Pra – nun – si - yay - shun.

I had tuned into one of the western music frequencies on radio yesterday. The RJ was chirpy and all that jazz, and the playlist was something that I could use to flavour my cuppa. Just then, the RJ decided to get democratic, and introduced a request section in his show. Someone requested for Greenday, and the RJ consents gladly, and announces through ether, “Up next, we have Greendayyy with booolivart of brookin dreemzz. What a song, the booolivart of brookin dreeemzzzz.” Cant help wondering whether the dude had actually listened to the song. Attempting to sport an accent is alright, but that doesn’t give one the liberty to go retching over a word like boulevard.
I ,for one, have waged a losing battle against the vagaries of pronunciation that characterize the English language. Being a South Indian, and having been brought up in a household where a word in English is uttered only when one runs out of expletives in the native language, much of my vocabulary originated from books and other such reading material. The dictionary with its encoded pronunciation guidelines was seldom used, semantic guessing games, adding more fun for dear old lazy bones. Indisposed to watching movies and TV shows (baring a few light sitcoms), the opportunity for me to hear the spoken language, was reduced to Spartan levels.
This reminds me of an incident that took place sometime back in college. There was this lady, who happened to hail from an affluent background, and was a very cosmopolitan, globe-trotter. An avid reader herself, we had the opportunity to have a few extra-curricular interactions, (despite the obvious mis-match of our backgrounds) due to the fact that our names were adjacent on the roll. (That’s the best thing about college, people from different strata can jam in.., although differences still remain).. On one such occasion, fully engrossed in the conversation, I happened to say something which made her go gaga with laughter. And mind you, this girl had a very high pitched and shrill laugh, which came out in bursts and peals. A sizeable crowd had gathered to join in the merry making, leaving me confused and flabbergasted. When she had finally calmed down, and was able to speak again, she asked me to repeat my self. Nervously, I obliged. “ I used to be a fan of detective novels and stories of yes-pi-yo-nay-jjj. And Lo!, another shot of laughing gas went up her system. I was almost on the verge of tears. Then she explained herself. And showed me how to pronounce espionage with a franco-greeko-latino tint to the na`and the ge… I didn’t bother to check it up in the dictionary and took her well traveled and worldly wise expertise as a reliable reference.
But the maxim, once bitten twice shy finds an exception in me. I still venture out with tongue twisting words, which I still don’t bother to learn how to pronounce, and still end up in embarrassing situations. But the espionage incident taught me a valuable lesson in life. A mistake made is always a lesson learnt.
So folks, keep making mistakes and learning more valuable lessons in the year to come. Happy New Year!

SOS from Space.

Day 1:
Hit the sack @ 1.00 am
Rose and shone @ 6.00 am.

Day 2:
Zzzz time: when the clock chimed a dozen in the dark
Brrred awake by Banglore chill : 5.30 am.

Day 3:
Curtains down by half an hour beyond midnight.
Up and shivering by half past six.

Day 4:
Slipped into slumber land at 11.45 pm
Migrated to a transcendental stupor at 6.00 am

Location: Office

9.00 am: Winked, sorry worked at a document with eyelids half mast .
9.05 am: Found this piece of alien Morse code to have materialized* mysteriously in my document.
Hjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjh
9.30 am: Hard at work trying to figure out what the hapless Extra terrestrial tried to communicate. If any one can crack it, please let me know ASAP. A poor soul is in distress, albeit alien.



* : Key boards make very lousy head rests.

All that Noise and All that sound...

I am endowed with awe-inspiring skills in planning and execution. Realizing at the Nth moment that I don’t have tickets to go home on an upcoming “long” festive weekend, and finding out that only a handful were left, I sprung up from a lazy Friday morning at work, with the excuse that I had some personal work that suddenly came up. Chuckling inwardly at the curious glances that my departing repartee invoked, I scurried past the office campus to make it to the single-‘man-handled’ railway booking counter in the city within a village, vis-à-vis Electronics city on the fringes of Bangalore, fondly referred to as EC, ensconced in tranquil beauty alongside the internationally renowned (read notorious) Hosur Road. (Cant help wondering why, but something tells me that this is going to be one long and winding post***….)

Huffing and puffing ( I hadn’t sprinted or anything. Just that I wasn’t used to all that scurrying, my daily routine consisting of mild to ultra mild calisthenics of my fingers on a keyboard .( That same something tells me that this post is going to be so long ***, that I am going to forget what I wanted to write.(And Yes, I am back to writing within braces, footnotes pushing my volatile memory to the extreme and me ending forgetting why I had wanted the foot note in the first place.( Funny, dental braces restrict uncontrolled growth of teeth, but these braces don’t seem to restrict my erratic train of thought(s)))))*, I reached the counter, heaving a sigh of relief (that got lost in all that huffing and puffing) when I found that the queue was surprisingly short given the peak hour. Shoving myself into a chair, after miming (I was still huffing and puffing) to the single-‘man-handling’ the counter that I needed a reservation form. Progressing to Rani Mukherjee-ish huskiness, I managed to communicate to a lady beside me that I would graciously grant her the privilege of borrowing her pen. (Continuing in conformance to first principles on my planning abilities). Believe me or not, one of the toughest challenges in today’s world is filling up a form printed on recycled paper with fonts that make English and Kannada like twin sisters, using a borrowed ball point jetter pen with a stuck up spring (you cant even curse the lousy writing implement, since there some basic (read unwanted and absolutely unwarranted) courtesies that are a part of the Borrowing protocol). It was then that real ordeal began. There was this tiny old man (probably a blue collar worker), and a younger chum of his, who took it upon themselves to act a whips pushing the lethargic white collars (ignoring the fact that most of them were collar-less.) to keep the queue on the move. I was transported back in time to my PT class, where the instructor with a waspish voice and lethal look drove us in troves around school grounds under the unrelenting Chennai sun. My vocal chords regaining their senses, I complied with a more than audible groan. In came a yuppie from one of the biggies in EC, with a debonair swagger and a classy (read garish) wave to one of his colleagues waiting in the line. Mr. Debonair Yuppie deemed the wait opportune to embark on a public discourse on what in his humble opinion, is the appropriate way to conduct business in their biggie company ( yours truly infers that he must be contemplating a couple of offers to switch firms and hence his loyalty),by way of a little tete-a tete with his colleague and buddy. Having heard similar conversations week in and week out, I started to find this one an abuse to my auditory apparatus. Another blue collar bunch entered and was so fascinated by the list of trains painted on the wall in vibrant hues, that they actually began discussing each and every entry in the list in all the detail that they could think of. A splitting headache invaded my cranium from nowhere amidst all this cacophony. As the seconds ticked by, I had second thoughts about whether all this torture was worth it. What if, I didn’t get my ticket? What if someone is searching for me at work and my unexplained absence becomes the talk of the day? Just then the single –‘man-handling’ the counter disappeared. There was a murmur that transforms itself into mayhem, in a matter of minutes. The blue collar whips try their best to restore order. One white collar blue tagged individual, with great consternation, steps out of the queue, after declaring to one and all present and absent, that the chair he left was his, and that he fully intended to return to it. He bravely ventured to peep inside the counter to find the single ‘man-handling’ the counter stealthily gobbling his breakfast up. Thank God for such brave Samaritans who keep volunteering to do all the peeping in the world. Satisfied, our volunteer returned back to his seat, keeping intact the great consternation. The single ‘man-handling’ the counter then hobbled out of his cabin to drop the left-overs in the trash. 20 pairs of eyes intently followed his every move. As we all settled back into our seats, now that the queue would resume its dynamics, the single ‘man-handling’ the counter hobbled out of his cabin again. 20 exclamation marks materialized atop 20 startled heads. (Yep, yep I have been suffering from an over-dose of comics, since child hood…). The cacophony reached a crescendo, neck to neck with the splitting headache, closely followed by the rapidly building up anxiety. Yours truly was by now truly a wreck. The single ‘man-handling’ the counter abandoned his hobble, and gracefully sashayed across the waiting area to a red monstrosity resting sinisterly in a corner. He bends in double and is lost behind it, oblivious to the cacophony and mayhem around him. Yours truly is in shambles. All of a sudden, like a thunder bolt from Zeus, a strident din emanates from the red monstrosity and yours truly was dragged/drugged into a stupor. All the cacophony is drowned, and yours truly is mesmerized. The lights blinked themselves back to life, and single ‘man-handling’ the counter sashay-hobbled back to the counter, and jumped up to his seat. The queue was set into motion, the whips became doubly active. The anxiety and head ache vaporized magically, and yours truly was found humming a tune, with the strident din of the Red diesel generator keeping the beat. Yours truly ( like this reference to myself better than the trite “I”, the longer the better) emerged rejuvenated from the trance, slowly increasing the decibel level of the “humming”, adding a few impromptu lyrics now and then (I can never remember lyrics and dialogues, once made up my own in a school play, although pertinent) . No one seemed to notice the amateur bard; the white noise from the generator camouflaging the singing. Yours truly now started to shake a leg or two in beat (still remaining seated.) Yours truly became completely engrossed in this melee, and at one point closed her eyes and strained hard to get a particularly high pitched note right. A gentle tap brought her back to terra-firma. “Don’t worry ma, the queue is moving, I can see that you are anxious (owing to all that eye-closing and frowning to get that cussed note right) and impatient (concluded from the leg-shaking), On top of that, this annoying generator makes so much noise!”, ejaculated the aged whip. Yours truly gave a truly yours truly sheepish grin and “Mum was the word” till the counter. Mum continued to be the word till the ticket was purchased, even if Yours truly had to shell out an extra couple of hard (!) – earned ATM –crisp hundreds. And Mum continues to be word, still. **


* : Couldn’t resist it. Had to add a footnote. Well, mmm…. Lets see… Ah, Yes... This one was to mention the personal record in the number of brackets used at one go.
**: Mum helped me (Oh, she always does !) , (but this time it was Mum, the word, and not the Mum as in mother(It’s become an obsession, not able to give up the braces, even in the footnotes !))in winning empathetic glances when I went back to work after my “sudden personal errand”.
*** But since Mum was the word, I was compelled to write this long and winding post.

Fate of a Flower

O, Flower of spring by the footpath
That the little girl bends down to pluck
Frozen for the future with a click
Wow! How so picturesque!

O, Flower of spring by the footpath
Crushed by mighty feet
To a messy pulp on the street
Cruel, Mean and brusque

I, a Flower of spring by the footpath
Between Slow death in a porcelain coffin
And a needless euthanasia, Enfin,
Mine Creator, when will I fructify?
- L.B

Hideous Me !

Dont know what this conveys. But drew it when I was brooding over things that happened yesterday. Doodling is a great stress reliever.
But dont want to doodle often, and definitely not for the reasons that resulted in the above. (Creating a category, just in case.)

For some godforsaken reason, blogger too takes off the color from my life. A divine conspiracy, perhaps.

Of Curd Rice and Life…

One of my favourite dishes of all time is the good old curd rice. I do not try to comprehend the raison-d-etre for this penchant. It could be because, I refuse to let go of the evanescent strings that attach me to my infancy and the general disposition towards mushy things that defines that particular stage of man’s life. Or it may be due to the undisputed fact that my mom happens to be a lousy cook ( she’s a lovely mom, otherwise ) and curd rice is the only edible thing she wasn’t able to leave her signature upon..( touch wood!).

My loyalty to curd rice was given an impetus due to a conversation I chanced to read in the comments section of a blog I like to visit every now and then.And hence this post.
It was a fairly serious conversation, which I belive is on the choices people make in life. (Atleast, that’s what I think it was about…!! ) . Somewhere the commentator quotes Calvin, of C n H fame :
“Some people are pragmatists, taking things as they come and making the best of the choices available. Some people are idealists, standing for principle and refusing to compromise. And some people just act on any whim that enters their heads. I pragmatically turn my whims into principles.”

And the author of the blog responds with this analogy:

I was having dinner yesterday -- curd rice -- and the guy next asks me, "Is that good?"

So, now, of course, what choices do I have -
1) Quote a universal, objective specification about how curd rice should look, feel, smell, taste, compare it with what laid in front of me, and pronounce a judgment.
2) Spend some time with the guy, understand what he means by "good", learn what standards he uses to judge curd rice, whether he likes it cold like me, whether he likes it a little sour like me, and so on, and then give him an answer.
3) Compare the quality of the curd rice I was eating with the standards that I feel "good" curd rice should possess, and then give him an answer.

Now I like to think of myself as pragamtical, idealistic and whimsical (....) and so I decided to make the best of the answers available, at the same time refuse to compromise on the correctness of my answer, and bring my own whimsical notions about curd rice into the picture. So what did I say?

"It feels good to me. I like it a lot."

Of course, you're darned right when you say human experience is the last resort, because all theories fail at some point or the other.


Though I got lost in the middle of all this high talk, something caught my eye near the tail. It was this thing about curd rice.

What would I do, if someone sidled up to me when I was relishing the most divine of delicacies, and asked “Is it good?”

Well… I d probably be so engrossed in eating, that I d answer something supremely unintelligible with my mouthful , with all the ensuing sputtering sending the questioner miles away --- getting rid of the choices, my way :-) (maybe by questioning the premises ?)

Or offer the other person a spoonful and let him/her deciede for their own. This option has 4 sub sections.

1. Other person feels its good.
Soliloquist feels its bad.

-- Soliloquist offers the whole of it and looks up into ether to see the halo around her head.

2. Other person feels its bad.
Soliloquist feels its good.

-- Soliloquist twitches her nose in contempt and says “What a snob, not being able to appreciate the simple things in life”

3. Other person feels its bad.
Soliloquist feels its bad.

-- Soliloquist encourages the other person to join her in her lamenting, cursing the cook, the farmer who cultivated the rice, the lactobacilli that curdled the milk, the weather conditions which supported the curdling, the milkman who supplied the milk, the cow that produced it, and so on and so forth. To be concluded with a well-synchronized sigh in chorus.

4. Other person feels its good.
Soliloquist feels its good.

Soliloquist does a Little Miss Muffet, the other person suddenly transfiguring into a Spider.


Last things last, the gist of this post is that each one has is entitled to his own perception, and that there is very less point in trying to theorize a generality out of it. Choices in life, good or bad, ultimately boil down to an individual’s perspective. How much ever we might deny it, it is always the self before the rest. I can put up with something as long as the tolerance thereshold of my comfort zone to environmental blows isn’t crossed. I would rebel if my peace of mind is disturbed beyond my capacity to recover it. I could be wrong , I could be right. But the thing is, the choice is mine to make, and mine to live with. Afterall, curd rice is curd rice. Nothing can beat it. Yum.

Estranged....

Thanks to the Karnataka bandh, and some unusual shrewdness on my part, I got to spend 5 wonderful days at home. As though an evil eye had been cast, my vacation was marred by a blocked sinus, and an infected eye.
But all that couldn’t take the fun out of the neighbor’s and relatives visits on the last days of Navrathri. For once, I didn’t seek refuge in the recesses of my room, leaving poor mom struggling to create extraordinary yet very plausible excuses for my absence. As a matter of (utterly useless) fact, I actually enjoyed playing the host. I was found answering the same questions over and over again , asking the same questions over and over and over again and bestowing a gracious smile upon the blessed of the men folk (/grinning away to the end of the world) to perfection that someone even told my mom that I was coming of age, at last.

Though I managed to escape my standard chores during the festivities, by almost feigning a wheeze, the task of dismantling the Kolu (a doll display, the highlight of the 10 day long festive season) fell upon me. Surprisingly, I liked doing it, and it so happened I was pretty efficient at it.

The last day of my vacation proved to me and the world at large that there was nothing really surprising about my surprises. I was home-sick. Dreadfully home-sick. I, who was sick of home 730 days back was finally and phenomenally home-sick. Not having spent more than 3 days at a stretch with the family the past 2 years, had eventually wrecked its havoc on me. And every moment of these 5 days, was so precious to me that I couldn’t bring myself to sulk even for a second, much against my true nature. I was so anxious to make the best of the time I had at home, that I didn’t even crib about having to leave.

On retrospect, just as I was bemusing over my fate, weighing with utmost graveness, the pros and cons of my estranged existence, the “fair” side of my self, murmured “Think of all those girls who visit their families once a year, staying far away, atleast you have the luxury of going every other weekend.” But still, self-pity is a strong emotion. Crushing the fair one, it loomed large, clouding the days to come.

That’s when, one Ms. R.C, who happens to one of those “girls-who-go-home-once-a-year”, sent me this poem. It appears, that she started to write on “childhood dreams”, inspired by a conversation with a collegue, and came up with this lovely piece.

And the fair one had the last laugh.



P.S: Ms R.C happens to be a talented poetess in hindi too, unfortunately I don’t happen to find a translator at hand all the time, to appreciate her works. This is the first one in English that was brought to my perusal.

P.P.S : I had always wanted to do something with the publishing industry, but considered myself too naïve for the field. But this time, continuing the trend, I surprised myself with a tactical move, reeking with originality. Before she could think of syndicating her writing, I pounced upon the guile-less poetess with an absolutely tempting (!!!) offer to feature her in my blog.

Time-less

I left my watch at home
And my mobile under the pillow
Bid adieu to the seconds
As I swiped out.

Plunged into a book
Reached home in a jiffy
Inspite of a sad traffic jam
Time-lessness feels great !

Lunatic Bard

The Rubber Stamp

The first citizen of this Nation has always been a puppet, with multiple strings. But one man chose to differ. He, himself is a living example of pure honesty, sheer intellect and endearing simplicity. Definetly not a man of our decadent times. I happened to read an interview of President Kalam today,some excerpts which caught my attention:

Young India:

What do you feel about the innumerable interactions you have had with students all over the country?
Well, I have met children and youth throughout the country from all walks of life. I have seen students in islands, north-eastern States and tribal areas. One thing I find uniformly among 150-170 million students of 17 years age is that they want to perform. Their enthusiasm is very high and they want to live in a competitive India. No one can beat the youth power of our country, which is the most powerful resource. But, it is understood very little in the mechanism of our political and bureaucratic system.


All this rhetoric about the youth power has never sold well with me, for I believe the youth of today are so consumed by consumerism and are blinded by slefishness on all 360 degrees, that even the very immediate social circle, vis-a-vis the family blends into the background.

Quelling my pessimistic sentiments, is the Prez's response to another question.

In recent months, the IT and ITES sectors have taken away the cream of students around the country. How will the manufacturing and other sectors manage?
We are generating 3 million graduates every year. The migration to IT industry is only 1-1.2 million. Even if the IT industry absorbs one more million, there are graduates for the manufacturing sector. The shortage is imaginary. Like in the IT, Pharmaceutical and Biotechnology industries, challenges have to be created in other areas also. Focus should be on the Small Scale Industry that makes an impact on the nation's economy. The whole IT industry is a result of youth power. Similarly, in the manufacturing, agriculture and other sectors, youth power is required.

Despite one's leftist misgivings, one has to hand it to the IT industry for bringing the radical and exponential growth that a devoloping nation with a humungous population such as India's desperately needed. Inspite of a growth that was not ideally equitable, the very same consumerism which I so badly loathe, gave into a number of supporting services and products,generating employment oppurtunities, hitherto unimagined.

The Political Milieu:

Politics shall always be dirty. Power makes shenanigans out of good men. People who have climbed the rungs of the political ladder have done so, trampling innocents at every step. Even the so-called elite politician, can, by no reasonable means, boast of an un-stained hand. Politicans cant help being dirty. And Politics shall remain dirty. Poaching the predators with a shot-gun , ala RDB style, isnt practical and doesnt solve a single issue, and instead giving rise to unwarranted militancy and misleading naxal movements.

Working against the system requires strength of will,muscle and money. Working with the system will drag us into depths of degeneration. Working a change within the system, is probably what the most pragmatic of us would do. And thats what the scientist turned Head of the State, has tried to do.

You have addressed Parliament and several legislatures. What do you feel about the quality of debate in the Houses? Do you think live telecast of the proceedings can contribute to a more orderly conduct of the Houses?
No, I don't want to say much about it because everything is beamed (live telecast) directly now. But I have two things to say that will electrify political/Parliament activities and development missions. Politics has two components — political politics and developmental politics. The political politics concerns elections to the Assemblies and Parliament. Developmental politics is about the plan to develop the nation on different fronts. Elected representatives should focus 30 per cent on political politics and 70 per cent on developmental politics. The nation is bigger than political parties.


One book, that left a mark on me, was "The Man" by Irving Wallace. It describes the trials and tribulations of the first black man to become the President of United States, in a racially torn America, the forces around him that fabricate an impeachment case and how he survives the ordeal, never, even once compromising his character. So deep was the impact of this book, that I ended up wishing for such a man to lead the country I lived in. Guess my wish was granted, albeit within the system.

Wonder why...

Ever wondered why we sometimes feel lonely even though we are not alone? Why a crowd doesn’t provide the same merry and cheer as a few special ones do? Why things that we take for granted with some, need to be spelled out to the rest? Why some people can give us unconditional care, while it’s a marriage of profit with the others? Why is it that a few people can make you discover how beautiful we are, while others cant? And why we don’t recognize such people till they are gone? Is it the short while that they touch your life that makes them special? If they had stayed on, probably we wouldn’t treasure them as we do now. Or is it a cruel trick that destiny plays, to keep us longing for the fulfillment that was lost? Why does even the most gregarious of us feels as desolate as the congenital recluse? The rhyme/poem below is an attempt to picture my thoughts on the good and the great of buddies.

The Good and the Great.


I have many good friends
But a mere handful of great friends
Words don’t bring out the difference
Between the two, in any sense.
My good friends are always around
To make my life smooth and sound.
My great friends stay only for a phase
Special sojourns in a maddening race.
Even if my great friends revisit
My life to make up for the deficit
More likely would they become
Just good friends, in the days that would come
Seperated by Distance, space and Time
Images from the past, resonant chimes.
This nostalgia , Is it a comatose stimulus?
Or a distant lullaby beyond the milling chaos?.
Days are many, that I spend with my good friends
Wishing all along, for the great ones to pop up near the bends
Peek-a-boo, they would say, and I shall wake up
Breaking my somnambulism, Hey, Times up!
But that’s not to be, dreams shall remain dreams.
And my longing grows monstrously, pushing the seams.
“Life’s like that. Isnt it?” They say.
“Yeah”, I agree .Nothing is here to stay.
Oh Blossoming buds, I retreat from you,
Fearing the moment I shall be filled with rue.
Darkness beckons, “Come into my folds,
I shall protect you from the light and the golds”
I respond, in the affirmative, using adages to skip worry
Aloud I say to myself, “Better safe than sorry!”
To escape the thorn, I give up the rose
The body over shadowed by the Ghost.
“That’s not right, my little chum”,
Said a voice as sweet as a sugary plum
One of the Greats, she is, my friend
"Riches of the rainbow are always in the end.
Good ones can become great
You have it in you, to change your fate".
Smiling and hopeful, I look into the sunny rays
Eager for the next oasis to come my way


- The Lunatic Bard



This poem is dedicated to one such great friend. I had written it in a moment of despair, acutely feeling the void created by her absence. I had sent it for her perusal. Her response made me add the last few lines which end it in an optimistic note. Now I really know what makes great friends great.

Sunday Stories

Saw Lage Raho Munnabhai last weekend… My roomies resorted to a tactfully conjured concoction of bribery, blackmail and sheer muscle force to make me wake up on time for the 11.30 am show, the fact that it was a Sunday morning not to be missed in the fine print. Finally yielding to sustained pressure from multiple dimensions, I agreed to comply, provided they didn’t mind taking me along, without a bath. On my part, I offered to spray a copious amount of deo and perfume upon my bodily self. Thus the deal was struck and we set out on our flight to fantasy.
Not a brilliant movie in terms of technique, but a pleasant watch and of course with lots of take-home wisdom.
Sometime back, somewhere near the latest blast in Mumbai, I left a comment in one of the blogs I read on and off. The write-up was on the spirit of Mumbai which rises above the embers of violence, everytime and on the commendable job of the NGOs in a moment of crisis. It was a fairly good post which spurred me into thought. All that brouhaha about the spirit of humanity is fine with me, but why in the first place should the threat spring up from within? What makes a man kill so many innocents? Personal vendetta garishly mixed up with ideological megalomania could create an explosion that reverberates far beyond its times. The collective memory of the masses is phenomenally short lived and is perhaps what we dub as “the spirit” of the human race.
Life goes on. Because no one cares, as long as it doesn’t happen to them. And if it happens to them, they would go and perpetrate it to some one else. And thus the vicious circle sustains. No one bothers to find the starting point of this maddening race and no one wants to end it where it started. What makes a man who is capable of immense love, harbor lethal hate? Why don’t any of the world bodies spend sufficient time and money on studies into a terrorist’s psyche?

Well, the comment I left on that post, was somewhat on these lines. I ve always belived Gandhiji to be a myth. Someone glorified beyond reality by his admirers. Or someone not so relevant to the current state of affairs. Though I have deep respect for the “myth” of Gandhiji, the lurking doubt in the corner of my mind never vanished.
Lage Raho Munnabhai, is a simple story, spluttered with stray incidents from real life. The solutions provided weren’t very realistic, nor did they reach deep within. But there were essayed in such a manner, that they created little ripples which had the ability not only to reach far and wide, but also permeate beyond the petty superficial prejudices. In the heart of the plot, lies the spirit of the Mahatma, seen by the hero as a hallucination. The capacity to forgive, the strength to tell the truth, the patience required to wait for it to bear fruit, the stamina to take the straight route are simple lessons that when learnt in spirit and practiced in essence could solve many a burning issue. Above all having a constant view of the bigger picture, would show how small and insignificant our problems, hopes and dreams are, and yet how potentially constructive or destructive they could be.

Though all this sounds incredibly unrealistic and impractical, if when imbibed in the little things we do everyday, life tends to be a lot easier, for us and for the world.

I am still not able to dispel the doubt I have about Gandhi, the man, but the movie did clear a little bit of the haze that clouded Gandhi, the philosophy.

That evening, we went strolling in the lovely Bangalore dusk, and stopped by a roadside shop to have some snacks. An old man, probably in his seventies, picked up a conversation with one of us. The others were in a mixture of suspicion, mild amusement, and complete detachment. The “uncle” ended up inviting us for tea with “aunty” the following weekend, and even pointed out his house to us. The old man looked dignified, spoke flawless Urdu (according to S.N) and his house was a tastefully done brick and plaster upper class residence, all of two storeys.
We bid a polite goodbye, promising to keep up the appointment. As we were returning to our home, the myriad of emotions were given voice. The doubts, appreciation, and dispassionate musings were raised.
S.N, the lady who had engaged in the conversation recounted above, said “ He seems to be a nice man, even reminds me of my grandpa, and it is so rare in these days that someone invites a stranger to their house for tea. But still, we can trust no one”. Letting out a feeble sigh, she continued “Too bad we live in such times”.
And all the chatter died a natural death.

Aura of August.

Some songs just get us hooked . I change my playlist approximately every month ( a recent study on my boredom thresholds revealed this remarkably useless fact), and experiment with hitherto untried bands and sounds. And uncannily manage to get hooked on to one song and one band, atleast. (quote : the afore mentioned study) .
As August '06 draws to a close, the band of the month is Cranberries (featured numbers : Dreams, Animal Instinct, Ode to my family). Though the lyrical intention is either too "deep" or too "shallow" for me to comprehend in its entirety, the magic of Dolores's voice, blending with the sounds in the background produces an astounding effect.
Coming to the song of the month, the crown goes to "Afterglow - INXS". Addictive sounds, absolutely groovy, the lyrics simple yet elevating when in liason with the music. Guess I need to put in extra effort to grow tired of this one.

Afterglow - INXS


Here i am
Lost in the light of the moon
That comes through my window
Bathed in blue
The walls of my memory
Divides the thorns from the roses
It’s you and the roses
Touch me and i will follow
In your afterglow
Heal me from all this sorrow
As i let you go
I will find my way
When i see your eyes
Now i’m living
In your afterglow
Here i am Lost in the ashes of time
But who owns tomorrow
In between
The longing to hold you again
I’m caught in your shadow
I’m losing control
My mind drifts away
We only have today
Touch me and i will follow
In your afterglow
Heal me from all this sorrow
As i let you go
I will find my way
I will sacrifice
Till that blinding day
When i see your eyes
Now i’m living
In your afterglow
When the veils are gone
As i let you go
As i let you go
Touch me and i will follow
In your afterglow
Heal me from all this sorrow
As i let you go
I will find my way
I will sacrifice
Now i’m living
In your afterglow
Bathed in blue
The walls of my memory
Divides the thorns from the roses
It’s you who is closest

P.S : "Newyork Nagaram", the latest number from A.R.Rehman's new born "Sillunu Oru Kaadhal" seemed to have gained a permenent status in my playlist this month, though it is worth a mention here, it doesnt scale up to an instinctive hit with me. But its a song that grows on you. Kummi Adi is a catchy folksy number. As for the other songs in the collection, Soliloquist wholeheartedly agrees with Peter Tina* that they are pedominantly jazzified constipation groans.

* : My roomie.

The Cause and The End.

In Today
Out Tomorrow.
Its all childsplay
This Joy and sorrow.

Tears that are born at dawn
But, to die quietly at dusk
All These Songs so forlorn
Yet so trite in the crux.

From the turbulent womb of genesis
Sets out the meandering bohemian
Seeking the tender grave of Peace
Forever the hunter, the Orion.

Sweet Chirps of nascent white
Drowned by the din of Red
Bloody Victory and Gory Might
First love at death bed

Run along, my little one
Up and ready for doom
Red Roses and redder Guns
As the shadow of the future looms.

-The Lunatic Bard




Catching up with the newspapers after a hiatus, I decided to abstain from them altogether. The causes that people fight for and the aftermath, left me disillusioned with life. The bigger picture is often blurred by the unidimensional perspectives. I was inspired to write on this after reading this piece of extended reality .

A piece of Me.

Of Late, Catch 22 has been very instrumental in clearing the mental block I face everytime I try to update my blog.. Here goes another, effortless post..


I am thinking about -

How much I ll miss the people around me once I move on.. And how much I miss people the people who have moved on… thought the latter was painful.. Finding the former heart wrenching.

I said -

" A fortuitous union of cells
That is not my beginning
Hark! Chime the bells
I have come to do my doing!"

(From one of my so-called poems)

I want to -
Make each second of my life well spent.

I wish –
I had scaled the heights I could have

I miss –
My childhood.

I hear -
The silence of the sea.

I wonder -
where the sky ends.

I need -
Everything and nothing.

I regret -
The lies I have told.

I dance -
like nobody’s watching… And when I want to release pent up emotions..

I cry -
Inconsolably. In the dark.

I am not always -
Realistic.

I make with my hands-
crispy dosas, creative status reports.

I write -
whenever and whatever I want to.

I confuse -
"ei” and “ie” in words..

I should try -

Learning to drive.
Bungee jumping
Oil Painting.


I should finish -
my quota of cribbing for the day.

I know -
how to smile.

I am -
Me.

And finally -

I am tagging a few more people to do this tag - nero, subbu, shiva.

Love Story !??????

Monday mornings are always the same. The weekend spirit being reluctant to leave, she always oversleeps and misses her usual bus. This Monday was no different. The next bus being a comfortable 15 minutes later, she went around humming a catchy tune from the lastest flick, much to the chagrin of her still-lost-in- neverland roomie. Taking care to dress presentably is always fun. She stepped out with a cheerful smile to the landlady, the sun shining as though party to her buoyant mood.

She had to cross to get to the bus stop. She didn’t mind the waiting for the little green man to shine on the traffic signal. It gave her time to look around, and take in the pleasant breeze and the colorful buzzling crowd around her. “This lady looks friendly” , she said to herself as she gazed at woman hailing an auto rickshaw. “And that little fellow with her looks so naughty and cute!!”, she smiled indulgently at the toddler tagging along with the ‘friendly lady’. Her attention swayed over to the opposite side , where a sizeable crowd had gathered to cross the road. One particular face struck her as uncannily familiar.
She tried to recollect.. Was he from school? Were they at college together? Had they met in office? She remembered seeing him at close quarters. Just as she was lost in thought, , she caught herself staring at him, and worse still, this Mr.X was also staring back with avid interest. Instinctively her eyes lowered to her sandals. Something about her sandals inspired the realization. Damn it, man… This was the same guy they had seen in the restaurant. She and her friends had the time of their lives making fun of him. They had been to this South Indian Restaurant that weekend after a movie. It was rush hour, and they had to wait till eternity, or go upstairs. They generally avoided the tables upstairs,because of the dense seating. But, this time they had no chocie. She and her friends went and sat in a corner of the room. Once they had placed their orders, they realised their mistake. Famished as they were, still their appetitites were no match to the amount of food the restaurant provided. While they were struggling through their meal, a couple of guys in the next table, were cruising through a multiple course lunch, ordering almost everything on the menu card. One of them, stopped eating , awestruck by the guys remarkable ability to stuff themselves. She found the situation really funny. Whenever provoked suitably, she can come up with an avalanche of PJs.. And when a few girls giggle (few = any aribitrary number greater than 1), all hell can break loose.The oldest in her group, assuming a matronly role, tried to shush them up, fearing an embarassing situation. Intoxicated with the mirth of the moment, she had defended “ Relax yaar,those guys don’t know us, we don’t know them.. Once we leave the restaurant, we ll be perfect strangers.. Lets have some fun at their expense”….

What a premature statement that was! There he was, the same guy who had worn bathroom chappals to lunch, and gorged the entire kitchen off. She immediately looked at his feet. Thank God!, he was wearing formal shoes. He must ve slept late that day, and must ve woken up directly for lunch, without bothering to dress up for the occassion. How come all that didn’t occur to her pea brain when she went on making up all possible reasons for his bathroom chappals?

Now here he was, staring at her. She tried to keep her face as expressionless as possible. "Chill girl, he’s gonna cross the road any moment now, you can mingle with crowd and be gone. And we’d be perfect starngers again!". She looked at the timer .. 129 seconds .

"Come on comeon.. just keep your cool and it will all be over." She mustered up courage and looked at him. He was looking away.. Good.. She heaved a miniscule sigh of momentary relief. The timer read 93 seconds.

She kept looking at him, trying to detect even the faintest signs of recognition in him. Hope he didn’t recollect her face. She was in sporty attire the other day, and now she was in a formal salwar suit. She really wished clothes made a difference.A real big one at that. He looked at her. "Stay Cool. Act Casual". She pushed back a strand of hair that the breeze had blown away. She no longer had the inclination to enjoy the till-then-pleasant morning weather. A crimson 80 blinked at her from the timer.Time can come to stand still, if it chooses to. Weary from the effort to stay calm, she had entered into a stupor. Dimly aware of herself, she returned his gaze more out of duty, than anything else. 48 seconds to go. “You can make it, jus keep going gal” .. She was great at pep talks, but somehow to her, this one sounded feeble. Any moment now, they ll cross each other, and the fatal flash of recongnition can strike. She began to move. He was still standing. She had taken the plunge. He also began walking.They were a couple of yards away from each other. She met his eyes. There was no indication of recognition, no cinematic recollection. Her lips curled in an imperceptable smile. Of Triumph, relief, and joy.He also smiled. She convinced herself, it must have been directed at someone else on the other side of the road.
She could see he was working for a software company and a couple of his collegues were waiting for the bus on the opposite side. She walked on. She could imagine his eyes boring through her back. She wanted to turn back and check on him. But was too scared to push her luck any further. She looked up at the heavens and thought to herself , “If God ever existed he must be absolutely elfish!”.


Disclaimer :

In acceptance of the bait thrown by catch 22, the above work of fiction* came up.
* The sequel is as fictitious as its predecessor, not more, not less.

Safety

I have this irrational fear of dogs. Something which dates back to the day I was a single cell old. Back in good old Chennai, I used to meticulously skirt past the scrawny, beleaguered, perennially thirsty low-breeds, that would rampage the empty streets of a sleepy Chennai, cursing passionately the way too early timings(by my terms, of course) of the college bus. Some of them got so used (/bored with) to my chastisement that they magnanimously chose to leave me alone to mind my own business. My woes didnt disappear altogether. The pampered poodles peeping out of their kennels in the neighboring bungalows, got an inane kick out of barking out of the blue and sending me racing from their gates… Didnt fail to give me a taste of ragging even in my final year of college..

Now in Bangalore, I stay in an area so infamous for its teeming canine community matched in numbers only by the IT professionals who reside here. The road I stay in is in no way less in stature than my area in Chennai, when it comes to the snob squad. An absolutely silly looking long bodied duo, along with a dumb bully as big as a calf, and an obnoxious sadistic spoilt brat, democratically take turns in harassing the scared-of-dogs, over worked, and pre-occupied passersby. But its not just these guys who rob me of my peace, because I know they are there, and they will scare me day in and day out. There exists a rowdy gang of street dogs, thriving on the scraps from the multitude of “juice junctions” and “bakeries”. And its this cotorie that I lose my sleep over. Polar opposites of their Chennai cousins, these dudes and dudettes are well built and sturdy. They amble around with an air, stirring fear in the depths of my heart. All of a sudden, from nowhere, one of them picks up a fight and there is pure, unadulterated commotion in the pack, and I either stay put, paralyzed by fear or try something stupid in an urge to flee. Thus is my lot, every time I venture out alone on the streets.

Today was exceptional. I woke up early, smartly got ready ahead of my usual time to work, and was tempted to take the early morning bus. I made it to the bus stop without much ado, but it is here that the catch lays. The number of people in the stop, would be few, and scattered. The Ruffians arrived in full style, parading their silken coats to their dames.. Fear of the mortal kind, started to grip me. Carrying more bags than I could manage, the realization that an attempt to flee was ruled out, was more than painful. Despite the chill, sweat began to pour down my face. Though my hands were full, I was desperately searching for my nails, biting them had always calmed my nerves. Praying fervently for heaven’s grace, I was edging towards the nearest human, as surreptitiously as I could, with all my bulk.

“Bark!”, “Wham”, “Howl!!”… The much anticipated pandemonium broke out. I almost saw doom leering around the corner, when my knight in white armour came by. The office bus swished past the warring factions and stopped in front of me. Pushing people around, (although, there weren’t any people to push around) I scrambled on to the bus..

Setting my many bags in an intricate fashion adhering to the tenets of feng shui, I took a deep breath. Immense peace engulfed me. Beads of sweat evaporated as a cool breeze blew. Looking out through the window, I finally felt safe. They cant reach me here. Nothing can harm me.


Just then, the driver applied a sudden brake. And I hit my teeth. On the same metal bar. Again*.



___________________________________________________________________


*: I had a nasty accident, sometime back, last year in the same bus to office.

Of marine and terrain Fauna

Sometime in the mid of the week that went past, Ms Kutty, threw a party for us girls at a local restaurant. The occasion was to celebrate Ms Kutty’s return from her trip and subsequent stay abroad, on official purposes. Ms Kutty happens to be one of our ex-PG* mates. And the idea was initiated by the august efforts of one Ms Bumble Bee, whose unparalleled enthusiasm for organizing “events” in our tell-tale uneventful lives is well-known across the lengths and breadths of the nation. Owing to Bumble Bee’s deluge of emails and incessant flurry of phone calls (which Soliloquist dutifully missed, as usual, by leaving her mobile behind wherever she went, as a clue for any private eye who might have to trace her whereabouts, in case she gets lost, given her appalling sense of direction.) all the four of us were assembled sharp on time at the said venue, Bumble Bee making the grand entrance after a hard fight between the clock and the Madivala Traffic.

So we go in, gorge as much as we could, Bumble Bee getting experimental, ordering unidentifiable delicacies of the marine world which others were wary about, and finally having to finish all of it, (of course, Soliloquist, being solicitous, offering able assistance ). We had a nice long chat of old times, new times, and still newer times… Soliloquist, having lost the precious early morning hours of sleep for the past 4 days, benevolently smiles through most of it, dropping a quip here and there, to show she’s been listening…

As the evening progressed in this fashion, the meal traversed through its different courses, it was presently time to wind up. Kutty takes out her neatly organized purse. Soliloquist gapes in wonder at the sight of a neatly organized purse, as she does at anything that is neat and organized. Crisp Sodexho passes materialize and Kutty begins to count. As the count is checked, double checked, triple checked by all those at the table, Soliloquist’s interest with the purse vaporizes gradually. Soliloquist, by now fully awake, attempts to takes in the ambience, before they leave. ( Soliloquist, isn’t definitely lady-like, or even normal-human – like for that matter, ‘eat first – gawk later’ being her principle motto when comes to eating out.) A huge fish tank catches her attention and she is transported to a hypnotic trance by practicing the art of relentless staring without batting an eyelid on it. (A new technique of Transcendental meditation, eh???)

“They say its good for the heart to watch the fish”, Soliloquist announces, abruptly breaking her reverie.
Bumble Bee, rudely disturbed by this sudden digression, loses her count of the Sodexho passes and looks up.
“But I find them stupid” , opines Soliloquist, with a presumptuous air.
Bumble Bee, in a marine-favoring mood, enquires “why do you say so?”
“They are so dumb. All they do is swim, go up, hit the top of the tank, and go down. Go down, hit the bottom, and then go left. Go left, hit the left wall, and Go right. Go right; hit the wall on the right, and the go up. How absolutely mindless and moronic!!”
Bumble Bee lets out a guttural laugh. Soliloquist mouths a soundless “Oh-Oh”. Whenever Bumble Bee gives a guttural laugh, one can anticipate a well timed snub.
“How different are you from the fish? All you do is get up every morning, get ready, go to office, come back, eat , sleep, and again get up next morning, and repeat the same thing. Even if you take a break, or shift your location, you’ll still be doing the same thing. The maximum you might do is shift from one routine to another.”
Soliloquist mumbles under her breath, “ I need not have woken up from my half slumber in the first place. So much for taking in the décor.”
Bumble Bee, with rabidly (pun unintended!) multiplying enthusiasm of one who has scored over the other, and is ready to go for the kill, delivers her final blow “ At least the fish doesn’t have the sixth sense. You claim to have it ……” A suggestive pause follows which ensures that the message is duly communicated.

When the counting is finally done , and Kutty had neatly tacked up the bunch and left it for the waiter to collect, Soliloquist ruminates over the apparent snub and realizes the pearl of wisdom that Bumble Bee unconsciously let slip by. Soliloquist looks up at Bee with new found awe. And decides to append Bee’s name in her long list of awe-inspiring women.

And so the day drew to a close, with a more enlightened Soliloquist finally being able to catch her ever-lost 40 winks.



An aside:

Speaking of pearls of wisdom, ala PG style, this one came up late last night.
The Krish Heroine** was in a very chatty (read ‘reflective’ between the lines) mood. Soliloquist also warms up to the occasion and they happen to discuss all and sundry.
When the subject turned to relationships, Soliloquist, predictably, speaking volumes about the futility of human ties, The Krish Heroine wisely said, “Whatever said and done, Man is a Social Animal. If the “social” is removed from it, Man is an animal, nothing but an animal.”
Soliloquist blinks back her sleep and gets reflective. (Read ‘chatty’ between the lines.)



*: By now, the readers of the this blog should know what PG stands for. As for the rest, please go through the previous posts which I wouldn’t link here.

**: Tired of using initials, I decided to refer people by their nick names.

July Seconds

Fate’s whips lash
Dreams crumble
Before your eyes
Embers slipping
Through your fingers
Fall on your knees
As Tears harden
With Silent sighs
Nascent Smiles die
Nothing matters
Any more
A cherished mural
Washed down
By a downpour
A secret joy
Transmuted
To a personal sorrow
Grieve for what that was
Grieve for what could’ve been
Hurt that bottles up
Corked and buried

In the recesses
Of your psyche
Pain that shall
Follow you
To Your grave

A resounding blow
That makes a man
Out of a boy
Way too soon

The world baring
Its teeth at an
Hapless kid
Numbed beyond defense

Illusions stripped
To reveal
Reality that
Would Morph
Into illusions
Someday.

A bed of roses
Meandering mirage
The haze clears
Needles and pins
Thorns and nails

Destiny grins
Villainous
Piteous pleas
Last cries
Lost cries

Shadows of the past
Dregs of evanescent pleasure
Seals of destination missed
Disembowel your spirit

Shoulders sag
Gait slacks
Vision blurs
Conscience kills


Pain inexpressible
Misery sans vent
A slow poison
Numbing delight

Get a grip
Shake it off
It wasn’t meant to be
Was it ?

You were meant
For other things
It was for someone else
Probably it aint that good……

Move on…
Drag on…
Grit your teeth
And Endure..

Doors are still
Waiting to be opened..
Don’t fret
Over the one that closed…….

A loser’s pep talk?
A booster for the last lap?
Roads that lead nowhere?
Incarcerated for life
Edmond Dantes
Or The Count of
Mounte Cristo?

-The Lunatic Bard

A question of Love

Girl : "I am not all that beautiful".


Guy1: "I dont give a damn about looks, its your heart that I look at"

Guy2: "No matter what others might say,you are the most beautiful girl to me.Afterall, Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder"

Guy3: "Bull crap!, who said you arent beautiful??? , You are a very attractive girl.. Lots of guys would go fida over you"


Who do you think the girl would choose?


Disclaimer: This is an absolutely hypothetical situation. Any resemblence to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Or so says The Soliloquist.

Speed of Sound

A song thats been in my head for sometime , for some uncanny reason. But now, the reason reveals itself in theaterical grandeur, in a moment of silence. After all that noise, And all that sound.

Speed of Sound - Coldplay

How long before I get in?
Before it starts, before I begin?
How long before you decide?
Before I know what it feels like?
Where To, where do I go?
If you never try, then you'll never know.
How long do I have to climb,
Up on the side of this mountain of mine?
Look up, I look up at night,
Planets are moving at the speed of light.
Climb up, up in the trees,
every chance that you get,
is a chance you seize.
How long am I gonna stand,
with my head stuck under the sand?
I'll start before I can stop,
before I see things the right way up.
All that noise, and all that sound,
All those places I got found.
And birds go flying at the speed of sound,
to show you how it all began.
Birds came flying from the underground,
if you could see it then you'd understand?
Ideas that you'll never find,
All the inventors could never design.
The buildings that you put up,
Japan and China all lit up.
The sign that I couldn't read,
or a light that I couldn't see,
some things you have to believe,
but others are puzzles, puzzling me.
All that noise, and all that sound,
All those places I got found.
And birds go flying at the speed of sound,
to show you how it all began.
Birds came flying from the underground,
if you could see it then you'd understand,
ah when you see it then you'll understand?
All those signs, I knew what they meant.
Some things you can invent.
Some get made, and some get sent,
Ooh?Birds go flying at the speed of sound,
to show you how it all began.
Birds came flying from the underground,
if you could see it then you'd understand,
ah, when you see it then you'll understand?

Wait Weary ...

The things that make me happy are few
And dont occur ordinarily
Thus the wise say there is nothing new
That i am happy ever so rarely!

Damn the Laws of Probability..
- L.B

The Chasm.

Last week, I read a short story, “The Squabble” by Gogol. The central theme is about a petty quarrel between two of Mirgorod (a hamlet in Little Russia) ‘s landowners, who were thick friends. The squabble matures into a long drawn legal battle that devours the whole of their lifetimes. This set me wondering on how the best of friends can fall apart on the most trivial of matters. That’s when this conversation came wafting through the channels of my mind.

S: I don’t like him anymore. He’s developed an attitude.
Voice: The feeling is mutual, my dear.
S: That’s why I don’t like him at all. He gives me the cold shoulder.
Voice: Your behavior towards him would have frozen him to be a preserved specimen till 3010 A.D.
S: I just react. I don’t initiate. And that’s another reason I loathe him.
Voice: For all that you might know, he may have the same thoughts about you.
S: How can he? After knowing me for so long?? I feel disillusioned. He is simply not worth my friendship.
Voice: A smile can shorten miles.
S: I smiled, he didn’t return it. I hate him now.
Voice: You walked past him, without saying even a Hi the other day.
S: (silent)
Voice: Why don’t you talk it out?
S: He doesn’t deserve it. Anyways who cares…
Voice: You do..
S: Get Lost, will you? I ll stuff a barrel down your throat if you don’t shut up this instant!
Voice :( Sighs, and disappears)
S: (Sulks. Misses the voice). How I hate voices in the head!!



P.S: No points for guessing who S is.

A simple wish

If only I could stop time,
grab my long lost 40 winks,
and set the seconds ticking again...
Sigh!

-Sleepy and Lunatic Bard.

Re-Serving Reservation

Much has been said about the election time gimmick a.k.a the reservation move of the Indian Government in recent times. Voices have been raised, and some have been heard.
Some were vehement, ridiculed the government, in cynical and sarcastic undertones. Some garnered mass support to protest. Some took a moderate stance -suggesting “affirmative action” as a more viable alternative.

But all these reactions are by people who haven’t an inkling of an idea of what oppression means. I read a short story , “the Strikebreaker” by Isaac Asimov set somewhere in the future, which runs somewhat like this:

A sociologist from Earth goes to a planetoid in the fringes of the Galaxy, to study the socio-cultural scenario there. He finds the planetoid to be gripped by a state of intense crisis. The planetoid, owing to its limited water resources, survives by recycling everything, including human wastes to replenish its supply of water. This might be revolting, but something similar to this happens in the natural cycles on our own planet.
The denizens are very well aware of this fact. The planetoid boasts of a very rigid caste system where even inter-caste marriages are allowed. The crisis situation is the family which does the recycling now has revolted and stopped doing so. Their demand: to be recognized as humans, to allow their children to grow with the other kids, their women to mingle with other women. For all that they do, these people just push some buttons which operate the recycling machines. The government wouldn’t give in, though they face the acute danger of a pandemic due to accumulating wastes and a diminishing water stock. The papers wouldn’t even mention his name while reporting the crisis. The earthman sees the glaring exploitation, but for the sake of larger good, offers to do the recycling, his offer is accepted with a sigh of relief. The protestor succumbs the loss of his last weapon to alleviation, and resumes his occupation. But the earthman is deported back to his planet having become contaminated with the abominable profession and is denied further entry into the Planetoid that helped to save from annihilation.

Asimov makes a passing reference to the gravediggers in Ancient India in the story. One might delve into the pragmatic origins of the caste system and how it degraded into an antithesis of human progress. Or one can argue that all that talk is irrelevant to the current situation now that post-independence caste system has been abolished and so have other forms of prejudiced oppressions. But having had privy to the so-called erstwhile “upper classes” mentality throughout my childhood, I wouldn’t say that the tell-tale “them” and “us” notions have'nt entirely disappeared. So many times, I have heard “ungalava” and “engalava” being used for absurd and mundane issues which wouldn’t lift a feather in the over-all scheme of things. So many households which use separate glasses and cups for the maids who wash their dirty pots and pans. So many houses constructed with separate entrances for the washer woman to wash and leave without infecting the sanctum and sanctorum of their divine abodes. People who do all this aren’t barbaric in the truest sense, cos they are compassionate to their household staff, helping them monetarily, never forgetting to give them the (excess) boxes of chocolates (which they got tired of eating) that their sons and daughters bring from their trips abroad. But the strains of meaningless superiority still linger on. Simply abolishing caste system hasn’t removed the taboo associated with inter caste marriages. Even in certain professions, especially the monetarily rewarding ones, the presence of the socially lower strata is sparse.

Some of my random thoughts on the subject: (inspired reaction to multitude of other random thoughts.

Attributing brain drain to reservation is actually a wake up call to the government. What does the government gain by investing in “brains” that look for the slightest opportunity to flee for greener pastures? Such brains would drain even with the teeniest of leaks in the pipe.

You are comfortable only where you belong. And a certain sense of fraternity holds good even when people leave their hometowns to fend for themselves. Not just to promote their culture and have a feel of home, but also to enjoy the privilege of rubbing shoulders with the “high and mighty” of the corporate echelons for they happen to be from your state/city/district/village/street and what not.. and caste still has the invisible binding effect that forms closed niches in places of “equal opportunity”.

Dilution of quality is a vehement argument against reservation. Those who are afraid of their pedestal being usurped, but wouldnt admit this fear even to their own sub-conscious minds, might see logic in this. If one prevents the dilution of quality by denying access, then by what means is quality maintained?? The same set of students with identical profiles/interest groups tend to pass out year after year with the same ideals, goals and aspirations.. which revolves around social apathy and self-promotion.

Improve primary education – A noble and lofty suggestion.. in the so called right direction.. Right for whom? God alone can answer this question. True, grass root reforms alone can be sustainable, but they consume the precious years that make the difference and generations would have to be passed to taste the fruits. By that time, the rich would have becomer richer and the poor poorer.

Before we set to admonish reservation as a ruthless suppression of merit, we should first make clear what exactly “merit” is. Is merit the ability to quote the great men and women of litreture, art and politics even when one has to ask something as simple as the directions to the next street? Is merit the ability to mug up scores of unwanted information from the zillion books and CDs that your parents buy and win a trophy trove in quiz contests? Is merit the ability to belt out the cash for the “competitive – exam” coaching centers? Is merit the ability to have parents who enroll you into posh private schools?? Do any one of us stop to think what we are , is what we were born into? I for one wouldn’t be writing this blog, if I were born to tribal parents in Nagaland, or to a poor weaver in kancheepuram, or a flower seller in Chennai. We really dont know how much of our "success" is sheer luck and fortitude.

I hail from the southern state of Tamil Nadu, where reservation rules the roost. And has been a regular feature of every party’s election manifesto, year after year. 69% is the reservation in this state, and if they choose to, the insane political competition here could well strive to make it cross 100%. And where every single caste, sub caste, sub-sub-caste scrambles to make the most of it, by marching to the state secretariat to be declared "backward".(This actually increases the rat-race amongst the BCs whose cut-off scores are almost as high as the OCs).
But all that has done the least to compromise “the quality” of the educated class.. The state boasts of some of the stellar entrepreneurs in the country’s younger industries, and the IT sector sees a sizeable representation of Tamilians, from ALL CASTES AND CLASSES.. It is a state where the lower middle class father could very well dream of sending his children to a high profile professional college.. I realized the true empowerment that reservation has given the masses, only after I entered college. In school, though the atmosphere was competitive, the mentality and background of the students used to be similar. Its in college, that I got to see people from different stratas of the society, with different kinds of upbringing, showing the equal amount of logical reasoning and thinking, although sometimes, prowess with the English word was something they couldn’t boast of. They had the same, if not more, amount of zeal and enthusiasm towards learning, and were very original and innovative in their grasp of new concepts.


A couple of my friends who belong to these apparently “backward” classes, have done pretty well throughout their collegiate years and have secured themselves enviable (even amongst meritorious standards) positions in private sectors which don’t have “reservation”. The only worry that plagues them now is they don’t have equally educated men in their caste when it comes to the question of seeking marital alliances.

Quality of education is mainly the responsibility of the educator and the pedagogy involved. It is highly ridiculous to place the onus of keeping up educational standards on the students. If a system of imparting knowledge depends on the student’s potential alone, then the system is very much at flaw and ironically, lacks in quality.

I am not a supporter of mindless vote-bank politics, which does nothing but up the ante on the reservation percentage. Reservation is an area where much thought and planning has to go in. And the present move may or may not include a thorough analysis of the pros and cons, and could even lack in foresight of its own goal and vision. It would serve a larger section of the populace, if the economic ( now more relevant) criteria is also included as a clause. I wouldnt consider myself a puritan supporter of reservation in its currently absolute form.
What had disturbed me is the pseudo-standards with which the reactions to the move came up. Flared by a commercialized and headline-hungry media , misinformed, superficial analysis, I was appalled by the “quality” (forgive the pun) of views and reviews from people whose writing I admire (used to) and adore. Not one bothered to give the other side of the coin, nor did anyone go beyond the calculatively moderate “affirmative actions”.

Disclaimer :

I did not intend to lash out at any particular line of thought. Each one is entitled to his/her own opinions. And so am I.
I did not intend to make this post 'this' long. If you had had the patience to reach till here, I extend my sincere gratitude to you.
I did intend to make this article neutral and tried to adopt a clinical approach to the issue. But I can hear myself puffing and huffing after all the ranting that I have done. My deepest regret at having disappointed myself.

Crucified

Moats of tears
Pillars of pain
Armour of Loss
Safe and secure
No more assaults.
Seen it all
Steeled nerves
Broken beyond
breaking point
Nothing Left
To devastate
Embers extinguished
Resigned to ruin
mute submission
Pledging servility
To its cruel whips
Its hunger insatiable
Back for the last drop
Of Blood and Life
Fate Strikes
Yet again.

- The Lunatic Bard

Thus spaketh my pen.

A fortnight back, one of my room mates came up with a writing assignment for me. Not that my prowess with the written word is known across the seven gutters of Banglore, but simply because she had no time to write it herself ( And I am not going to mention the fact that I have zillions of seconds at my disposal). Some one she knew had come over and narrated an incident that had happened to him/her (In my excitement at getting my first writing offer, I totally missed verifying this vital information.). He/She had wanted my roomie to write a story on that for him/her. And he/she was sitting on my roomie’s head to get it done. And he/she happened to be someone she couldn’t dismiss off with the choicest of expletives. So the buck was passed on to a more than willing victim..

I did it with all gusto and enthusiasm and mailed it to her the very next day. And waited with bated breath for his/her feedback. And waited . And waited. I asked my room mate for any updates on my client’s (!!!) reaction as many times as basic roomies decorum permitted. She gave me her approval of the same, but to me the end customer’s satisfaction is salvation.

As Providence may have it, I never got to experience my Nirvana. But still the desire to be pelted with rotten eggs and tomatoes is too strong for extraordinary immortals (if you are wondering who on earth could this be, its none other than Yours Humbly..) to desist. So I present to you, Ladies and Gentlemen, “With mouth Wide open….” the first story I was commissioned to write. Do be gracious and leave your comments/stinkers/roses and anything else in my blog.

“With mouth Wide open….”

“Hurry, its getting late!”, she hollered across the sea of neat cubicles. “We will miss the last cab home, if you are gonna amble any longer”…
He sighed. Muttering under his breath something unintelligible about all women being nags, he tried to hasten his steps.
Pretty soon, they were seated in a milk-white Indica, cruising through the traffic-free night streets of India’s IT capital.
She lowered the window glass to let in the cool evening breeze. He kept stealing glances at her as the wind ruffled up her long locks.. “Man, doesn’t she look pretty when she puts her face out like a puppy?”… He smiled to himself at this simile.. He had never been good with words..

“Get out !!, Out , I Say!!”… He was jolted back to reality with the cacophony that was raging outside… She was protesting wildly, at someone who was rapping at her window… He hadn’t realized she had drawn up the glass.. The cab had stopped and the driver was standing outside, his face reflecting all signs of impending calamity. A cop was tapping his cane at the window, ordering them to get out of the cab. He hushed her.. “Listen, lets do as he says.. get down”. She calmed down a little, seeing him take charge..

“Where are you guys headed?”, asked the cop.. His eyes were unfriendly, and his slurry speech disguised something sinister.. He could see the fear evident in her eyes.. He himself was slightly unnerved by the sudden interruption, notwithstanding the ungodly hour and the desolate setting.
The driver explained that he was from their company and was dropping them home after the night’s shift.
“Whom are you kidding, you bumble headed moron?” . “Don’t you dare to imagine that I am a half baked dim-wit!!” bellowed the beast in Khaki.
“ No, sir, but sir..” , the driver was groping for the right words to say..
“Open your mouth”, ordered the cop.
“Do as he says”, she screamed, by now a bundle of nerves. He couldn’t help stifling a chuckle, seeing her use his logic.
The driver did as he was ordered to. “Filling yourself with cheap arrack, and driving through the city at late hours , eh? , Wait till I lock you up, and break your bones..”., the cop held up the sobriety meter near the driver’s open mouth.
Silence. Nothing happened.

“Blasted meter, doesn’t work when we want it to”, he shook it with all his might, “Hmmm, open again”.. The driver opened his mouth wide, exposing 32 nicotine stained teeth with all grace. She squirmed at the unearthly sight by the light of the street lamp.
“God-forsaken meter, what s wrong with it tonight?” The cop hit the breath analyzer hard on his fist and held it up near his own mouth.
“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP”, the meter started to beep through the silent night, casting an eerie red light as it glowed.. The cop was flabbergasted. He shook it hard and held it up again,
“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP”.. He burst out laughing.. She shushed him with a fierce hiss..


“What is goin on here?” , An official looking plainclothes man approached the party of four. “Nothing , sir”, “Just the usual checks” , mumbled the flustered cop…

“No, Sir, we were stopped rudely by this constable…..”. The driver somehow found his tongue and narrated the whole outrageous incident at breakneck speed.
The man in mufti heard him out.
“ Hold that meter up to your mouth” , he ordered the constable,. “BEEP,BEEP,BEEP”… The senior cop turned to them, “Sorry, Sir, I apologise for the mistake” “You can leave now , Ma’m”..”Sorry for the trouble”.

“Write down the registration number of the vehicle and you can leave”, he told the driver.

She was too distraught to speak another word, He too kept to himself for the rest of the journey.

The next morning, at work..
She comes up to his cubicle, “Hey, did you read the paper this morning?”.. “No, I didn’t, was in a bit of a hurry.., why anything sensational?” … “Constable suspended for getting drunk on duty and bullying public”.. ..

Both of them chorus a giggle mixed with relief and mirth.. “Life ain’t unjust, after all”,…

The Interpreter

Come March, the mercury soars. Having lost its Garden-city status, Bangalore is no exception to the searing heat that rules the roost in the South of India.
The rising temperature might keep us humans indoors, but the reptilian community of the city seems to find it prudent to venture out. Discomfited by the heat, one particular denizen of our house’s hidden nooks, sought refuge in our bathroom door one fine Friday night.
This lizard, henceforth referred to as liz, (for we* have christened it Elizabeth if female and Lister if male.. And we have absolutely no desire to find out which one is appropriate.) became the sole object of our attention that weekend.

Lizzie Day 1:

Soliloquist comes back to the room late, after a hard day at work (!!) to find S.J cocooned under her quilt. S.J had left work earlier that evening with a fever fiercely competing with the ambient temperature. Soliloquist wants to wash her face and hit the sack, so stumbles her way to the bathroom to be rudely shocked by Lady Liz ( I am assuming that its female, cos I stay in a women’s P.G**) relaxing on the anvil.
Soliloquist is petrified in her tracks, and turns to S.J for help. S.J mumbles something beyond Soliloquist’s intelligence in her infirmed state. Soliloquist tries all sort of antics to scare Liz. Liz is unmoving. Soliloquist calls her chum for advice. He raises her fears by saying that Liz might ve been dead for hours.
Soliloquist turns desperate. Goes down to the landlady for help and assistance. Manages to communicate her anxiety in her broken kanmil ( kannada+tamil). Aunty (that’s what we call her) comes up armed with a broom and prods Liz. Liz spurs to action and moves behind the curtains. Soliloquist is happy . Washes face and snores away to oblivion.

Lizzie Day 2:

Soliloquist plans to work on weekends to make up her lethargy during the week. Double checks for Liz along the bathroom door’s perimeter and steps in the bathroom, at ungodly hours ( i.e on Saturday terms). And scoots off to work. S.J is still asleep under her over-sized quilt.
Soliloquist returns back that evening to find S.J staring at the ceiling lost in thought. Soliloquist surprised to see S.J so pensive and follows her gaze to end up staring in unison at the unfair reptilian beauty of Lady Liz. Soliloquist gets into action on a war footing. Calls an urgent counsel of all her able P.G mates. Everyone seems to have a lizzie tale of their own. An entire family seems to be residing in parallel for free.

End of meeting: Soliloquist more alarmed than usual, S.J looking unusually meditative.


That night.......:


S.J and Soliloquist follow the movements of Lady Liz like shadows. They get on the defensive. (Offense requiring more courage than both of them could ever muster).
The beds are moved to the center of the room. Soliloquist fights valiantly with sleep, having gotten up so early on a Saturday morning. The ever resourceful S.J picks up and M & B from V.N’s *** bed and is soon lost in pinky mush. Soliloquist tries to ape S.J and picks another M & B ( Both our stocks of books being too strenuous to be read in a sleepy state) . Soliloquist soon learns her lesson, the pink and red getting to her head, drops the book and resigns to her fate of keeping watch. Soliloquist is so impressed with herself, she even toys with the idea of being a sentry as if her profession gets any more unrewarding than it already is. A summer storm brews outside, with thunder clapping in applause to Soliloquist’s dedication.
The clock strikes one. The lights go off. Cursing the wretched transformer, Soliloquist and S.J fumble around the menagerie of cosmetics to find the candle on the shelves. Soliloquist resumes her sentry watch, joined by S.J, now having finally given up on M&B owing to poor lighting. Neither talks. The silence speaks volumes. Liz holds them enthralled with her maneuvers. Liz goes and hides behind the lampshade . S.J and and Soliloquist in a quandary. They wait with concentration for Liz to emerge from her hiding. Some thing bright flickers….
AAAAaaaaaagh!!.. Soliloquist screams..
Aaaaaaagh!!! S.J Choruses after a slight phase delay.
S.J stops to think. Soliloquist continues her siren. S.J shakes some sense into Soliloquist. Soliloquist gapes in new found wonder at Edison’s inventions.. The lights have come back… Liz too, scared by the two sopranos wriggles off to some remote corner.. Soliloquist says her wise thing for the day (her quota of one wise thing for the day still being unused) “Out of sight, out of mind”. And slumps down in a heap to snore her lungs away. S.J, still skeptical, plods on with her M&B.

Lizzie Day 3:

Liz is nowhere to be seen. S.J and Solioquist rejoice and thank the heavens. The even celebrate by shopping (!!) in lizzie’s honor. To be better safe than sorry, they lodge a complaint with the landlord. To their dismay, they discover he is as scared as them when it comes to Lady Liz. But as a solace, he offers to send his 2 year old toddler , Madam P , who happens to be an expert exterminator, specializing in Lizards. Soliloquist and S.J stay downstairs for most of the evening watching a deluge of dumb shows on the tube.
S.J finally gathers the guts and goes upstairs. Soliloquist follows with Madam P tagging along, lured by the snacks that S.J stocks up in the room.

Soliloquist is struck with déjà vu. Soliloquist catches S.J in the same pensive posture as on Lizzie Day 2. Both of them turn to Madam P for deliverance, eyes filled with hope. Madam P, oblivious, starts with her usual chime “S.J, Chips Chips chips..” “Chips, give me”..(A literal translation that she makes from kannada, to enhance our comprehension, her own and definitely not mine).

A diabolical gleam flashes across S.J’s eyes. “Madam P, you chase that lizzie away and I shall give your Chips chips chips..”. Soliloquist is bowled over by this master stroke.. Soliloquist filled with awe and admiration for S.J. Makes a mental note to pick up some pointers from S.J sometime later. Madam P marches across the beds to Lady Liz’s lair. And shrieks in her baby voice “Palli, Go”.. She repeats her cry with more vehemence and swings both her tiny arms to emphasize her point. And Lo!, , Palli (Lizard in kannada) obeys her command and does her bidding…

S.J and soliloquist heave a sigh of relief. Soliloquist utters her wise thing for the day “ Ahh, now I get it.. the Lizard was a kannada speaking one.. It didn’t understand our language.. All we needed was an interpreter”. They handsomely reward Madam P for her services, with “Chips, chips, chips”…




***** :
We*: S.J and Soliloquist
P.G**: Paying Guests
V.N***: Another roomie, who is fond of M&Bs and who was out of town for the weekend.

****: the astrixes are part of a novel strategy to reduce my talking in brackets.

A Kiss

Shrieking Still
Dark Night
Trial of will
And all his might

Frantic paces
Burning torture
His mind races
Heart in rapture

The stray twirl
The soft glance
Set him in a whirl
An eternal trance

She lay awake
Beads of sweat
A lot at stake
Desires whet

This is the moment
Of gain and loss
No time to lament
Fate’s own toss

He waits
She alights
Wolf cries
In the woods

He calls
She responds
A kiss






“Goodnight Papa”
She lies on her bed
A kiss
On her forehead

Dreams caress
Palls of slumber
Ruffling tresses
Sleep drowns her




The silent night
Wolf cries
In the woods
And he waits……

- The Lunatic Bard

Eyes opened..

There are things in life which can show you how big a fool you have been.. when realisation strikes, instinct devolops a shell to protect from further hurt and pain.. Seeking contentment in solitude... Becoming a rock of glass...

A song which I dedicate to myself ...

I am a Rock - Simon and Garfunkel

A winter’s day
In a deep and dark december;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the
streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I’ve built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship;
friendship causes pain.
It’s laughter and it’s loving I
disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
Don’t talk of love,
But I’ve heard the words before;
It’s sleeping in my memory.
I won’t disturb the slumber of
feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have
cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within
my womb.
I touch no one and no one
touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

I am an Indian

Of late there has been a great amount of publicity for the neo-national spirit.
Movies like Rang – De –Basanti impacting the target audience in a profound manner. Just last week, I had a tea-break chat, with a friend of mine who has been pretty keen on advancing his education abroad. For all that I know of him, he was one chap who was very focused on his career beyond the shores of this country, and had a fairly well-planned strategy for achieving his goals. But what amused me was this guy who seemed so hell-bent on his dreams, was moved to the extent of reconsidering his choice, after watching a 3 hour flick. He went on to watch the movie a coupla times more, in different geographic locations as well. The dude joined an online fan group of the movie and was roused enough to start a blog and put up a review. I was amazed by the amount of influence a movie can have on a person.
Yet another acquaintance of mine made a similar career move and went on to work in the rural stretches of India, after being influenced by the movie Swades. As time and fate had it, he realized that he had burnt his fingers, and is right now considering a time-tested career path. But, nevertheless kudos to his courage to try and be different.
I haven’t seen either of the movies, and I am no authority on the quality of work in this form of art/expression. What these, movies have managed to do, is kindle the dormant desire in the youth of today, to make the difference.
Nationalistic fervor of yesteryears was something which needed a leader, and icon to inspire. But patriotism in today’s flat world has a different dimension, all together. Our youth force is as competent and ambitious as any other across the globe. People are no longer tied by stigmas and the economy seems to have empowered them with a sound financial backing. Knowledge has acquired fluidity throughout the lengths and breadths of the country and information travels faster than wind. Today’s men and women are able to think on their feet and have the guts to question tradition.
But, their apathy to take up the onus kept things at a stale-mate. And the ones that did take it up, didn’t (and still don’t) clearly know what they had taken up and what they were to encounter in their path. They don’t need a leader, they need a movement.
The system has become ridden with miscreants who look upon it as a never-ending mine of gold. Youth of today know what ruin these shenanigans had brought in their wake. They are well-armed in resisting the lure of moolah, and in keeping the system going ahead.
Its good to see that group of the best brains of the nation have launched a political party. But though they have been highly appreciated, much remains to be seen. Lets hope they aren’t just a bunch of charged up individuals, who after the pet project, (something that would end being an inconspicuous fine print in their resume), land up in some multi national biggie with a fat pay packet.

People who took on the system alone, sticking by their principles ended up resting their heads on soft earth, six feet down under. ( I am not including a hyperlink here, because I hope memories of such horror stay afresh and don’t need any recollection). This was a colossal set back to the bright starry eyed intelligentsia, which gets disillusioned when its brethren of excellent educational background, find not only their intellects but also their lives becoming feed to the political predators.

The will to stay on and make the difference is resident in each and every individual. Even the one’s that have chosen the escape route to greener pastures are likely to come back and do their part, once things start rolling. The system at hand, is filled with unimaginable filth. One or two idealistic rookies cant change the world over night. Before sowing the seeds of a new era, the weeds have to be cleared. A silent war needs to be waged. Somebody has to do the dirty work, someday. Why not we and why not today? Our children may not remember us for what we have done, but we shall go to our graves with our heads held high.

Sometime back, I had to stand in the queue in Chennai to reserve tickets for my impending train journey. There was a snag in the network and the queue started to build up. People were clinging on to their positions with all their might.
There was a slight commotion in the senior citizen’s counter. A mini-racket had taken shape. Some “young-at heart" man had started a debate and the rest of them were passionately getting into the ring. One particularly effervescent grey haired personality, who was the next to get to the counter, got up from his seat, walked all the way to the end of the line, to prove his point. From the bits of conversation that came wafting, I was able to conjure upon a vague picture of some civic issue that needed attention.

The senior citizens of Chennai have always been a very active lot. Anywhere they meet lackadaisical attitude, they will “write to THE HINDU”. They share their concerns in any scenario, be it the morning walk in the beach, the chance wait-together in the bank, the post-office and so on and so forth. Despite the rude remarks from the other end “ Ei Perusu, velaiya pathutu poga maata?” translated as “ Mind your business, old man”..
Perhaps they have seen more of life, or maybe since they have all the time in the world, and have come the full circle in their personal lives that they can now afford to digress and think of the society as well.

Why should anyone wait till their youngest daughter gets married and bears grandchildren to start thinking of their locality/society/city/state and the country?
Why cant we teach a little bit of social consciousness in our schools along with the novel ideas of educating them in the share market early on?

Heavy rock and other similar genre of music generally scores a hit with the rebel in everyone. A sense of liberation is can be experienced through music and words. Its time to realize the same kind of emancipation in action.

Every walk of life needs to be revolutionalised with a common ideal in mind, which is what the Government is ideally supposed to be doing.

Not too long ago, I had caught up with an old friend of mine. We were into the topic of philosophy, God, et al. He quoted some western schools, and their tenets to prove his point. I accept, without shame, that I am blissfully unaware of all such things. But one thing that disturbed me was the fact that even for philosophizing one needs to look upon the west. Why is anything and everything that’s oriental, considered backward and decadent? I fully appreciate a mingling of cultures, a seamless blend of the East and the west. But why don’t we accept if not appreciate our own, as an alternative? Is it because of the fact that familiarity breeds contempt?

These are just random thoughts which I thought I could pen down. In one of my previous blogs, I had posted a poem ("Dare I dream") on similar lines. Wonder why I keep doing an encore of writing on the need for action, without actually acting upon anything.. Sigh!, Afterall, I am Indian.