De-Mentor

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Kids of all ages, and from all backgrounds, playing cricket on the road. Mother is overseeing the garden. Daughter is giving her company.

Bang! Thud! Whoosh!

A green bolt from the blue whips through the air, hits the compound wall, ricochets from there, and in one swashbuckling move, sweeps Mother's favorite plant off its feet.
The breathless sapling bends in double, and becomes a hybrid creeper.

Mother is furious. She commands daughter to confiscate the weapon of this destruction. Daughter scrambles amidst the brambles, and finally emerges with a 'Ah-ha, Gotcha' look.

The little and not-so-little fellas crowd near the gate.

"Ball, aunty", one of them says.
"Balla vathu, keelavathu" (doesn’t need translation, and doesn’t have one. Merely added for rhyme and emphasis.) " Onnum kedayathu. (Nothing doing.) ", Mother retorts.

"Where is your house? Bring your parents. “, Daughter adds, just in case, some of them in the motley gang didn’t understand the vernacular.
"Sorry Aunty", apologises one.
"Pleeeeeeese Aunty" , pleads another.

Mother and Daughter are stoic. No relenting this time. This has gone too far today.
"Yarukavathu adi patta , enna pannuve?" (What will you do, if someone got hurt?)Mother uses rhetoric.
Heads lowered in shame. Or supposed- to- be shame.

Just then, father seizes his commercial break, and tears away from the TV. He had been fidgeting in his chair, in two minds. Whether to miss a ball in the India-Pak ODI or to put in his two cents in this altercation of serious concern.

Seeing Father finally realize his responsibilities, Mother gives a wide smile. Daughter is confused, and looks up, searching for any rain clouds. This event demands a thundershower from the skies.

Father picks one tiny tot, with a cricket bat that towers over him by inches. "Hey You", he begins in typical Class of 1960's English. Mother eyes glow in expectation. A long sermon is definitely due to follow. Those brats deserve every bit of it.
Daughter debates mentally, whether gray can look white, still craning her neck towards the heavens and concludes that it is an optical illusion.

Father straightens his shoulder, and gathers height. Makes him more intimidating, Mother beams.
Father clears his throat.
"Don’t you know any other shot? Why do you keep swinging in one direction? You are not a good cricketer if you play the same shots. In the real field, they would have real fielders. Not this Aunty, who can’t catch hold of a balloon placed in her hands. You should play a variety of shots. Next time, keep the bat straight, Man. Straight Drives make a Gavaskar."

Father triumphantly glances at his clan. Clan throws back a murderous look. Daughter stops craning neck. Those clouds are indeed white.

"Bring the ball and give it to these fellows. They needed someone to tell them how to play", Father orders and marches back to his throne in front of the TV.
"The Maharaja has spoken, go do his bidding" Mom mumbles. As daughter hands back the tennis ball to the smirking lads, Mother reflects aloud "God only knows how many windows your father must have broken, in his younger days. Only guilt can prompt such a show!"

Just Wondering -9

An optimist's view of a pessimist:
Coming to think of it, atleast a pessimist never gets any rude shocks in life !

Of Hawks and Eagles.

Whenever you have a problem in life, become a hawk. Soar into the sky.
Zoom out.
Zoom out so much that the problem becomes a tiny little green pea.
Stay zoomed out at this precise altitude for a while.
Till you enter a stupor.

Then zoom in again. Zoom in so fast, that everything around you is a blur.
Stop. Brake at a height where the problem turns into a piece of cake.

Now hover for a while. Stare at the problem. See the connections. Check for any dynamite remote switch properties that the problem may have.

Now, continue to zoom in.
Make a dash, headlong, eyes closed.
And land spread-eagled.

A hello from Never,Never Land

A fortnight ago, I caught myself parting with this piece of worldly wisdom to a younger cousin of mine. He was slipping into crib mode, lamenting on how he was forced to take up a course in Information Technology by his father, whereas his own personal choice was to do something linked with life sciences. I told him:
"Its too early for you to crib over crushed dreams. If you look back after a couple of years, these very dreams would appear childish and silly. You would have higher and bigger dreams, that would make everyone happy, and seem more realistic, than dream-like. You would value your dad’s move as sensible. Life never gives you what you want. It only gives you what you need. ”
Circa . a few years back. All hell would have broken loose, had the same advice been bestowed upon a certain star-in-the-eyes individual. Really appreciate the kid for the patience with which he recieved it.

'So come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever,in Never Never Land’. - Peter Pan

Dusty Pages

I get this inexplicable delight whenever I spot a best seller or a famous book, at the pavement book hawker’s.

Call it a vestige of middle class upbringing, but the day is made if I manage to steal a deal after hours of harangue, fully acknowledging in a remote corner of my mind, the unprinted pages, the typographic errors and other minor flaws that lurk within those glossy covers.
This sort of mutated into a mild addiction, a couple of years back, and I began to amass books. Books that were neatly stacked in my cupboard, amidst a hoarde of other miscellany; books that were never read beyond the blurb and the preface.

Books that were lent to friends and relatives, with beaming pride in recollection of the bargaining mastery behind their possession. Books that were dutifully reminded to be returned, with a statutory warning of not revealing the contents, for they were yet to be read by the owner, and would be read someday, sometime.

Not that I am a poor reader. My reading speed is average,and my attention span can hold for alteast a couple of days. The longest book I have read was of 1200 pages. The genre of my reading is decently wide, and I read a range of authors.
Although I have always liked reading, I have never really owned books. I used the library, or liberally borrowed from everyone I knew.

Maybe the lack of pressure to finish a book (now really owning them), or sheer intimidation by the length of printed matter made me put them them away for later.
With this hypothesis in mind, I began to feed on a staple of short stories, various collections borrowed from the library. I read them whenever I could find a moment, once even dropping a book into a bowl of sambar that I was stirring.

Revitalised by this exercise, I began to plod through those books I purchased. But, sadly they got tucked under the pillow, stashed beneath the bed, and a few even found their way to the attic. They had began to symbolize a lapse. They sent me on a guilt trip whenever I chanced a glance.

Then my mother started nagging me about the clutter they were making, and threatned to throw them away along with the old newspapers. The thought of the fruits of my labourious bargain being reduced to meagre change spurred me into action, yet again.
On a fine lazy Sunday, I locked myself up with one of those seemingly innocuous ones. I drew up a chart, with the targetted no of pages, Vs an ambitious time estimate. I set the alarm for the first chapter. And began to read.
The alarm rang. And I woke up. Chin deep in page no 5, chapter 1.

I still wage my war against the dusty pages. Managing to cajole extra time out of my mother, now and then.

My current (will always be current) list of dust collectors:
1. Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenence
2. A collection of Shakespere’s tragedies
3. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
4. Some Irving Wallace novel (forgot the name)
5. Bourne Series (Read the Ultimatum, from the library)
6. And countless e books (my battle against e books deserves a seperate post)
What’s yours ? *:)


P.S :
* : A desperate measure to absolve myself of all that guilt.

Economies on Rice.

On a sultry summer evening, with the humdrum humming of the ceiling fan coping up with a low voltage, as the background score:

A live and let live policy seemed to have established itself wordlessly in the household.

Both mother and daughter are deep into their magazines, daughter curled up on a chair with a film review; mother squatting on the floor, lost in a vernacular women’s weekly.

The head of the family, reading the moods of his subjects, cautiously mutes the TV, and is mentally transported to the cricketing stadium, replete with lights, action, dancing girls, crying sportsmen, slaps and claps; but sans the sound effects.

Peace prevails.

Mother suddenly looks up from her tips-for-anything-and-everything magazine and says “You should get this special herbal rice for me, they say it is good for keeping down blood sugar levels.”

Father, his eyes still glued to a swashbuckling Dhoni, replies in all earnestness, “Oh no! If you should start consuming like this, then food prices in USA would hit the sky. Then my niece in Virginia would face the brunt. Bush was right. The Indian middle class sure has a growing appetite.”

Daughter chuckles as mother makes another entry in her growing list of unsettled scores.

Just Wondering - 8

Chris Srey Kant
Has Krish Srikanth become one among the "US Re-turneds?" Or is he working part time at a call center?


P.S : Was watching Chee-ka twist and roll his tongue at the Set-Max Studios, as the CSK thrashed the KKR at the IPL match yesterday. Missing his inimitable cheeky Chee-ka Chennai commenting ishtyle. :(

Short Notes on Life - Memories

They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel - Carl W. Buechner

Everyone likes to be remembered. It is an assurance that one gets every now and then, that one might leave a mark on this earth, when its time to depart. Even infants that die at birth or embryos that get aborted tend to leave behind memories.

So many people come, and so many others go. Lives that touch, and get touched. Thoughts, deeds, words- spoken and unspoken. People born in different places; brought together for a certain period of time, by certain circumstances. Scattering again to get in touch with other folks.
Carrying with them memories: Impressions, Sounds, Visions, feelings.

A Brownian movement of humans. Although apparently not random.

Memories can straighten the ripples, and create a silken record. Or they can blow up minor skirmishes and obliterate the good times.
Some people try to consciously suppress memories. Others choose to live in them.

And the rest of us, live with them.

Grumpy Tales -2

Publicity Stunt

The auto driver grew impatient. Too many traffic signals. And serpentine line of vehicles.
Bullying, pleading, honking, and with other driving acrobatics he made it from the tail to the head.

He turned back , as though to see how the ‘cushtomer’ took all his manic maneuvers.
Sensing, that the “cushtomer” was on the edge of her seat, brows arched, he reassured, “If I don’t do this madam, I would be forced to wait in the next red signal also. What is life without risks? ”.

With that undebatable rhetoric and a sheepish grin, he resumed his cursing of the cussed signal, now having relaxed the “cushtomer” ’s nerves.

Just then, an ambulance sped forward, getting an unfair lead over the auto, blaring its siren , with its red lights blinking.

Our Aristotle of the Auto rushed out on the road, and ran around the ambulance, jumping up and down and trying to peer inside.

Taken aback by his bizarre behaviour, the hapless Cushtomer called out to him.

“Crooks madam, this (name of a big hospital chain) fellows. At every major signal, they just turn on those sinister red lights and blare their sirens. No patient inside. Why have they switched off the lights inside the ambulance, if they did have a patient inside? This is a cheap publicity stunt. The guys at the Government must catch them red handed and lock them up.
How will they do it? No they wont. They are the ones who get the free treatment from these big hospitals. The shameless cheats.”

The Cushtomer cared a damn for the signal, the big hospital cheats or the government.
Must get back home asap. To watch the citizen journalists scoop on CNN IBN.

Down Time

I‘ve been reading quite some stuff on the looming recession woes, of late. Random browsing landed me on some article written during the dot com bust, which spoke of an alternate history, had 9/11 been just another date in the calendar.

Recession, vis-à-vis the phenomenon, the dynamics, and trends isn’t what I intend to discuss here. Recession as such presents a sand-castle washed-up-by-the-waves kind of scenario. A pretty but precarious bubble bursting painfully in slo mo.

What goes up must come down. What goes around must come around. The dust would eventually settle down. Whether it leaves a ghost town in its wake, or a lays the foundations of a new establishment is to be seen.

But an economic slowdown, presents a classic situation of the collective psyche grappling with a dream Vs reality conundrum.

Those who survive the ordeal would have to somehow insulate themselves against the crushing weight of reality.
Some lack the knowledge of the real situation. Ignorance is bliss. For them, life goes on, even if apocalypse is tomorrow.
Others are too late to realize, but yet manage to silence the small voice that reminds them of their failure. For them, life must and would go on, somehow. It is just a passing phase. Shrug it off.
Some others are the doomsday enthusiasts. They had ‘seen’ it coming. Even if ‘it’ goes away, they would still see some other ‘it’ coming.
All these people, although would live to see spring again, aren’t exactly “survivors” and neither are they the “fittest”. They just stay healthy enough to hop on the bandwagon.

The obvious survivors are the ones who had seen it coming in time, knew what to do to escape the blow and emerge unscathed. They could have been smart or wise or purely lucky. Let’s salute them and leave them alone with that. They are individual winners; don’t have to carry the burden of a village on their shoulders.

When struck by a bolt from the blue, the one to undergo the maximum pain is the one who has seen it coming, a fraction of a second before the blow. His instincts tell him that it is going to be painful. He understands its impact. But he may not have either the time or the faculty to react and protect himself. His knowledge is his doom.

Even among such people, some survive. The puritans among these realists perish. The ones that digress into a what-if world, atleast till times and tides change for the better, seem to hold through. It is this temporary but willful block of cognitive powers, that helps them see beyond their reality. Generations that would chronicle their lives might call it grit, determination or optimism. They pull themselves to work out a tomorrow, trudging amidst the ashes. They are blind to the pathetic present. Only a future that would be a resurrection of their past glory dominates their radar.

Even if they fail, and drop down dead, a smile would remain etched on their cadaver. The smile of the do-er. Also the smile of insanity.

Grumpy Tales

Cosmic Conspiracy - 1
The day I dare to wear white, cats and dogs must tumble down from the heavens. I must invariably select footwear that are distant cousins of the Hawaii Chappal. And I should magnanimously grant a rest day for the umbrella. Lest the delicate balance of the Universe and all that it holds be disturbed.

Change

Drops of time
Fossils in memory
Smiles and tears ...
Grains of sand
Slip through her fingers

Waves recede ...
Nostalgia
Of the present
Drifting horizons
A path has been ordained.

Her feet fondle the damp earth
Comfort of the known.
A solitary tendril of her locks
sways...
To the whims of a blithe breeze.

Excitement
Shoots up her veins.
Magnetism
Of Unchartered waters.

Wide, wild and new
Winds from yonder join
A cacophonous ensemble
with Winds of the now
That would be 'back then'
Someday.

As
she listens to
Echoes from the ocean
Inside a conch.

Vethal's Corner - 2

I have a dream...

Sandhya was an IT professional. A senior in the field, she had begun her career at time when things weren’t as rosy as they seem to be now. She had seen the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the roses and thorns. Hailing from a lower middle class family based in suburbia, sheer grit and determination had seen her through to where she stood now. Right from her education to building her career, every brick and stone was laid down by her own efforts, with parental support being restricted to the initial finances.

Sandhya’s secret desire, ever since her childhood, was to become a scientist. She did not know of Abdul Kalam, back when she was growing up, and considering her humble background often wondered if she was building a castle in the air. But her parent’s debts and her concerns about younger siblings future, forced her to make alternate choices in life. She did not enter the IT field through the traditional route of campus placements. But rather, started off with multiple odd jobs related to it, did many courses and certifications, made strategic job changes, impressed the right people, deftly moved the coins to make a quick rise to middle management.

Her career moves were mostly fuelled by her burning desire to give her family the comfort they never knew of, or didn’t dare to dream of. She was quite a satisfied human being, when she looked back at her family back in the village. She had tried to bring them to the city, but the metro bewildered them so much, that she didn’t have the heart to make them stay.

Nevertheless, her childhood dream remained unfulfilled. And often resurfaced as an occasional sigh or as a far away look in her bright eyes.

Manoj was a happy go lucky guy. With affluential parents, who were both doting as well as disciplined, Manoj had the right blend of backing and talent. He was good at almost all that he did, but was extremely moody. He did only what he liked, or rather seemed to like for the moment, but since he did it well, his random swings didn’t bother others much.

Manoj got placed into the same IT company where Sandhya was working, immediately after his graduation, and as he always liked to say “ Macha, it was pure luck da.. I didn’t even give it a try”. Manoj had a slick tongue, and the influence of a good schooling, which promptly brought him the limelight among his peers. Sandhya too was one of those, who noticed the sparkly yet spoilt youngster. Quick to spot talent, she pulled him under her wing. They shared a great rapport, and soon Manoj was Sandhya’s protégé. Sandhya liked Manoj’s never say die attitude, and Manoj couldn’t resist the challenges and recognition Sandhya showered him with.

But, as with people spoilt for choice, Manoj soon diverted his interests elsewhere. He got tired of the field, and moved out of the company to pursue his higher studies.

Few years rolled by, and their paths crossed again, in a different company where Sandhya was in the upper echelons of middle management, while Manoj joined there as a expert consultant, a couple of research degrees later.

The rapport wasn’t the same, although things weren’t altogether strained. But Manoj’s re-entry had a profound impact on Sandhya.

She began to get annoyed with her family, and their concerns. The brunt of her unfulfilled dream hit her worst, when she saw it realized by another. If only, her parents were able to afford that English medium school.. If only, her parents were educated… If only, they had had more money… If only, she didn’t have to worry about her younger sister and brother… If only she didn’t have to repay that housing loan… She began to feel small when compared to Manoj’s flamboyance. Her self assurance, which had survived many an assault in the formative years of her career, seemed to have suffered a death blow in Manoj’s presence. Life seemed unfair.


Now tell me, Vikrams of the world.. Whose achievement was greater? Was it Manoj’s ? Or Sandhya’s? Do the ends matter more than the means? Does the world see how arduous your path was? How difficult your journey was? And how far your starting point was? Or does it merely look at the heights you have scaled? Even if they are mostly consequences of a fortunate birth?

Sandhya herself couldn’t take pride in her success, and yearned for being someone else. Is that view that she has of herself, or is that a perspective that the world forces on her?

If you dream strong enough, your dreams become reality. But sometimes, reality can come in the way of your dreams, however strong they are. Has Sandhya lost her dream because she chose to be a realist?

People 10 : The Look-out.

A run down shack on a busy highway. A road in a constant spate of traffic.

Homes and residences, smoky images on black and white memories.

Flash forward: Office buildings, enterprises, bus stands, traffic signals, policemen, petrol bunks, politician’s statues, posters, billboards, big city lights. Accidents, ambulances, trauma care, lives lost, livelihood earned.

A dark shanty. Broken panes. Peeling paint. Moldy well. Littered lawn. Creaky gates.

He sits. Atop the compound wall. A small slab on the gate post. Legs crossed. Arms hugging his lanky body. Rocking himself back and forth. Beams from headlights, cast an eerie halo. A smile, running parallel to the lines on his face.

Is he a mad man? Why is he seated here? Who is he smiling at?

Is he the watch man of the shack? Why doesn’t he have a chair to sit on?

Why isn’t anyone else noticing him? Is he really there? Is it a Ghoul? Having a night out of the graves?

The Uncommon Man

I happened to see an interview of R K Laxman on CNN-IBN, today. The wit and brilliance of his answers made it a masterpiece of a show. The interviwer , a Ms Anuradha Sengupta, was so unlike the rest of the CNN-IBN coterie. Her questions were reflective and intuitive. Moreover she seemed to be enjoying the intelligence of the legendary cartoonist. This was a follow up to the Indian of the year award function, where he was honored with a Lifetime achievement award.

Some bits that I relished (recollected from memory, may not be verbatim) :


Interviewer : Your cartoons depict corruptness of politicians, lack of implementation of schemes , traffic jams and other such decadence. Is Mr Laxman a cynical man?
R K Laxman : Yes, I am a cynical man. I was born a cynic.
Interviwer: Don’t you have any optimism?
R K Laxman : no. Optimism is believing everything will be good. It only makes things worse.
Interviwer : Do you think the media of today, the papers and the TV channels give the common man a voice?
R K Laxman.: The common man will never speak. He is not interested in being heard.



Interviwer: Mr. Laxman, in today’s world, do you see yourself as a moral crusader?
R K Laxman: No. I don’t. There is nothing to learn from my cartoons. I simply want people to see the ridiculousness of some situations.I am no moral crusader.
Interviwer: Why not?
R K Laxman : It is not my business.


Interviwer: Is Mr Laxman a difficult person to live with?
R K Laxman : Yes. I have my demands.
Interviwer: Like what? Do you need to be left alone?
R K Laxman: Yes. I like to be left undisturbed.
Interviwer: Do you give others such liberties?
R K Laxman: No. I don’t.I correct them.
Interviwer: Mr Laxman, you have double standards.
R K Laxman : Yes. I do. Its good to have double standards.


R K Laxman’s satirical sketches have always been succinct and right on target. Some of them are gems to be framed. It was a rare treat to savour a sample of the Uncommon mind behind the Common Man.


P.S : Do try to catch it, if there is a re-run, or if it is available on the web. A must watch.
P.P.S:Cross posted at the media blog.

Update: The transcript of the interview can be found here. Link courtesy : Aravindh

Fair Fare

She pulled her dupatta tightly over her head. The cold air from the A/C chute was biting.
Her mind kept racing back. She looked out of the window. Perspiring motorists. Blinding heat.

“Will this bus go to Tambaram?” the old lady had asked,folds of age flapping about her bones. “I will take the bus to my village from there”.

“Yes”, she had replied, her voice sounding strange.

“But you may not be able to afford fare, this is a special bus”, her glance spoke these unsaid words.

Was she understood? Did her look say the things that wouldn’t come out her mouth? She searched for the old lady in the bus. If only she had had more tact.

Why do they have to make the fare so high? She didn’t need this A/C bus. The office is air-conditioned anyway. Why did it have to be her? Why hadn’t the old woman asked someone else?

She felt caged inside the Volvo bus. It was not her fault that she could afford this bus. It wasn’t her fault either that the old lady couldn’t. She shuffled uneasily in the cushioned seat.

The lady next to her was absently fingering the Ipod dial. What a marvel, this device! And what a model! She thought of her own shuffle, which paled in comparison.
Wish she could afford this one.

“One Tambaram, please”, someone asked the conductor. Her thoughts reeled back to the bus stop. Was the old woman still waiting for the bus? The heat outside was horrible. There was a slight jam. A poorer cousin of the Volvo was belching out excess passengers, who were hanging from all crevices.

Was the poor old thing being nailed by this human sledge-hammer? They should give free rides for the elderly. Especially the ones below the poverty line. She cursed the lawmakers of the land for their ineptitude.

She could have purchased the ticket for the old woman. Brainwaves like this occur only in retrospect.

She got up way ahead of her stop. Balancing in the standee-unfriendly bus drugged her hyper active conscience.

Getting out of the bus, she waited for a while to see if any other 21G would pass by. Nothing was visible as far as her line of sight could reach.

Her legs slowly joined the beat of the street. And she walked into yet another day at the office, her conscience lulled to sleep by the music of monotony.