were given by authorities. Sensational crusades were carried out, parochialism and regional chauvinism took rebirth and many a politicians built their careers around it.

Race for resources started in early 1920s when Karnataka built their first major dam, Krishna Raja Sagar in Mysore. Madras government reiterated with the Mettur dam. In 1956 when Kerala was formed, the tiny state too claimed a share of Cauvery.Series of major dams were built in the following decades, Kabini, Hemavathi, Suvarnavathy, Amravati, and Harangi. Failed monsoons and subsequent non- release of adequate water irked protests from Tamil Nadu, historically a water deficit state. Serious bi- party meetings were held.

The river battle reached the Supreme Court and the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi initiated the setting up of Cauvery Fact Finding Committee (CFFC). Heated discussions followed, on both sides of the border, region’s clique of fat-cat elites roused the regional sentiments to meet their selfish needs, governments changed, Cauvery, as a silent witness continued her way nonchalantly to the great ocean bed with a poignant tone.In 1991, the Cauvery tribunal passed the interim order as per the directive of the Supreme Court. Violence broke out in Bangalore and Mysore, Tamil Ian establishments were attacked and ransacked, and thousands of Tamils flee Karnataka. Since then it perpetuated in fixed orbits around the cold spheres of regional solitude.

No solution to a complex issue can please all, but the final order is just and equitable settlements of a highly contentious inter state issue. Let us salute judiciary, accept the verdict and preach brotherhood and unity among multilinguals. If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would raise our sights a lot higher than they are today. And the great river, in spite of all these flows on and on and on…

Light and Shadow

2007-02-13T07:02:00.000+05:30

The light that plays,
Like a naked child,
Among the green leaves happily
Knows not that man can lie.

Shadow,
With her veil drawn,
Follows Light in secret meekness,
With her silent steps of love.

(courtesy : Tagore)

80-20 Rule : Know Yourself

2007-02-08T16:37:00.000+05:30

The biggest factor that stops most people from chasing their dreams and working towards their real goals is fear. Fear of the lack of security, the reduced paycheck and of the unknown future keeps people locked into routines that are not satisfying. That path leads to sadness, depression, poor health, low income and ultimately an early death!

Don’t let fear be the reason for not achieving our goals. Stop, reassess our real passions, and remove the money equation long enough so we can think without worrying about finances and make plans. Maximize what we are good at. Find the activities that produce the most results for us and our business and put our energy where the big rewards are.

Of the things we do during our day, only 20 percent really matter. Those 20 percent produce 80 percent of our results. Identify and focus on those things. If something in the schedule has to slip, if something isn't going to get done, make sure it's not part of that 20 percent.

Pareto’s Principle: This is an interesting principle, the principle of 80/20. It asserts that there is an inbuilt imbalance between inputs and outputs, causes and consequences, effort and result. It states that a minority of causes, inputs or effort usually lead to a majority of the result, outputs or rewards. A few things are important; most are not.In 1906, Italian economist Vilfredo Pareto created a mathematical formula to describe the unequal distribution of wealth in his country, observing that twenty percent of the people owned eighty percent of the wealth. In the late 1940s, Dr. Joseph M. Juran inaccurately attributed the 80/20 Rule to Pareto, calling it Pareto's Principle. It may look quite strange, but this is applicable to many a things in our daily life.

80/20 Thinking, applied to our daily life, can help us change behavior and to concentrate on the most important 20%. Action resulting from 80/20 thinking should lead us to achieve much more with much less. To engage in 80/20 thinking, we must constantly ask our self: what is the 20% that is leading to 80%?There are many economic conditions, for example the distribution of wealth and resources on planet earth, where a small percentage of the population controls the biggest chunk, which clearly demonstrate the 80/20 Rule.

There are business examples such as 20 percent of employees are responsible for 80 percent of a company’s output or 20 percent of customers are responsible for 80 percent of the revenues, the 80 percent of the decisions come from 20 percent of the meeting time, 80 percent of the customers complain about the 20 percent of the products or sales and 80 percent of the manager headaches come from 20 percent of the same people.At a micro level just by looking at our daily habits we can find plenty of examples where the 80/20 Rule applies. 20 percent of the people we deal with give 80 percent of our happiness. Count on these people and add quality to our life. We probably make most of your phone calls to a very small amount of the people we have numbers for. We likely spend a large chunk of our money on few things (perhaps rent or food). There is a good chance that we spend most of our time with only a few people from the entire pool of people we know.

When we start to analyze and breakdown our life into elements it’s very easy to see 80/20 ratios all over the place. The trick, once our key happiness determinants have been identified, is to make everything work in harmony and avoid wasting time on those 80 percent activities that produce little satisfaction for us.

The message is simple enough - focus on activities that produce the best outcomes for us. This applies to both our business/working life and our “other” life. In truth, and this is a sad fact, most people in the world work jobs they don’t like and only truly live their passions on weekends and outside of working hours. Only a small sample actually lives their passions day in and day out, how they want to and when they want to. So reorganise ourselves, identify those 20, which is deep inside us and get ready to welcome the 80 percent happiness.

Slow Dance

2007-02-01T05:17:00.000+05:30

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain slapping on the ground?
Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?
You better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Do you run through each day on the fly?
When you ask, "how are you?"
Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done do you lie in your bed?
With the next hundred chores running through your head?
You'd better slow down
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Ever told your child, we'll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste, not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch, let a good friendship die
Because you never had time, to call and say "Hi"?
You'd better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

When you run so fast to get somewhere.
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift....Thrown away.
Life is not a race.
Do take it slower.
Hear the music,
Before the song is over.

Courtsey: David L Weatherford (from the poem 'Slow Dance')

DASAN : Two MACE tales

2007-01-31T05:00:00.000+05:30

Dasan at Electrical Lab :

Our B-tech days, MACE (Mar Athanasius College of Engineering), better known as Kothamangalam Engineering college, we had a friend named Dasan. He was the centre of attraction of the whole batch. He was lean, dark, tall, with a thin moustach under which he hides a sweet stupid smile. Most of us don't know his actual name, it was some Das, even I dont know, use to call him simply Dasan. May be because of his odd way of talking, he was the centre of attraction of all, he had a high pitched tone and a scrotching voice. He was from Mechanical.

It was during the 5th semester, mechs had an electrical machines lab. It was their university exam day. Dasan, true to the mech tradition, boozed the previous night and studied nothing. He was so worried and tensed when reached the lab. His exam was in the afternoon and by the time his name was called it was around 3 pm. There were 4 other mechs along with him.

It was Acy sir, the lab incharge for the day, Paulson sir was also there, with two other junior staff members. Normally the practice in lab exam is to keep the questions written in small pieces of paper and each student will have to take his lot. The questions were ready on the table and these guys were waiting for their turn. All of them including Dasan submitted their records and hall tickets were verified; they stood there (politely).

An attender came and kept tea cups and 'parippu vadas' on the table infront of teachers, (a usual practice). Acy sir asked Dasan to take his lot, he called his name and asked, "ok, take".

Dasan looked there, he found tea cups and 'parippuvada', he was so confused, already had lunch from the canteen, but it was 2 hours back, he never expected such an offering, that too from Acy sir who was notorious for student unfriendliness.

"No sir, thanks", he replied.

Acy sir was surprised, his voice raised, "doy take it, I'm asking you Mr. Dasan", he yelled.

Dasan was reluctant again, "Sir I had it just now, pls don't compell me", professor got angry, " I say you take, or else I will mark u absent", he cried, his sound was heared all around the lab.

Dasan absorbed all the streangth, prayed all known Gods, walked straight and took two 'parippuvadas' and started eating!!!!

He got 85 marks for the lab...!

Dasan and Solar Eclipse:

Dasan was the centre of attraction of our batch. Every semester there will be some Dasan adventure. Those who don't know Dasan, he was our batch mate, while at Kothamangalam Engineering College. A tall guy with thin moustache and typical Kottayam accent, he was from mechanical. He used to talk a lot in his trademark top pitched voice and most of us don't know his full name and called him simply Dasan. He stayed at a lodge near to college called EVM, with his friends.

During our second year in college, there was a solar eclipse which was partially visible in India. It was a transitional period and the myths regarding eclipses were being eliminated from the puiblic mind. Various science forums and schools were providing assistance to those interested public to watch the eclipse safely. As a science enthusiast Dasan too wanted to have a look at the 'celestial hungama'.

Dasan had a friend, Arun Shankar. His parents were doctors and he boasted to have a track record of watching all the past eclipses. Dasan realised that no one else can really help him out to watch the eclipse than Arun. The day before the event, he met Arun in his room and sought his help.

"Machaa, please help me da, I have never seen an eclipse before", he requested.

"Ok, lets try", Arun overweened, "get an x-ray film and and be there at the top of Founders' Block by tomarrow 11'0 clk. Founders' Block was the tallest building in our campus and Dasan somehow procured an x-ray slide. He was so thrilled, the very thought of watching his life's first eclipse rose his spirits, he couldn't sleep well that night.

Next day he reached the spot quite early and arranged a comfortable seat. Arun came, and eclipse started.

"Watch the sun through the film", Arun assisted "you could see dark spots emerging on its surface and slowly covering it completely, that is moon's shadow". Dasan did as told and he was satisfied, thanked Arun, fixed a drink with him at Malanad (the unofficial yet widely accepted BAR of M A College students) that evening.

Dasan didn't turn up for the drink, he was hospitalised instead. He had dizziness, headache and lost his vision partially. All friends rushed to MBMM hospital where he was entered, asked him what happened.

"Bloody Arun, he cheated me, both of us watched together and he is perfect now and I'll be blind soon, he shouted. "Did you watch the sun direct?", we asked, "NO, both of us used xray films, but I rolled it like a telescope to have a better sight"!!

Dasan lost his right eye sight.

Thanx Shane

2007-01-05T00:22:00.000+05:30

4th Jan, 07:
The cold but pleasant morning. Sydney, the largest Australian city hosts the last test match of the Ashes, the oldest cricketing rivalry in the history.

Cheering Sydney crowd sipped beer glasses, noisy English band-music chanted loud, fluttering Union Jack, enthralling Mexican waves; looks like an extended New Year party, the true carnival of cricket, the cold breeze from the eastern port itself smelt cricket.

The golden haired, ‘not too fat but bit more’ for a cricketer walks to the pitch, to deliver his last few, to the men at the other end, twenty two yards in front, guarding their stumps with a willow blade. Thousands of kilometres away, in India, it is 5:30 AM, though under the grip of cold wave, millions of cricket fans glue to their television sets to have a glimpse of the mesmerising magic of spin bowling and the wizard, SHANE WARNE.

This magician revolutionised the art of slow bowling, where wrist did the work, right from early nineties to his last match in an era where bowlers constantly lost their edge to batsmen as well as the less helping conditions. But he stood tall, his bluff and bluster and mischief and innocence somehow intact, beheaded more preys in the longer version of the game, beating his quicker counter parts.

In the SCG, near the official logo of 3G Mobile, the co-sponsor of Cricket Australia, we read the words, ‘Thanx Shane’. We too chant in his final match, ‘Thanx Shane’, not for bringing beauty to the game, but for preaching it.

Salutations to the king of spin bowling who was more famous (than loved)!

....Kudajadri .....

2006-12-22T07:31:00.000+05:30

Last weekend presented me a chance to climb the Kudajadri.
In spite of paying a visit almost annually to Kollur, the seat of goddess ‘Saraswathy’, I wondered how I missed this splendor which is hardly 20 minutes drive from the tiny temple town.

Familiar by the name, Kudajadri was the toughest trekking experience I ever had. The uncivilized road explored deep into the lush green forest to the mountain foot, which presented a tough gradient to ascend upon.

Though it was December, the cold was bearable on the top of this Western Ghats Mountain range. The whole atmosphere was joyful; dew drops from the sully leaves, chit-bits of tiny unseen birds from the deep, dark, sleepy forest, monstrous roots of the gigantic trees lapped the foot steps of the humble traveler, naughty rhythmic streams with ice cold water at its bosom, nature was at its best. Sleepy meadows and picturesque hill sides, the soothing melody of the roaring winds accompanied us till the top.

Murmur of the forest, which is deep like the blue sea, endless like the blue sky, had the magnificence of the night; and in its limited darkness, enfolds the radiant worlds in the awfulness of peace; the unfathomed joy in which all sufferings are made one. It was melodious and salacious for the ears from the metros. The path was narrow, dusty, unclear, but the destination was bright, right on the top!

A horizon of sparkling snow faced us between sky and the valley.

We visited the two different devi temples on the hill top. One was 'Saatwika' and the other 'Raajasa'. Ancient Chitramoola cave, facing the Ambavanam, the abode of deadly snakes; Shankara 'Sarvajnapeeta'; the spiraling walkways through the crest of the hill; the Ganesh Guha, and the breath taking view of the mist cladded lake 'Saagara', on the other side of the valley, in Shimoga district; it was a true feast for the eyes. The spring where the holy river 'Sowparnika' originates, 'Agastya Theertham', chilled water right from the rocks amidst medicinal herbs, where we took a small bath. The whole day was a song, which we listened, sang inside, and walked down to ecstasy.

Order of the forest was seen everywhere, as neat as pin, as gentle as the mind.

GOLCONDA MEETS THE GLOBE

2006-10-06T12:35:00.000+05:30

A gloomy morning, 30 September, 2006; the tiresome work of the previous day left me in a pathetic situation, body was aching and the cozy comfort of the blanket tempting me to stay back; 5:30 AM, a saturday morning, the whole world sleeping, with the dreams of a wonderful weekend and I'm awake, I have to pick my friends coming from Chennai and Bangalore. In regular intervals I recieved calls from Joseph saying that the bus was late and would take another 2 hous to reach here. I could not understand how after three calls each with a half an hour duration in between, still it required 2 more hours. I was worried the whole day is going to be on a toss if they are late. More over there was no information from Jayadeep who is coming from Chennai. I had my breakfast from a nearby hotel and headed to Koti where their bus is expected. Three of them are coming from Bangalore, Binesh, Anoop, Joseph and Jayadeep is from Chennai, all new to the place, except Joseph, (who is having serious memory problems and cannot be trusted!). The bus I took to Koti took more time than usual, traffic was less, but it ran slow; I was irritated when I did not get a seat even after Jubilee hills. I got down at Koti aand took an auto to Mahatma Gandhi Bus Station, better known as MGBS, it passed past the Mousi River and reached there at 9:30. By the time team from Bangalore have already arrived.

That was my second time in MGBS, the old but large bus terminus of Hyderabad. The other major station in the twin cities is there in Secunderabad, the Jubilee Bus Station, but this is the larger one, always cramped with people speaking Urdu mixed Hindi, this is the part of the old city of Hyderabad. Without much difficulty I located the gang waiting for me at platform 68, Binesh Anoop and Joseph. Jayadeep was yet to come.

Going back home to Chanda Nagar for getting fresh will take another one and half hour at least and still Jayadeep has not come. We were in a dilemma as what to do. Those from Bangalore were already hungry and needed some serious refreshment. Finally they decided to take a bath from the bus station itself and go to the nearby museum first. Within half an hour all are ready and we took an auto the Salur Jung museum, which was very near to the bus station. We kept the bags in the cloak room, took the entry pass and waited for our turn to get in. By this time Jayadeep arrived, now it is full streangth.

Situated on the southern bank of the river Musi, the Salar Jung Museum is not far from the other important monuments of the old city. The historic Charminar, Juma Masjid, High Court, State Central Library and the Osmania General Hospital are all within a radius of one mile from the Salar Jung Museum. Salar Jung museum is the fantasy of an art visionary come to life. Former Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru visited the historic city of the Quli Qutab Shahs and inaugurate it on 16 December, 1951 . The priceless collections were moved in 1968 to a new site from the 100-year-old palace Dewan Devdi of the prime ministers. Legend has that the museum houses art collections of three generations of the Salar Jung family, beginning with Salar Jung 1, who was prime minister under Hyderabad kings. It is believed that during the colonial period a lot of the art wealth of the country was shipped to the metropolitan countries and the Salar Jungs are credited with bringing back some of it to enrich the collection. The museum represents, in popular belief, the largest one-man collections of the world. They reflect the stunning range of time and place of these treasures, some of them belonging to different civilisations and dating back to the first century and retrieved from nearly every nook and corner of the world. However, the chief architect of this great and magnificent congeries of art is believed to be Salar Jung III, i.e. Nawab Mir Yusuf Ali khan. Old timers believe that the present collection constitutes only half of the original art wealth amassed by Salar Jung III. This great treasure trove is a tribute to man's eternal quest for beauty and elegance, particularly India's remarkable cultural diversity and heritage.

The marvelous expose unveils the art heritage of India, Asia, Middle East and Europe. Among the sculptures stands out the world famous statue of Veiled Rebecca, her beautiful face hazily visible through; hold our breath, a gorgeous woman draped in a wet garment. The double-figure wood sculpture done by G.H. Benzoni is also worth mentioning. A visual delight is the musical clock Salar Jung bought from Cook and Kelvy of England, a virtual mechanical marvel. Other attractions are a gallery exclusively devoted to the celebrated family of the Salar Jungs, a children's section, a reference library and a section devoted to rare and ancient Arabic Urdu and Persian manuscripts. Walking through the museum is walking through the ages of several civilisations, Indus, Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Roman to name a few and is bound to disengage the visitor from the present, the current and the immediate and transport him to a world he is familiar with only through reading. Textile gallery, glassware, ivory collections, altogether the museum is a standing monument to the artistic genius of mankind throughout the space-time spectrum.

By 12:30 in the after noon we came outside the museum and had our lunch in the museum canteen. Took an auto to the Charminar, Hyderabad's ambassador monument to the world outside. Charminar is at the heart of the old city, narrow roads, typical limestone buildings on both sides with typical Mughal and Middle East architecture, burqua cladded women busily shopping for the evening festivities, mist of dust on crumbling road sides, cowdung side walks, rusting tin roofs, bright painted sighn boards, above dimly lit shops, tinkle of bicycle bells, the loud cries of hawkers selling vegetables or pea nuts or scrap, red betal-stains on every wall, dirty white pyjamas of short brown men, weaving in and out of traffic, in and out of their sad eyed burqua claded women, clutching babies, baskets and their burdens too heavy. The heat, the dust, the flies, the shit, the crowd, name it old city, every cliche about a muslim galli turns out to be true here. When the minarets of Charminar were visible from a distance we got down from the auto and started walking, this is the holy month of Muslims, the month they take fast, the month they compulsorily bow their heads towards Kabba five times a day. The life near Charminar is completely different from other parts of the city. It still holds the age old tradition and culture when elsewhere in the city people embraced the high end life style. It would be hard for a person coming from outside to believe that the hi-tech city and old city falls under the same domain of a great civilization spread across the Central Deccan region. Here people hardly speaks Telugu, remember Hyderabad is in the Telangana region, people here are well versed in Sher-o-shayari, read Urdu news papers, still maintain the tradition of traveling in cycle rickshaws, have time to enjoy the hot samosa and pakoda from the road side make shift stalls, and at the heart are great hosts, who step down from their routine to help a stranger reach his destiny.

Built by Mohammed Quli Qutub Shah in 1591, shortly after he had shifted his capital from Golkonda to what now is known as Hyderabad, this beautiful colossus in granite, lime, mortar and, some say, pulverised marble, was at one time the heart of the city. Apart from being the core of the city’s cultural milieu, it has become a brand name. Charminar is very much a part of the vibrant life of everyone in the city and its cultural life.

We took the entry passes and climbed the Charminar. It is a 7 storeyed building. Entry for public is limited to the 3 floor. From there we can have the view of the old city, roads from all the four sides meet at Charminar. On one side is the famous Bangle Bazaar where all kinds of pearls and glass bangles, fancy jute items, sherwanis and Kashmiri shawls are sold. Beside Charminar is the legendary Mecca Masjid. The brown stones brought from Mecca were used for the roof and hence the name. The the octagonal columns on either side are made out of a single piece of granite. The courtyard houses a large pond flanked by slab seats. Legend has it that a visitor who sits on one of these seats will definitely return to Hyderabad. We entered the vast prayer hall, few people were found taking rest in the hall. The magnificient Belgian lamps were opened (they will be open only during the holy month). We took photographs with kids flying kites in the courtyard. We left Mecca Masjid by 3:30 in the evening; the next destination was Golconda fort.

In less than 45 minutes we reached Towlichowki, kept our bags in Ditin's home, he was not there, he was in Kerala for a vacation. Golconda is a bout 5kms from Towlichowki, the majestic fort on hilltop. Golconda fort is one of the most magnificent fortress complex in India. The history of Golconda Fort dates back to the early 13th century, when this south-eastern part of the country was ruled by the Kakatiyas. The bulk of the ruins of this fort, date from the time of the Qutub Shahi kings, who had ruled this area in the 16th and 17th century. Shepherd's Hill or 'Golla Konda', as it was known in Telugu, has an interesting story behind it. In 1143, on the rocky hill called 'Mangalavaram', a shepherd boy came across an idol. This was conveyed to the Kakatiya king, who was ruling at that time. The king got a mud fort constructed around the holy spot and nearly 200 years later Bahamini rulers (1364) took possession of the fort. From 1507 over a period of 62 years the mud fort was expanded by the first three Qutub Shahi kings into a massive fort of granite, extending around 5km in circumference, which has been a silent witness to many historic events. The illustrious rule of the Qutub Shahis at Golconda ended in 1687, with the conquest of the fort by the Mughal emperor Aurangazeb, who almost completely destroyed the fort and left it in a heap of pathetic ruins. The total fort is 7km in circumference.

There is also supposed to be secret underground tunnel leading from the 'Durbar Hall' to one of the palaces at the foot of the hill. The tombs of the Qutub Shahi kings, built with Islamic architecture lie about 1 km north of the outer wall of Golconda. There is a sound and light show that brings the legend of Golconda to life. With a spectacular interplay of audio and visual effects, the story of Golconda unfolds over centuries of splendour. Shows were in English and Telugu, English show was the first; we all sat in the plastic chairs arranged in the open space in one of the courtyards. It was a visual treat. The vibrant love story of Bhagmathy and the glorious history of Golconda were reverberating in our minds when we were walking down the steps. Without much difficulty we reached Towlichowky, picked our bags from Ditin's house and caught share auto back to Chanda Nagar via Gachibowly. It started raining slowly and wind outside was damn cold and carried dewdrops from the west. By 9:30 we reached Chanda Nagar, had dinner at Vindhu restaurant and reached home by 10'0 clock.

Next day morning we woke up early, for all of us to get ready with the limited facilities was not easy. Film city was scheduled for the day. We had the breakfast at Vindhu and by 9:30 our friends from Indira Nagar reached here. We, a group of 20, all malus, five of them were Varghese's cousins, who came to Hyderabad for a short visit, then our other friends from Wipro and Infosys, we have arranged a mini bus for travel. Unlike normal days traffic was less at Ameerpet and Panjagutta. By 11:00 AM we reached film city. Film city is owned by Enadu group under Ramoji Rao, ex MP aand Chief editor of Enadu group of publications, one of the most powerful print-electronic media group of South India. Sprawling across an area of 2500 acres, adjascent to the Hyderabad-Vijayawada highway, the film city is righteously known as world's largest film studio complex (but i doubt this). This is my third time at film city. There was a huge rush outside the entrance, thanks to the long weekend due to Dussehra. Entry for private vehicles were restricted till the main gate near the high way. The rest 4 km distance has to be covered in film city owned buses. For private vehicles to get inside, special permissions were required and large amount of money was to be paid. We soon took the tickets and stood in the queue. It took more than one hour to get inside. From there again a travel of about 15 minutes to reach the film city. On the way is the famous Sanghi temple and Sanghi polymers.

Every need of the filmmaker, imaginary and real, has gone into the planning and execution of this mega project costing hundreds of crores of rupees. Everything that goes into making a film, from raw film to cameras, to processing labs to editing consoles, stage properties, studio floors and even travel arrangements to recreation and past-time is available at the mere mention of it. There is a guided tour of the vast spread of exotic gardens, outdoor sets, studio floors, state-of-the-art technology labs, centres of digital film facilities, hospitality centres, colourful fountains, rock formations, and zigzagging pathways flanked by lamps, which automatically come to life at dusk. Singing fountains, churches, mosques and temples, an airport terminal, railway station, police outpost, shopping plazas, palace interiors, European streets, Greek mythological sculptures, and various theme based gardens, all in one compound are visible here. The architecture of buildings and other structures can easily be altered according to the filmmaker's needs. Apart from this the replicas of various historical monuments are there which includes Taj Mahal, Agra, Hawa Mahal, Jaipur, Gateway of India, Bombay, Brindavan Gardens, Mysore, Mughal Palace, Delhi to name a few. Kripalu caves an underground passage with plaster of paris sculptures decorating the walls with an image of Buddha at the end is also worth mentioning. Food was very costly inside. Outside food was not allowed inside including water. A tea costs Rs 10 inside! There were different venues for comedy show, stunt and other dance shows. By evening 6'o clock we returned. By 7:30 we reached the city and got down near assembly and went to Birla temple.

A quarter century ago, Birlas built this temple in Hyderabad entirely in marble brought from Rajasthan and dedicated it to Lord Venkateswara, known as Balaji in the north. This is in the heart of the city adjacent to Hussain Sagar lake and it offers a panoramic view of the twin cities in the evening. From the highest level of the temple, the spectacle around is breath-taking, the blue waters of Hussain Sagar, the serene Lumbini park, the luxurious Public gardens, the incessant flow of traffic on the Tank Bund, crowds thronging the administrative complexes of the government, the newly-built flyovers and the cultural hub of the city Ravindra Bharathi and the NTR Memorial. The main deity here is Lord Venkateshwara, but by some unknown reasons still people call it as Birla Temple. There are subdeities also. The meditation hall was throng with people on the day we visited for some Navaratri pooja. This is a place where we are bound to forget grief and greed for the while we are there. Birla Mandir is the centrepiece of the capital city’s skyline. Cameras were not allowed inside the temple top. In the mukhamandapam are several sculptures in marble depicting scenes from the Hindu mythology, the Ramayana and Mahabharatha in particular. To watch the Hussain Sagar with the monumental Buddha statue at the centre, the laser show from the Lumbini park, the fancy lights of Necklace road, and the unending flow of vehicles throgh the tankbund flyovers, and on the o ther side of the water the historic twin city of Secunderabad, that was a beautiful delight.

We climbed down the hill at 8:30 and rushed towards the Lumbini park. AP tourism department have arranged boating towards Buddha statue starting from there. We managed to get the tickets for the last boat of the day. A mix of suffocating smell of lake water and the cold breeze filled the air when we sat in the boat, it is the begining of winter in Hyderabad. The Hussain Sagar was built by Hazrat Hussain Shah Wali in 1562, during the rule of Ibrahim Quli Qutb Shah Wali. These boating attract large number of tourists and is highly rewarding for the department. Within 15 minutes of slow boat travel we reached the basement of Buddha statue. This 16 meter tall, 350-tone monolithic colossus rises high from the placid waters of the picturesque Hussain Sagar Lake and is India's largest Buddha statue. It is made of white granite, finely sculptured and stands majestically amidst the shimmering waters of the lake. We took snaps there and came back.

We had our dinner at 'Kamat' hotel nearby and somehow managed to reach Chanda Nagar by 12'0 clk midnight.

The next day we had our breakfast from Vindhu and headed to Shilparamam. This day Victor and Sagar joined us. Shilparamam is the arts and handicrafts village of Hyderabad, which is near hi-tech city, Madhapur. Spread over 50 acres of land nestling by the hillside, Shilparamam is gifted with natural slopes and wild vegetation studded by unique rock formations. The village was conceived with an idea to create an environment for the preservation of traditional crafts. The idea was to promote rural artists and their products and to provide a market for them eliminating the middlemen. The nature's rock garden, village museum and various bidri and terracota stalls are the major attractions here. An exhibition of hand woven saris of various parts of India was going on there. Binesh bought a pearl and few handicraft items from there. There is an amphitheater where rural and urban artistes meet and interact through workshops, seminars and festivals inside the village. Renowned classical dancers and music maestros as well as young artistes come here from all over the country to perform. Special efforts are made to encourage folk and tribal art. The administrators of the village are succesful in imparting a true village feeling in the middle of the concrete jungle outside. Very next to Shilparamam is Cyber Tower, the first and prominent IT building in the city. These areas later came to know as Cyberabad.

From Shilparamam we went to Paradise. Paradise, near Anand theatre, the grand old hotel of twin cities, famous for Hyderabad biriyani was about 25 kms from Shilparamam. Our batch mate at Kothamangalam Engineering College, AnuBel also came there and we all had lunch together. After lunch we went to Bel's home in Sindhi colony, a calm nice residential area, which is at a walk able distance from Paradise. She served us 'Kattan Chaaya' and biscuits there. By 4:30 in the evening we said good-bye to Bel and returned back to Chanda Nagar. Jayadeep's bus was at 6:30 from Miyapur. Me and Joseph dropped him and came back home. The team from Bangalore left by around 8:15 from Chanda Nagar leaving me alone with sweet memories of three days.

Kannagi

2006-06-18T20:39:00.000+05:30

Kannagi's story is one of the most glorified one in Central Tamil Nadu, depicted in Chilappathikaaram by Elango Adikal. Kovalan, the son of a wealthy merchant in Kavirippattinam, married Kannagi, the lovely daughter of another merchant. They lived together happily in the city of Kaveripoompattanam. Some days after their marriage, Kovalan lured by the curves of a palace dancer, Madhavi, left Kannagi and went with her. A desperate Kannagi lived alone. In his infatuation Kovalan forgot Kannagi and gradually spent all his wealth on the dancer. At last, penniless, Kovalan realised his mistake, and returned back to Kannagi. Their only asset was a precious pair of anklets (cilambu--- hence the name of the epic), filled with gems, which she gave to him willingly. Kannagi happily happily accepted him and they set out to Madhurai in search of a livelihood.

In Madhurai Kovalan faced the false accusation of stealing queen's jewel and was sentenced to death by the then Pandian king, Nedunchuzhiyan. He was trying to sell Kannagi's anklets and the kings men alleged that they were that of the queen. But Kovalan was killed by the guards. Kannagi, in a beserk mood came to the court and proved her husband's innocence. She broke open the anklets seized from Kovalan and showed it contained gems, but the queen's anklets contained pearls. The kinga nd queen was so moved and they died out of shame. Kannagi was unsatisfied, she tore open one of her breasts,threw it away to the city wall, uttering a curse that the entire city be burnt, where only animals and good people remain unhurt.

Here is the link of Indian mythology, history and philosophy to the purity, sanctity and to use the most Indian word for this context, chastity of women. The word and curse of a chaste woman was so powerful and glorified in all the epics. Kannagi left to western mountains afterwards people started worshipping her as a part of 'Shakthi; or 'Kali'.

Since then Kanagi was a symbol of woman dignity and empowerment in a society which categorically gave low level of self esteem and rights to the fairer sex, even though historically this approach was proved right for the establishment of a disciplined society. There are lot of interesting debates over the Kannagi story. Mudhuvans (Adivasis located in the mountain west of Pollachi) worship her and Kannagi is a part of their rituals, and she symbolised unstoppable female power. In the new age, in Chennai's famous Marina Beach, there was a four feet Kannagi statue, in bronze facing the sea, pointing her raised arm towards the horizon. The statue was removed in 2001 for some unknown reasons. Since then it was a political controversy. As the statue was originally set by one old DMK ministry, the then chief Minister Jayalalitha was not willing to re establish to the old position. This was a big issue in the house and Karunanidhi demanded its restration. An arrogant Jayalalitha was not willing for this, and for road widening in the name of traffic congestions put the statue inside a museum. Thus it becamea matter of pride for the Dravidian parties of TN and the issue found a place in the election manifesto of DMK in the last polls. After its election victory, one of the first moves of Karunanidhi was to keep the promise, the restoration of old heroine to her dais, Kannagi once again proved unstoppable.

Kannagi as an idol has to be discussed. She symbolise the indian womanhood which silently accepts her husband's extramarital affairs. Kannagi or Kannaki Amman is eulogized as the epitome of chastity and is still being worshiped as its goddess. She is praised for her extreme devotion to her husband, in spite of his adulterous behaviour. She is worshiped as goddess Pathinii in Sri Lankaa by the Sinhalesee Buddhistss as well as, as Kannaki Amman by the Sri lanka Tamils Hindus. She is blind towards the injustice done towards her by her husband, but at a later point of time fight fiercely when justice was denied for the same person. She thus epitomes the sacrifice and acceptance of the Indian woman. But she was revengeful, in a blasting mood she blazed one whole city thouh the ruler admitted his wrong. At a mythical level burning of the city was an act of purification. The act of the Pandian king also has to be absorbed, how many of the present day rulers be brave enough for this? The morals and values from the story has to be learnt in the right spirit.

(Courtsey for thought : Eric Miller, 'In Praise of Citizen Kannagi', 'The Hindu' Op-Ed dated 16 June, 2006)

Train Melodies

2006-06-18T19:55:00.000+05:30

My college days, fifth semester, on my way back to Kothamangalam after a sweet vacation at home, a sunday afternoon. Those days there was Link Express to Chennai from Mangalore, and if I come by link, could catch Venad from Shornur, our only resort to south if Parashuram is missed early morning. At home, I put down my mother's request to carry food, which she already prepared, and packed in plantain leaves, hesitantly. I had a special affinity for food at Shornur station, men in grey coloured uniform and the packets they bring in long trays, with curd and sambhar and a typical pickle, the feel of having it in the vacant compartment of Venad, with the company of mid day breeze, i simply love that, and I had it many a times before. I said no to mother, she tried to hide the darkness on her face, why to quarrel when about leave for a long journey.
I had my 'Shornur meal' comfortably in a Venad compartment. Bought a 'Mathrubhumy' weekly, this too is the part of the custom, and dipped myself into it. 2:30 pm, engine gave a long siren, the train started moving, most the seats are yet to be filled, a fat old man came and sat next to me, the opposite seat was vacant. He started snoring in a low pitch but rhythamicaly in tune with the 'jhak jhak' sound of the train. I felt uncomfortable.

We sat in the first seat from the door, few minutes passed, I heared a low voice, from my back, the lines of the old devotional song "ashtami rohini naalilen manassoru..", sweet and steady, with a hearty frequency, I was overjoyed; I always loved the unofficial railway band, the orphan kids and women who sing for a few coins the passengers unwillingly threw, to make a living, to meet the ends. I expected a similar face there, turned back to have a look at that gifted soul. There stood a lady or should I call her a girl, she was defenitely younger than me, not more than twenty years of age, black scars presented by the hardships of the life clearly visible on that unusually little face of her, inside a linian sari, with a rough scarf covering the backside of her head, a child in her left hand, leaned on the door looking the fields outside, singing to herself, or for an unknown. "kodakkaar varnante adharangal chumbikkum...." she was singing with out noticing others, i felt like she doesnt care for any.

Couple of minutes passed, the song stopped, no it finished. I was so impressed, she sung it with that perfection, as if she were a proffessional. I didnt want to disturb the harmonic mood and equilibrium swinging in the air after the song to get disrupted by plunging into my rough articles in the magazine. I just allowed me to be like that for some time. She came and sat opposite to my seat, kept the large bag next to her, it was like the whole burden of her life kept inside, and her child in her lap.

I looked at her face, calm and serene, quite like the face of her child in a plum-dreamy sleep. I wished to listen more from that sweetness, dont know how she respond. I absorbed all the courage and in hesitant voice asked her to sing one more.

She stared!!!
I was struck for a while, tried to smile, words giggled in my throat, I looked hopeless, I thought I shudnt have.
But dramatically she transformed herself, her dark but solemn face blushed, she relaxed..smiled and sang " Cheerappoovukal kkumma kodukkum...neelakkuruvikale" I just closed my eyes and followed the tune, she sang as if she herself was the song, herself was the note, the tune, the pitch and each word of it. I felt an ecstacy here, more than anything else I like listening to melodies while on a travel, without any prior knowledge that this particular song will be played next. Music from a distant radio, a humming, was enough to make me happy and satisfied, I would always try to be silent enough to feel that unknown pleasure. I felt the same, was overjoyed, and thanked her, a ton.

I noticed she was not begging, she sang simply, sang because she loved it, sang coz I asked for, sang coz she had it in her, sang for some unknown satisfaction, for a devotion, not to gain anything, not to please anyone. The whole compartment was so peaceful, only the sound of the distant engine. A few minutes later she got down at Angamaly. Numerous times after that I listened to both the songs, in the gifted voice of K S Chitra, but never experienced that soothing happiness.

Identity Issues

2006-05-22T10:05:00.000+05:30

One saturday morning at Bangalore, all my roommates away, either gone home or to bank or to pay electricity bill, boredom at consummate.I locked my doors and set out. Aim: Avenue road. When Aniyettan at 'shabari' bakery asked where I was going, I shook my shoulders and walked back. Got a bus from Panchayat itself, took a day pass. In Bangalore if you pay Rs.25 you will get a pass which permit you to go anywhere inside the city in BMTC( Bangalore Metropolitan Transport Corporation) buses.

From Wilson Garden stop a young man got into and sat next to me. He was carrying a bag from which he pulled out a bundle of pamphlets. Me out of typical Indian curiosity, peeped into them, they read bold kannada letters, no hope, I gave up. Traffic was so hectic, bus was literaly crawling. I just smiled to him to breed some familiarity and to start a conversation. Now he put his papers back, sat relaxed.

" Hi where you going?" - I tried to suppress my discomfort to start a talk with a stranger.
" I'm to Shivaji Nagar", he stopped abruptly "and how abt u?". His voice was soft and clear and was bit slow. He positioned his hair, his fore head traced a premature baldness.

I didn't tell much about me, he didn't ask either. I was eager to know what those numerous cards and pamphlets meant, which I saw a few minutes before. I asked him what he did, he was a social worker.

"Social worker?!", I wanted to know more. "What all you do?"- I tried not to be over enthusiastic.
" We work among sexual minorities", he replied. I didn't understand what he meant. Minority means those who are less in number, There are two sexes male and female, in India men out number women and may be he is an activist for the welfare of women. My logic pomped. He must have noticed my raising eyebrows, he cleared his point. " We work among transgenders".

"transgenders!!??- who are they?", I have never heared that word ever in my life. "Transgenders means hijadas, kothis, crossdressers, gays, lesbians, doubledeckers, homosexuals and other sexual minorities", he started explaining, " who by birth fall into one gender and out of hormonal imbalances and psychic problems desire to be the other. We work among them, their problems, both from public and the police. We have an organisation 'Sangama', and have office near Shivaji Nagar".

I was struck, my curiosity increased. I have seen a program in Asianet few months back featuring gays and lesbians. I was of the opinion that they must be given psychic treatment. In kerala there are no Hijadas (atleast in public), and my knowledge about them are via news papers and my north indian friends. I was bemused.
" Can I just see your work?", I asked hesitantly.

" Why not, If you are ready I will take you to our office now, better they can provide you with the apt and relevant information regarding this." I noticed the spark in his eyes when those words came out of him.
He introduced himself, Narayan, a malayali by roots, born and bought up in Bangalore, now a full time activist of 'Sangama', later, to my shock, I learnt that he too was a gay!

We reached 'Sangama', a well furnished office working on the third floor of an apartment building which hosts other business establishments, very near to Shivaji Nagar bus stand. Lot of people were there, men and women, busily talking each other, serving snacks, watching television. I was lead to a room which served as a library and a lady was sitting there. She offered me a seat, the very first question she asked me was "..who areyou?", I told my where abouts, but she repeated the question in a different tone, I understood what she meant.

" I'm a male, nothing more or nothing less, I just came to know about the people among whom you works", it was convincing enough I suppose she didnt go deep into my identity or personal.

She briefly explained about the activities of 'Sangama', a well off organisation with multiple offices in the city. They do awareness among public about transgenderism and fight for their rights. They try to establish the fact that this kind of state is not a disorder and is just another existance. They work among hijadas, most of whom are sex workers, to prevent the spread of AIDS and other associated diseases. The organisation have international links and monetary help too. She showed me enough medical records and journals archived in their library to prove her points. She asked me to watch a documentary film screening transgenderism. Introduced some people present, all gays or lesbians, I was chilled, unable to speak.

The way they spoke and behaved, I felt embarassed, they were too open in topics we normally wont talk, but they were comfortable enough. Men who desire to be women, who have male partners, who wish to wear female dress, who have done transplantation surgeries to fulfil their fantacies. There were women with masculine appearence and mind, tough and concrete in attitude, who hate the whole male society, who speak passionately about rights and protection, who demand constitution amendment and legislation for homosexual marriages in step with Netherlands and Germany. I saw the jewel and passion in their eyes while substantiating their points.

The lady at the desk, Sreeja, she explained to me how organised they are and how they do field work. How they keep track of their records, train volunteers and collect feedback. She introduced a foreigner who came there, an activist, from Sweden, to invite delegates from India for an LGBT(Lesbians, gays, bisexuals, transgenders) conference to be held in Denmark coming august. I felt the scale of establishment and character such movements have achieved. My pre mindset about transgenders changed, the whole episode was an eye opening one. I wandered what all happen in the society, just infront of our eyes, without our knowledge, and how differently people think and behave, how they mould themselves to be in the society, how alarming the magnitude of radical thinking and proving be in a traditional social spectrum.

I asked her to show how they do social work and where, she accepted this gladly and asked Narayan to help me. I left 'Sangama' then.

The next day Narayan asked me to come near Dayanand Sagar College, Kumaraswamy Layout, Banashankari. I came. After some time he appeared in an auto, I got inside and we started. I asked him where we are going."I'll show you the places where we work", his voice was rigid and I didn't ask any more. I had a sour feeling whenever I thought about the person sitting next to me., I felt uncomfortable. Auto moved away from Banashankari, crossed the ring road, and started moving to the outskirts of the city. It passed past the metal road and entered a muddy path. Lorries parked on both sides, filthy smell from the nearby field pierced the air. Lorry drivers and other workers cleaning their vehicles, gathered together, eating pans, cracking jokes in loud voice. Some automobile workshops were also seen. Tiny tea shops, I felt as if I reached some remote village in Bihar or Jarkhand(I have never been to any of these states, but my idea about them is some what similar.) For a moment I forgot that I'm in Bangalore, in one of the finest cities of South India. The way lead to a small colony, exactly like slum. I never knew that we were going to a brothel.

I don't know whether I can call it a hut, it was little more than that. A small shop next to it, vegetables and grocery. Shop keeper gave a warm smile to Narayan, he might be a familiar face there. There were lot of such huts, all made of azbestos roofing, walls of baked mud, a public pipe was spotted nearby. Narayan knocked the door which was opened abruptly, a man/woman appeared. Narayan introduced him/her me. Her name was Fathima, a sex worker, male by birth, did organ transplantation, now a woman. I felt the softness in touch and sound when she/he offered his hand, "hello", I wished.

He was wearing female dress,and talked like a woman, mannerism very similar to the fairer sex, but he was never a complete woman, his original name was Ravikiran. Narayan and Ravikiran talked for sometime in rapid fire kannada, I didnt understand a single word. A small boy came with tea, he had three cups, for me, Narayan and the auto driver, I declined politely.

Ravikiran told me about his business, they were 6 people, altogether, all hijaras or cross dressers, and been there for the past two years. He introduced to me his girls there. When I say girls, all men, in female attire, far from seduction, nobody with a little sense will look at them, still they were succesful, have demand!! the way our society think and behave and how we are. It was a small house with compartments inside, there were no doors, open cupboards filled with cosmetics and robes, a disgusting smell of some cheap perfume in the room, I felt suffocating.

" You want any one of us?", Ravikiran amazed me with a sudden question. I was like thunder struck, words stammered inside my throat, I was ashamed, embarassed, exhausted, I looked at the driver and Narayan, I felt the whole ground under my feet moving apart and I'm trapped inside, I camly explained to the creature sitting infront of me why I came there, and convinced that I'm not a customer.

I asked him about his history, his back grounds and social life. He replied in beautiful english. The only son of malayalee parents, both retired government servants. They were from Mattanchery, Fort Cochin, now settled in Bangalore. Ravikiran spend the lion share of his life in Bangalore, studied in a hi-fi college there, a post graduate in English literature. Since childhood he had the desire to be the other sex, and fought with his parents on this issue. He was pursuing his Phd and working as a lecturer in one of the premier colleges of the city when he left the job and started the brothel. He was proud enough to say that each one of them make 2 to 3000 bugs per day and I was stunned to hear that statistics.

" How do police react?" was my obvious doubt. "What police, nobody can touch us, there are our people in all the departments, they will give us correct information whenever any raid is due, more over we pay politicians too. Even if anyone is taken in custody will get them released within hours, that is our network, our customers also help us a lot."- he had clear cut answers for all my queries.

I thanked him and left the place. He didn't forget to ask my number and he gave me his number too. I felt like an embarassing episode was over. I cursed my carelessness not to take my camera on both the occassions.

Transgenderism is an issue that must be adrresed carefully, the scale of black spots and life in our society is unimaginable. This is all about the reduction of individuals into choiceless singularity and hidden duality, simultaneaously.

On Reservation, Rights and Talent

2006-05-20T01:53:00.000+05:30

1990 : Justice Mandal commission appointed by Indira Gandhi in early 80s submitted his report to the then Janatadal PM Mr.V P Singh. A nationwide haul and protests were called on.Youth took the order of the street. The unfortunate turn of the incidents vitnessed a protestor succumbing to burns when he tried for suicide( though it was confirmed an accident later). That was the time soon after the cold war, after the disintegration of Soviet Union, the time when world order just started the transformation from the semi rightist socialism to the open consumerism and capitalism, the time when state was the largest employer(even today it is), and the begining of cyber revolution in India, and people were conscious about their rights, importantly.

Exactly after 16 years, 2006 : A congress ministry in power, noted economist and world famous scientist decorate the premier posts of sovereign republic of India, HRD minister Arjun Singh announces the move to sore percentage of reservation, aim : upliftment of scheduled and other backward communities. Whatever be the political interests behind this move, this time revolting India is having a different face; rocketing markets, vibrant and dynamic economy, record forex reserves, free and fearless inflow of FDI in the pipeline, satellites and optic fibres giving a new defenition and edge for connectivity and information reach, an unending line of print and electronic media to absorb the meakest itcheing from the society. again youth in the street, this time intellegentsia from India's most respected medical sanctorum, All India Institute of Medical Sciences, along with so many junior doctors mostly from urban India extended their hands in the protests against the new reservation policy. They all are conscious of their rights but what about their duties?

Why we never bother about duties? Why they are put in the last few pages of the civics text book at high school? why no politician or relegious leader aware the people about their duties? How dare the doctors, who in contemporary Indian society considered 'next to God' forget their duty and bother about rights? Why we are so conscious when it comes to the matter of us?( this us includes the urban and semi urban middle class and above) and our rights?

I'm a a strict opponent of any move to divide the society on the basis of caste or religion, and believe on equal rights and previlages to all citizens irrespective of their colour or creed as guaranteed by the constitution. But we must not forget that India means not only the urban nucleus. India doesn't mean the upper and upper middle class, who watch NDTV, who drink coke, who work for MNCs and ultimately who believe in 'talent'. It includes a vast variety of people in the rural and remote areas who adherently struggle to meet their ends.

How come this concept of 'talent' or 'merit'came? Does 'merit' mean the financial affordability of parents to warp ther wards to face and get through the GREs, CATs and JEEs? Who gave us the rose glasses to view and believe ourselves that everything in India is fine once Sensex kissed the 12000 mark or an IIM graduate gets a five digit dollar pack? I agree, India as a nation, since independence has improved a lot, both finanacially and socially. But we must not forget certain ground realities.

Much depends on what we mean by 'merit' in the recent debates and protests. In the present day nation of vast socio-economic disparities and inequalities, it is unjust and misleading to define 'merit' in an academic fashion. The majority in the top notch Business and Technology schools belong to the top 10 or 15 percent of the households, they are from families who can send them to private schools and invest considerable amount of money on coaching and other preparation for entrance examinations. But at the same time the rural Indian common man do not have the means to keep his child continuing his education after secondary or senior secondary level. The is the truth, we comfortably forget. So it is the duty of the society commited to equal rights and social justice to make it sure that the play field is level enough, to lessen this disadvantage of the backward sects. Nehru once put it like this -' the effort of the greatest men of our times was to wipe out every tear from every eye, so, as long as tear remains our work goes on and on and on..'

But we have been watching the sad erosion of the debating culture in our parlimentary democracy. An alarmed symptom is our collective faith in violence and the corresponding loss of debate and dialogue in our public life. This is the road we, should not, cannot afford to take. The backbone of ethical behaviour is the ability to see ones interest in harmony with the larger interests. The curse of any society begins when darkened self interests mount up and break the above said equilibrium and never give any sense even if they prove legally sound.

I'm not of the opinion that the propsed quota system must be implemented as such. Let 'quality', talent' and 'merit' be the basis of selection to the IITs and IIMs. But once we say 'merit' or 'talent', it must mean it. Let us debate and discuss and have a general concensus to mould wise policies which will patch up the disparities in the society and make it sure that true merit reach the premier institutes of our nation which are our pride. What we need at this point of time is patience, common sense and wisdom.

Eyes, the windows

2006-05-18T01:25:00.000+05:30

If face is index of mind, eyes r gateways,
Desire, love, passion, hate, and despair,
eyes can't hide, they show the inside out.
Looks can hook n do wonders,
..ha wonder how women in pardas live
In the cruellest summer in the black robes
with only eyes outside, and tough to breath!
they roam the streets like dark pillars,
What they fear, the men, or the world outside,
Or just to follow the age old custom,
Ridiculous, cant explain otherwise
True for them, in all respects,
eyes are windows to the world.....

Happening Highderabad

2006-05-17T01:28:00.000+05:30

I was keen to note the buildings, my first journey to Hyderabad, kept an eye out of the window glass of my bus, though didnt get the side seat. It was my travel from Bangalore to Hyderabad, from the most cozy climate to the central deccan extremities, from the homely comforts to a completely unknown city. The first sights were the minarets and domb shaped buildings of typical mughal architecture, the bus crossed a bridge and entered the city limits, it was just few minutes past 7'o clock, roads were still not alive. My first ac bus travel, I have much heared about the Hyderabad heat, was wondering how it would be outside, I asked the guy sitting next to me where to get down to reach Panchagutta. Right from his sleepy mood he told some thing in broken English and mixed Urdu and Hindi I suppose, better part of which I didnt understand. I reached the driver and sought his help, he asked me to get down at one point, I did.

I found women busily cleaning and sweeping streets, very few vehicles on that wide road, a well maintained divider with grass and Ashoka trees, fancy flowers, few milk vans passed nearby, an autowala came near and asked, I told him the name of the hotel where i was supposed to reach, without any hesitation he told the approximate amount which I agreed. I get into that vehicle, of course much better than Bangalore autos, less sound and emission, we passed past a vast lake, the Hussain Sagar, which seprated the twin cities. Within a few minutes we reached Somajiguda. Driver, a white capped muslim in his mid fifties, asked some pan makers where the exact location is and came back soon. I nodded my head with gratitude when he helped to take my luggage out. I stood infront of a huge hotel, Hotel IK London Residency. A security guard came running, greeted and lead me inside. He was wearing a typical turbain, very similar to those used by Coffee house waiters in Kerala.
Within few minutes I got my room, I had a bath and got ready to office. Only thing that I know was it was Maniconda, the name of the place where I needed to go. At Bangalore Praveen had given me a vague idea which side of the city is Manikonda is. A sweet lady at the hotel travel desk told Manikonda is 20 kms from there and will take about half an hour. There were no direct buses from that place, will have to go to Jubilee Hills and get go. I thought better go by auto, and asked an auto driver, he was amazed, as if I asked him to do something wrong, it was that far. But when I insisited he agreed to go by meter. We crossed different roads, all six lined, junctions, and tall buildings, this city has a blend of ancient and modern structures, vehicles were freely moving, never felt any congestions any where as in Bangalore, reached Maniconda by 10:30.

Wipro campus was a small one, compared to Bangalore, but a major part of it yet to be completed, construction work going on behind, I went inside the reception and called Sagar. Sagar and Parvathy, two my batch mated they had already reached here two days before. He told they were in B8, here tower names are told in the reverse order. I reached there, met Anamika, the resource manager of TIS, my division, she greeted with a pleasent smile. Gave me a desk and system, called Chandra, my PM, and told I have reported. I talked to Chandra over phone for quite some time.

We had lunch at Sodexho, was horrible, no variety at all, and everything had an Andhra touch, which we malus could never compromise. By evening 6'o clk i returned to my room. The next few days my only job was to go there till Wipro, checking and rechecking all the mails, to read the numerous forwards with utmost care, surfing magazines in the library, and coming back. My stay at hotel was an experience. My room was on the second floor. The company package included breakfast and laundry service. The first few days I was the only person in the restaurant who ate without using knife and cork. I cant stop my laughter when I saw Indian born people all around me tried to hide their difficulty in eating vada and idli with spoons. The waiters were very formal the first few days, will open the doors when I arrive, wish good morning, serve with minute care. Later they might have realised this guy need not be given that respect, cool, afterwards they became friendly and very close.

Somajiguda is the heart of the city, just like Majestic in Bangalore. All big shopping malls nearby, all kinds of business establishments, hospitals, and very busy and crowded streets. Road side vendors braved the unkindest summer heat to make a living from mangoes, coconuts, and various other seasonal fruits sale. Evening chat shops were few, which made me a bit disappointed. There was a hotel named 'Red Rose' nearby, where affordable food was served, the area was always crowded as it served pans, juices, snacks, and other eatables from its different outlets. I bought an iron box from an electrical shop near to it. Few hours of my familiarity with Hyderabad taught me the fact, people understood English language well, and they used it as an immediate alternative for Hindi. Shop keepers most of them muslims,were very friendly and ready to help. Whether it is hotel cashier or in an STD booth people smiled back with ease and pleasure, here nobody is that busy or engaged as in Bangalore, had time for a talk with any stranger, it seemed.

I was asked to move to Microsoft for my project. It was near to Wipro, Maniconda. The next week I reported there. It was an afternoon that I reached. There were no much formalities at the gates and reception. I stepped inside that campus admiring the beauty of the construction, Microsoft, worlds largest and wealthiest software company, spreads across 2 huge buildings blocks. My manager, Chandra was waiting there at the reception. He lead me inside, introduced to his team, warm welcome everywhere. I was thrilled. We then went to the cafeteria and had lunch. Comparing to wipro food here it was much better. But Microsoft lacked something, which Wipro had. I never felt like inside a workplace, I felt as if I were in a shopping centre instead, people busily walking, talking, eating and doing work, casually dressed, fancy cubicles and walkways, smell of high density room freshner in the air, the MS the campus doesn't have a soul, a worth, a feel of oneness, or a bond that binds the employer and employee together, it was business everwhere and all were the links of a huge business net, nothing more or nothing less. People from other companies who work here are called vendors, there itself a feeling of a secondary citizen, but in Hyderabad campus its difficult to spot a regular employee. All are either from Infosys, Wipro or TCS, poor vendors, who are asked to bear the secondary tag on their neck which read in bold letters, MICROSOFT.

The very first weekend I met Anubel and Ditin here at Hyderabad Central. They work with Satyam and Kanbay respectively, my class mates at Kothamangalam. One year since we met, not much changes, there were still the same, Ditin more improved in his 'chalus' and Bel the same old 'mandip'. There was Saraswathy also, my batch mate with them. We had food from a hotel nearby.

After ten days of stay at hotel I moved to Ditin's place. It was a place called Tolichowki, much near to Maniconda, he and his seven friends all in Kanbay stayed in a rented house, 4 bedrooms and a large hall; next to their house also so many people from Kanbay, it was like a Kanbay society. Sagar moved to Bindo's house. Bindo stayed with a couple of malayalees who work for Accenture and Infy.

One day me and Ditin went to 'Paradise' hotel. Paradise is the real paradise of biriyani lovers. One single biriyani costs Rs.90, but it was worth that, no single person with a normal capacity can finish it of his own. The way it was cooked, kept,and served made all the difference. Paradise was a hotel which could trace back its history from the British period.

I didnt get much chances to visit other parts of Hyderabad. Nobody will be willing to go out in the sun. Temperature is too high now a days. With the humidity effect and heat waves, life is torrentous in the day time, but evenings are pleasant. The real wonders of this ancient city are yet to be explored, waiting for the monsoon and winter.....

KUDLU DAYS

2006-05-15T10:10:00.000+05:30

There would be much to tell if it is about kudlu, a small panchayat, in the outskirts of Bangalore, and near to electronic city. I reached Kudlu on an october morning with Anoop, my old pre degree batch mate when both of us joined wipro on a same day. My aquaintance with kudlu starts even before, as my cousin stays there. She too works with wipro and was coz of her that we reached Kudlu for a rented house. Me, Melvin, Binesh, Hari, all class mates at M A college Kothamangalam, have decided to stay together. Now Anoop also with us, we found a house quite near to my cousin's place. House owner's name was Madhuramba, a quite lady who stays alone, her children all settled well and she doesn't want to disturb them. She stayed alone in a single room on the first floor of that newly built house. We were the first tenants, occupied it even before the completion of the work. A house large enough by Bangalore standards, two spacious bed rooms, a dining hall and one living room, kitchen and little space for a store, a well built pooja room and attached baths, we felt it was not meant simply for giving to rent, but built it with so much care and perfection. It was an independent house with car garrage and enclosed by a compound wall.

Our neighbours were a Tamil family, an old man and his wife, on very few occasions we used to see his son, a lean man probably at his mid thirties with a lifeless face which never gave a smile. The Tamil old man, with a policeman moustache, was an interesting character, his living room was visible from our dining. Most days we see him watching fashion channels with great enthusiasm, even early mornings. So we gave him the name 'FTV appooppan'.

No tale of kudlu will be complete without Aniyettan. He is the 'Shabari' bakery owner at kudlu junction. A man with lot of energy and willingness to help others, who talks in the typical Kannur accent, even I'm from kannur,may be that is why we were a bit more close, he came to kudlu some 5 years back, with his brothe-in-law, started a small bakery near Garbhavepalaya, the place better known as 'Garepalya', he now owns couple of bakeries at kudlu and garepalya, and is one of the popular and accepted faces in kudlu. He maintained cool relationships with all, helped most the malayalees who are new to kudlu, his ease of kannada and local contacts helped us a lot. His willingness to help was unmatchable. He employed a kasargode guy there in his bakery, Shekhar, who speaks broken malayalam with a kannada accent.

It was difficult for us initially to cop up with the dusty roads and environ of Kudlu. The very next week we reached there, it rained in Bangalore so heavily and the dusty roads of Kudlu bacame a real tortue for travellers. It became so pasty and slippery and walking through the streets became a nightmare. There were buses in kudlu, all starting from Majestic, they went till kudlu village, some two stops from panchayat, where we stayed. Other means of transportation in kudlu were autos, and the most popular one indeed. None of the autos in Kudlu were bought after 1990 we suppose, all old torrental machines, produced drum like sound, used kerosine instead of petrol, had stickers of kannada matinee idols alongside ganesha and laksmi, made people to sit on both sides of the driver, ferried people from kudlu gate to panchayat amidst the dust and pits and charged 5 rupees per head. But we all enjoyed it.

Two weeks after our arrival Mathai and Raghavan (his name too is Arjun, inorder to avoid confusion he was called Raghavan and I was called Sagar at college, and we used to call him like that only) came. Mathai joined Igate and Raghavan was doing Embedded System course at Cranes. His class was in the evening and when we all go to office (ofcourse to sit in the bench comfortably) he used to be there at home whole day. After one month of training Hari was sent to Cochin, his posting location was there, and Joseph came from Chennai. By this time, Vidhu, Anoop's batch mate at TKM college joined us. Vidhu was a stout figure weighing little more than 100 kg. A born programmer with lot of patience and a bit shy. He never talked too much, but once we became familiar enough, he had his own word on every matter we discussed. He was from Palakkad and was a gifted person when it comes to the matter of cooking. 'Upma' was his master piece, he knew almost all the kerala dishes, there was a time when we felt like 'u-just-name-it-vidhu-will-prepare-it'. We had a gas connection and we were reluctant to go out and have local food, or to be frank we never had much options otherwise.

Joseph was my room mate at college also. His training was in Chennai and the very next day he came to Bangalore, he was put into project and didn't get any chance to enjoy the sweet bench phase of a software guy( which we all tasted a lot) in his life at all. Life in kudlu became so nice and comfortable afterwards. We had nice 'kathiyadi' sessions late night, exactly like in college hostel, bought cricket bat and stumps, played in the yard infront so also the ground nearby, Mathai took initiative to buy cards and he gave master degrees to all except me in that, Vidhu was a quick learner and an expert now in various card games. ( till this date i dont know how to play cards, despite all the efforts of Mathai.!!.)

The character we can never forget at Kudlu is 'sandhyechi', who is responsible for spotting this little village for stay. She is my mother's cousin, as per protocol, my aunt, though we differ just a couple of years by age. When she felt uncomfortable with the reference aunt, I stopped it and followed others calling 'sandhyechi'. She stayed at an apartment some 2 mins walk from our home.She stayed there alone defying all the traditional girlie concepts. A very much mood dependent person, with abnormal and unusual interests, her areas of interests include psychology and Tagore. Even though she pretends to be complicated and reserved at times, emotions were clearly understood and visible to others. She always tried to imitate the 'bold' mask of the modern working woman, and tried to put on a complicated self, though unsuccesful at times. She was of real help when we were new to Bangalore, to have a foot grip at an unfamiliar place, as one to resort for any immediate needs, which she did a lot.

During our early days at Kudlu we used to walk till Singasandra to board our bus to electronic city. The way is wonderful with pleasant meadows, empty roads, couple of shepherds with their herd, vast lands, and the cool Bangalore wether made our walking a nice experience, winter is a happy experience for an outsider, in this Cyber city. On the way to Singasandra is our ground where we play cricket..

After a few days at Electronic City Melvin was sent to Pune for a Mercury Project, all on a sudden our home became so silent and dull, he was the one who made all the noises, did most the scoldings, made the life alive, he was sent to distant. It was then that Shankaran and Sooraj came to Kudlu. Both of them were my batchmates at Wipro and, by the time when they came, were with me in free pool enjoying it. Shankaran, a Tamil pattar born and bought up at Thrishur, with a typical interesting way of Thrishur language and Sooraj from Kozhikode soon became the part of our Kudlu gang. There was a guy who worked in the soldering unit of GE staying infront of our home in a small cottage, Mohan. He was from Tamil Nadu, but language was never a barrier in communicating with him, his smile talked for him, with lot of positive energy and his unending love for cricket, soon he became friendly with our team. On sundays we played cricket together, he introduced his roommates and friends to us, slowly we were gaining relations in the neighbourhood, cool!!

It was then that Bosch came to Kudlu. to introduce him, he is Rajesh, basically from Alappuzha, a Konkani by roots and speaks that 'Chineese-like' language at home,works with Bosch, was in Germany for quite some time with an assignment, one fine morning he appeared there with his family, his wife and two lovely kids. We called him Robert Bosch, his wife Mico Bosch, kids milli and micro Boschs respectively.

Eating out was always a real problem in Kudlu, the only reason why we took a gas connection immediately. There were lot of restaurants( if u can call them so) to name in Kudlu, all like our 'thattukadas', prominent among them was 'Andhra Mess'. There was a hotel boy there, we never knew his name, but called him Jafar. It was Mathai who gave that name, Mathai's usual practice is to call waiters either Jafar or Gopalakrishnan irrespective of the hotel. So we had one Jafar and one Gopalakrishnan at Andhra mess, just 13 or 14 years old, both school dropouts, they presented a hearty smile whenever we called them so.

One day while coming back after a tiring cricket match, we got our 'burfy'. He was our puppy, we found two of them new born, just opened their eyes, Mathai took one of them home. We put him inside our garage, gave him utmost care, provided milk and other eatables, soon it became 'unda'. We tried to give maximum publicity for 'burfy' at wipro, we took its photos and showed them to all, we gave another name java to him and he came to be known as burfy alias java. But our house owner, Madhuramba didnt like it she asked us to set him free, she doesn't like any pets and one day even without our consent she let it out. It never came back.

To have malayalee food was not possible during weekdays, so we resorted to 'Ammachi' mess at Madiwala. Me, Joseph and Anoop will start at 6'0 clk shuttle from electronic city even though none of us had proper bus pass, Binesh and Vidhu join us there at Madiwala. It was at 'ammachi' that we take nice kerala food. We took so much pain in going there and coming back late night all for the 'ammachi' food. Our other eat outs were 'Tharavadu' at Bommanahalli and Kairali or Mas at Madiwala. First priority was given to food in all the occassions, and we went to any extend to have nice food, Bangalore never disappoints a foodie guy.

During february we went a trip to Courg, my first and last trip with Kudlu guys. We hired a Sumo and ten of us including Shankaran, Avinash and Sebastian set out for the two day trip. Mathai, Raghavan, Binesh, Vidhu, Joseph, me and Anoop were there. Kushal nagar, Madikeri, Nisargadama, Abbey falls, the trip was awsome, i bought an 'aanavaal' from Nisargadaama, where we went for an elephant safari.

On march 10 mathai had a bike accident, he and one our friend skid fall from a bike and mathai got seriously injured. It was the tough time for all at kudlu, his stage was critical for more than one week and he underwent couple of surgeries at Manipal Hospital. Somehow he recovered and he went back home after that.

On april 1 our old class mate rohit was with us. The previous night we handlifted Bosch's bike and locked inside our garrage. We eagerly waited to watch his response, the moment he realised that bike was missing. It was so funny, he went upstairs, called his wife and parents, came down, they all were shocked and desperately started searching for it. The tamil aunty in their ground floor started shouting aloud and before things going out of control we told them the truth. They couldn't believe it..he told he was never fooled in his life like that before.

Vishu was celebrated at kudlu, none of us went home. Rajkumar's death coincided with vishu sankramam and we got a public holiday for that. We prepared vishu sadya, with Sandyechi's help, set 'Vishu kani' the next day, for another auspicious year ahead. We couldn't buy crackers no shops were open thanks to Raj Kumar's death. Our Payyanur friends Abhilash and Sandeep were there on the Vishu day.

By this time Sandeep joined us, he was the neighbour of Bosch at Alapuzha. He works with Satyam, we could not put down Bosch's request to let him stay with us. He was a driving force and stout supporter of our initiative to clean the premises and make our surroundings plastic free. That was a great initiative, Bosch and one his colleague were willing to help. Even some local kids who use to play cricket with us joined and we removed plastic bags from the surroundings. Creating awareness among people and cleaning the road side, that was a wonderful experience, most the people wanted some change, but doesn't know how to. Our tamil neighbour was so happy with this move, she provided us with 'majjika' and later we started calling her 'majjika rani'.

'Mulaku bajji' and 'bonda' of Kudlu are worth mentioning, taste any of them we cannot just stop with one.

After Vishu me and Joseph bought two cycles and we started going to Wipro on cycle. Initially people laughed at us, but the comfort was unmatchable. We took the way through Singasandra and it lead to Hosa Road, from there it is only a small stretch through Hosur road till the HP avenue, where EC begins. It was the most comfortable means of transport considering the Hosur road traffic and the new construction works there.

I got transfered to Hyderabad later but Kudlu presented me memories to cherish for a long time.