All the good things in life...

Yaaro Chalo S03E01

2011-02-05T17:47:00.002+05:30

The hands stood united, clasping onto the ones on either side. Lips widened, eyes sparkling, heart beating faster than another occasion in a while; and then followed the deafening applause. It was an action song performed in a long time since that 3^rd standard Vandey Mataram feat back at the Annual Day in school. Only this time there were over 300 people alongside to share the embarrassment and excitement, the later more. And in that brief cognitive pause, every single person in the Ravindra Natya Mandir hall could infer what Siddharth Kak meant with those words, “You are going to have an amazing time, you are going to have a horrible time, and you are going to have a memorable time.”

With an average of 2 journeys in a month, and 24 in a year spanning over 30 years of active life, a logical assumption can be drawn that we would have travelled by close to a thousand trains in our lifetime. But the picture of that one train, making its first appearance at the LTT terminal eagerly awaited by eyes fixed at the far dark bent along the tracks, would remain etched forever. For how often, do you get to have one named not by four (now five) random digits or the station terminals, but simply referred to as “Apni Train”; one that waits for your arrival so that you don’t miss it; and more importantly one where you are acquainted with every other single boarder en route the journey.

And thus began the journey. Amidst people who had quit jobs to be there, fought parents to leave home, ignored the doctors’ advice to stay bedridden, conned the odd college principal; and the slightly (not so) lucky ones taking a break from their better halves. Some were there to learn, some to unlearn, and some like me were, well, just there. Traversing through 9000 km across the nooks and corners of the country with 13 destinations in a span of 18 days, one has to commend the courage that 400 individuals showed to put up in the comfort of Indian Railways’ nominal offering turned home for three weeks. The motive of awakening the entrepreneurial spirit apart, which I am sure the organizing team will do a good job to talk about, the Yatra duly served to realize its integral purpose in the hindsight. As a friend of mine cheekily posed on how it feels to have been “TJYed”, all I could mumble across was “It’s an experience.” In retrospection, there could not be a better explanation than that. Crouching there on the Upper berth in a compartment flanked by over a dozen people to discuss India’s politics and purpose of life alike, it made perfect sense. And when you talk to a chap who runs a small depot somewhere in remote MP that still does not have proper electricity, and a chap working for a multinational in Uptown London, you know how assorted the essence of the word experience could be. You learn; from people and across places. Starting from the TJY Role Models and celebrated Panelists, to that old man down in some village in Berhampur who talks about his family and the only son who ran away; to our very own Alam bhai who would unfailingly be there every night to serve the last soup as we wrapped into the sleeping bags and the first tea as we would struggle to get our eyes opened. They all had something to teach.

It took quite a while to get used to a steady bed that would not make you tumble in the night following the Yatra. Also, it felt strangely sloppy taking a bath in an enclosed cubicle under a shower. No announcement to tell when you are allowed to use the toilet, and to let you know that you are crossing over Asia's longest road-cum-rail bridge at the moment. No getting up to the warm reception of Dhol beats, green fields and elephant rides on a freezing winter morning. Beyond all the status messages put up to flaunt from obscure locations during the Yatra, hundreds of photos uploaded over the social networking portals, and scores of meetings planned post trip, there has been a lot more from this journey that we all have taken away. And how much ever someone like me tries to deny it; there’s this feeling deep inside which tells you that there has been a change, and even so not very remarkable, it’s there to stay; till our names stay engraved on that stone in Deoria.

Journaux Français 004: When I get older, I will be stronger

2010-07-15T13:47:00.000+05:30

The year: 1998.

I had just changed school. The new one had a lot more students, speaking in English was mandatory, and I had to take the school bus as it was quite far to pedal down my new fancy cycle. Dad would drop me by his scooter at the Netaji Chowk everyday in the morning after Mom had packed my bag and dressed me up. One fine morning, as we waited for the bus to arrive at the Netaji chowk, I remember Dad discussing some football thing between

Brazil

and

France

with Roy uncle, the quite (assumingly) friendly Bong neighbor with a straight-faced-oil-haired-thick-spectacled kid. Some chap named Ronaldo was to win it for

Brazil

that evening. My very first memories of soccer; football rather. I don’t quite remember watching the game but apparently

France

did some miracle and defeated

Brazil

3-0. And I heard the name Zinedine Zidane for the first time. Dad seemed quite happy the next morning.

The year: 2002.

There was this small STD booth on the Acharya Vihar street, Bhubaneswar which had a television set. Everyone in the summer Mathematics Olympiad camp, hosted at DM school for that year would sneak out in the evening to the booth with an excuse to call back home, and steal a look into the score. Well, for me it was the very first time ever away from parents. And 8 hours long Math lectures a day for the poor 13 year old brain wasn’t doing any good to the home-sickness. However, I found solace in the late night discussions about the “then in vogue” Harry Potter and ongoing World Cup matches with some newly found good friends. The game of Football, by this time, was quite fanciful for a young school going kid. The more you knew, the smarter you were supposed to be, and EA Sports had done pretty much its share to help me get seemingly smarter in the sense. All the news channels would flash about

France

’s loss to

Senegal

and subsequently crashing out of the tournament in the first round itself; so much for the defending champions. Even getting the Zidane guy for the last match couldn’t be of much help.

The year:2006.

I sat there all alone in the drawing room in the middle of the night clutching on to the pillow; wet eyed, head about to burst off, heart beating at twice its normal rate. I presume I even shouted “fuck” once; the loudest I could without essentially making any sound, more like the one that comes from within and you deeply feel and mean it. Everyone else back home was sleeping, but I didn’t care. Zidane had just been shown the red card. Well, after six years of religiously following the English Premier League, the Spanish La Liga, the Italian League, the Champions League and a little bit of the Copa America, I had chosen Zinedine Zidane, the one with a magical left foot, jersey number 5, Real Madrid as my God. And there he was, for the last time taking a walk off the ground. Fuck! I hated Materazzi more than Douglas Marillier now (refer to any middle class Indian kid brought up in the 90’s). What an end to a career. Born to Algerian parents, brought up in Marseille, rejected in his own country’s side for (apparently) being too slow, went on to captain France instead, and play for Bordeaux, Juventus and Real Madrid; not to mention being FIFA’s footballer of the year thrice. The slight glitch being, he never played for his home side Marseille.

The year: 2010.

I stood there in Marseille, down a tattered street with two little kids kicking around a ball. “So this is the place where he grew up. Thought you would be here someday buddy?”, Zorian remarked in his Ceh-Neh-Dian accent. I could only let off a smile, more to myself. The distant fireworks were pretty much visible from there. The center of the city was a riot. Olympique de Marseille had just won the French Auxerre after 18 long years and had their last match that night with results already decided. So, if there be any term to put it, they had “the party match”. I wondered what it would be like being at the Old Trafford or even Nou Camp at a moment like that. And hence, lady luck decided to let me a little closer to the wish. The scale being much grander though, as this time the FIFA WC 2010 beckoned. And for the next one month, well there were just two things you could see, eat, taste, smell, and breathe around; beer and soccer. In the room, down the common room, at a friend’s place, the regular pub downtown, the giant screen up Centre Ville, the radio at the odd pizza outlet by the road bend, it was hysterical. You were either following the games, rooting for your team, or you had to be a blonde. The evening before

Spain

was to take on

Germany

at the semis, Fredrick remarked, “30 years back, when I came to Europe, it was

Germany

versus

Netherlands

in the finals. I was sitting in a pub in

Germany

watching the match, and I remember the Dutch scored the first goal. I spontaneously started clapping, but suddenly stopped to realize that everyone around was gazing at me.” A few days later, I stood there at Bar des PTT, Plache Richelme with a bunch of pothead Dutch fans dressed (or not so dressed, in case of females) in Oranje. Iniesta shot, and I jumped spontaneously screaming “Espaaaanyol!” at the top of my voice. And well, nothing would stop me this time.

Only if

France

had done a little better, and Zizou were still be playing. Drawing a reference from the previous post, this time it was my turn to envy a friend who was in

Spain

all along the entire summer. But nevertheless, I hope to be travelling the South of America by 2014 and finish what was left unfulfilled here. A Cuban cigar in one hand and a beautiful company in another should help get over the loss. Life has come a long way down since that bright sunny morning waiting for the school bus to arrive after all.

Life Updates:

[The count of wine varieties (based on year and region of make) to have tasted has crossed 40, or more. Wrapping up work, a little shopping, bidding goodbyes, and cleaning up the room has started. Got caught on France-3, the television channel, during post match celebrations with friends at Rotonde. Will also be featuring in Midi Libre’s coverage of the conference at Langlade. Life’s been a little more than good per say. Punctured the ball and Eviame left, so no more game since the past two days. Witnessed the annual choreographed fireworks with orchestrated music down Centre Ville celebrating the French Independence Day tonight. It was Beautiful. The fact that I switched off my camera again, testifies for it. Seems like I have fallen in love again for the sixth time with the same one. Now, waiting for the fifth time to fall out of it.]

Journaux Français 003: The Day the Music Died

2010-07-05T13:34:00.008+05:30

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it….

Billet : Mercredi 23 June 2010. Le Dome, Marseille Nostalgie presente BOB DYLAN Live in Concert. I opened the drawer and read it for the fiftieth time. Bob Dylan it said. In bold and capitals. I didn’t know what to do. I had to talk to somebody; I had to shout; I had to jump. “Yohoooooo!”, it echoed in my head, and I even did a mental fist punch. I looked around; Annabelle had her head buried deep into the monitor. Alma walked in, handed over some papers and left the room. Office definitely does not feature in the list of favourite places you would like to be when life has just handed you a Strawberry Pie with almond stuffed crust and brown sugar cream cheese. I took a deep breath, sank into the chair, threw my head backwards and closed my eyes for a while. It was to happen in the evening. For fucking real. Bob Dylan.

Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’, swingin’ madly across the sun
It’s not aimed at anyone, it’s just escapin’ on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin’
And if you hear vague traces of skippin’ reels of rhyme To your tambourine in time, it’s just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn’t pay it any mind
It’s just a shadow you’re seein’ that he’s chasing….

I am sure every heart in the auditorium stopped beating for that brief moment as he walked into the stage. They stood there; gaping; awestruck; eyes refusing to blink even for a trice as water drops rolled down more than just a few cheeks. This wasn’t a crowd filled with tireless vigour driven by alcohol and substance to pump up the lungs to scream, the feet to jump, or the head to sway on every beat. They were not attending a music concert. They had been to many, and knew they would witness several more. This was the Mecca, and they were here to pay their tribute for the love of music. This time; they were here to cry.

The words started to flow; the very ones played/heard/ felt more number of times than any other to have ever been written; sung by a zillion people with numerous renditions across the faraway nooks and corners of the globe. The words that have lived for long and would stay alive in those literary circles, in those underground pubs, in the car radio, the odd deserted alley and more importantly, in everyone’s conscience till the times, they be a-changin’.

The thunderous applause that filled the theatre still rings in my ears; and it just wouldn’t stop. The smiles and tears on all those faces starting from the skinny wheel-chaired bloke getting his last gift from life to the starry eyed kid on his father’s shoulders, stood testimony to the honest accolade from all those who grew up listening to him, and those who grew up to listen to him. There haven’t been many occasions when I had a camera in my hand and didn’t even bother switching it on, given the aesthetic fondness developed in recent times. I promised never to complain again of not having been born in the era to watch the Beatles perform live, or attend a mehfil of Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. As a good friend remarked, “You might be the only guy in the course of my stay in Kgp I have ever envied for any reason.”

Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow…

…for I know that no other individual I would ever see, up there on stage again, could be the one to have moved generations over half a century with his mellowed voice, an acoustic guitar and a harmonica. From here on, every time I pick the guitar to strum “knockin on heaven’s door”, or bray “…with no direction home, like a complete unknown...” in the shower, or whistle “the answer my friend... is blowin' in the wind…” in those empty boulevard down a silent night walk, a fleeting thought is sure to cross my mind of that image; that voice.

To me, that would forever remain the day the music died. It was a shuttle taking its last flight up another galaxy, and I just managed to grab a berth. Bob Dylan. A’live’.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you…

Life Updates:
[Following squib, tried oysters this time; raw. Have tasted over 20 varieties of wine by now; add to it Pastis, Sangria and Caipirinha (excluding occasional consumption of JD, Absolut, Label 5 and a lot of beer). On the physical front, game has improved; though stamina still remains a problem. The Ultimate Frisbee is an amazing sport, primarily because it is more like rugby where you are allowed to have girls in the side. Also, I realized that Indians and Pakistanis are best of buddies when they meet in a neutral land. Watched “My name is Khan” at the ReNoir with a couple of nice chaps from

Pakistan

amidst a bunch of French and Brits/Americans. Remember her saying, “Iss duniya mein do hi tarah ke log hain. Achchey log, aur burey log.” Besides, everyone is sleeping around with everyone these days, save for me. Has reached beyond a point where they would even consider me gay; I don’t seem interested in guys as well. Random doodles making life plans have increased. I need a white-board now. And yes, cloves too.]

Journaux Français 002: Goodwill Hunting

2010-06-07T20:16:00.003+05:30

Marii. That’s the name. There couldn’t be any other way I could have started this post. No, I am not in love; not again. Neither have I got any feelings for her; be it emotional or physical. I am just in awe. Awe of the astounding phenomenon of her existence, I would choose to call life. One that I have never known or seen from all the deads I have come across during the entire course my being. Sometimes it’s so easy to be “the you” in us that we stop being “the me” for a while.

I would often greet her with an occasional “Bon jour” or “Bon Soir” over the corridor to be reciprocated with a sweet inviting smile. Or even bump into her once a while at the Douche or Kitchen; co-ed dorms have their own little things to allure you see. And as I waited for the eggs to get boiled one fine Friday afternoon, there she stood doing dishes at the far corner. “So, what do you do”, she asked, after having made several attempts to get my name spelt correctly. One of the best things about being an architecture student is that you can see the eyes and lips widen simultaneously when you tell people about it. I posed back the same question to which she drew her eyebrows and said, “Well, I used to study art. These days I just clean dishes.” I am not too sure which of the two statements enticed me more, the fact or the wit.

A few more smiles and fewer words later she asked if I would like to join her and some friends, as they plan to attend a music festival over the weekend by the countryside. I am sure you would understand that it gets a little Tough to say No to an invitation like that; add music to it and it becomes Impossible. “And so, how do we go?” I asked. She looked at me, winked, and goes, “Hitchhiking!”

The next day sharp at 2, there was the knock on my door as pre-decided. I was waiting in anticipation quite well in advance of an hour; and there they stood, Marii and Elishka. Well, with “friends” I had expected a group or something of sorts. Not that I am complaining, but I was err… well, surprised. And so for the obvious questions that tickled my skeptic, over cautious, guilty conscious brain on “where and how were we to put up”, they drew their back packs and pointed to the sleeping bags. I grinned. Something told me that it was about to go either way too Right, or way too Wrong.

Halfway down the road with the sweet Italian couple who had been kind enough to drop us at Correns, the exact location of the fest, I realized that hitch-hiking was in fact the only way to get there if you didn’t have a car of your own. No buses to the place, no trains either. I could see what was coming. Flavia, the Italian female, narrated about the chain of Goodwill. Someone had helped them sometime in the past, and now it was a pleasure for them to help us this way, and hence, it proliferates. You meet people you have never known and are never to meet again, but there is something that touches your life as the sense of gratitude stays on.

Correns seemed like a magical town, straight out of those fanciful stories you have read/heard of; and if you have seen the movie “Big Fish”, it was “Spectre” and you know what I am talking about. If someone said Utopia does not exist, bring him down for I witnessed it; right then; right there. It was music all around. You could feel it. Amidst the ecstatic view of the little village below with the church post at the distant end, the sun started to merge over the faint mountains as they played it and danced along. The damsel in white with the violin, the accompanist on a flageolet, the jolly bearded guy with the bagpiper and all the acoustic guitars in the backdrop. Each note so distinct, so hypnotic; each sway of the dancer’s body so graceful, so elegant. The night that followed is way beyond my comprehension skills, for how much ever I try, I cannot do enough justice to describe it. Or may be, I do not want to describe it. Sometimes, you just do not want the best of things to ever happen again so as to relish the one gone by forever.

Tell your friends that:

i) You went hitch-hiking. A REAL one.
ii) Along with two strangers. (though we are very good friends now)
iii) Both of them girls. One French, one Czech.
iv) In an unknown land where you don’t even speak the language.
v) Attended a crazy traditional French music fest in the middle of a forest.
vi) Danced and drank all night.
vii) Slept in sleeping bags in a tent.

And they pop up the obvious question, “Kiya?” Well, to that mate I would say, “NAHIN Kiya. Take it asshole. Up yours’. Life is not spelt with the three letter word. Well, on second thoughts, may be it is. But there are certain things beyond the usual perception of human psyche. And you realize it someday.”

Getting back to the above mentioned list, I missed out one very important point there. Correction:

viii) For the given time period, I was an illegal immigrant in the country.

Well, continuing from the previous post, my visa had the misprint of being valid from 27.05.2010 instead of 07.05.2010, and so they had extended it for 15 days starting from the 7^th. Basic math tells you that it leaves 5 days in between. And now you know what I was doing then!

As I waited alone at one of the crossroads in the middle of nowhere hoping for a soul to pass by, for the first time in years I felt so free. There was nothing I feared, for I felt alive. Its amazing this feeling; the sense of being alive. I didn’t care if it would take me a day or forever to reach back to my place. I mused over Marii’s last words in her tethered English as I was to set out of Correns, “You have luck. I can sense it. Au Revoir.”

Life Updates:

[Things are awesome. Have settled in pretty well, and friends around make it fun. Food has started tasting a lot better as I still keep experimenting. Work has caught pace, so has my French learning. Get to play everyday for an hour and half. Go trekking once a while. I hope to get a lot fitter by return. Average sleeping hours have reduced. Got myself a pair of fanciful shades today (always hated wearing them) among a host of other things and souvenirs. On a more contemplative note, still looking for the answers. From life. From myself.]

Journaux Français 001: Lost in Translation

2010-05-17T18:16:00.000+05:30

The handcuffs swayed right across my eyes as I sat on a bench down the corner looking at all those faces. They laughed out together, I didn’t know if the joke was at me but I didn’t care; not that I could do anything even if I did. Four uniformed personnel and a bunch of detainees. Some suited up, some without clothes. A Nigerian being interrogated violently for possession of something I couldn’t figure out, an American trying to light his cigar with shaky hands, a lady crying down on the adjacent table with the child on her lap. I felt so out of place.

Getting arrested had always been there on my to-do list. I thought drug-trafficking would sound like a ‘cool’ enough reason; might even earn me a front page story. Had not decided on the date and place yet though. But there’s a slight difference between what you tell your friends that you would like to try someday and what you can take in real. No kidding there. On my first trip to Europe, within 10 minutes of landing in Paris, all by myself, I didn’t ask for it then. And here we were dealing with a case of illegal infiltration. Damn the Indian embassy for misprinting the date on my Visa, but how could “I” miss it, how could have “they” missed it at the New Delhi airport!

Just as I was aboard watching the Mediterranean desert below make way for Siberian meadows, it felt like a dream where I could fly, quite literally. A little claver with the extremely benevolent air hostess, a couple of extra complimentary beer cans, inter-linked arcade gaming with newly befriended pals from sister IITs onboard, I just had enough to write about the journey’s onset. They all seemed like ages ago.

I sat there. The officer had asked me to wait. I kept checking the door and my watch on alternate occasions, only to find the later moved by a few seconds every time and the previous stay un-budged. A million thoughts crossed my mind. Only if I had not read stories about the detention camps in the US and seen Bollywood flicks where the protagonist is held captive for years, things would had been a little easier. I felt apprehensive about being an Asian and hated myself for having that small fly-beard. And it wasn’t funny. I never missed my parents any more in my entire life than those two hours. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t have tears in my eyes, but I didn’t cry. I could not afford to then. It is much easier to relieve yourself with the waterworks when you are alone and no one’s watching. May be I saved it for later.

I thought of the last words that everyone I could remember had said… “..eat well beta and take care“, “…enjoy your stay and write me back”, “Bang a few French chicks..”, “…don’t forget to get me a souvenir”, and amidst all this, it somehow felt meekly strange that I could still think of her.

The door opened, and there they called me to the chamber. An officer sat across the table, this one was perhaps of a higher cadre. Three more walked across. I always fancied the get-up as a kid; black creaseless attire, spotless shine on the leather boots, guns in a pouch, handcuffs hanging by, and the scary black baton. They didn’t seem all that fanciful anymore. A translator was called as the officer figured out that I could not speak French. It seemed like some help, but only if the translator were a little more friendly. She kept answering to all my “what is going to happen” query with a meek straight faced, expressionless “I do not know” and “Do not ask me” replies. It took some time to realize that they were just trying to enquire on why I “made an attempt” to enter the country without a valid Visa. “I did not see the date” did not sound like convincing enough a reason. Only if the unfeigned things in life be a little less simple!

The Indian embassy got me into the trouble (come on, I need to blame somebody for it), and perhaps got me out of it as well. Adventurous as it might sound, but I would not like to live those two hours again. What followed was another hour of bedlam with lost baggage and being lost in translation. The good part about it though, I now know of the people who could strike me voluntarily or involuntarily at a time like that. It is sometimes so shockingly surprising to find out that "they" could as well be the ones. My parents don’t know of it yet and I hope they do not read my blog, as I will not like to have my Euro-trip cut short. But I can see that expression on my Mom’s face when I will be telling her the story, and the overtly pampered week at home for me that would follow. I hope my Dad gets a little lenient about my extremely poor grades this semester; how often do you get back your son from a thing like that after all!

On the brighter side of it, I now have a story to tell up my records.

May be I will joke about it over a couple of glasses someday and smoke it up the air this summer down the beach in Barcelona as a promise made to my friend. But it will always be little more than just a story for I would know that I have seen it through to make it right there.

Intricacies of myself (Part-I)

2009-09-13T08:21:00.000+05:30

The things I like:

reading the newspaper back to front
the smell of burnt fuel that lingers in the garage after my Dad has started his scooter/car and left for office
trying out dishes from the kitchen just before they are served
contemplating over important issues while crapping or taking a bath
the feel of dry dal and curry sticking to my fingers after having had food, and still sitting with eyes fixed on the TV screen, while mom has taken away the plate underneath
struggling to keep my (completely red) eyes wide open after having stayed up for nights altogether
acting high even when I am not, just for the very reason that it provides the liberty to say/act in ways that one is not supposed to, on being sane

Jaagriti Yaatra

2009-05-28T23:30:00.000+05:30

No..no.. no.... This isn’t about the much coveted Tata sponsored Jaagriti Yaatra that successfully concluded sometime in recent past. Neither am I (quite unfortunately) getting paid to endorse them. Nor does my take on the same include free luncheons, invigorating seminars and expensive goodies!

Aim:
The only similarity that TJY and my tale (which happens to be a teetered account of my visit to north India this summer) bear is in the essence of the words “Jaagriti” and “Yaatra”, for both have been about enlightenment, and that in form of a journey! So, I take the liberty to use this title herein, hoping that there are no copyright issues involved. :P

Means:
Travelling alone is fun, more so when you do not know where you are heading. The adventure factor gets directly proportional to the irregularity on the part of Indian Railways. Add to it, being in the middle of scorching heat and overcrowded radicals who dare to defy the bureaucracy by refusing to part with their hard earned riches. The scheduled route had the train (and hence, me) sneak through the following 9 states in order:
Orissa – West Bengal – Orissa - Chhattisgarh – Madhya Pradesh – Rajasthan – Madhya Pradesh – Uttar Pradesh – Haryana – Uttar Pradesh – Delhi – Uttar Pradesh – Uttaranchal!
North - Central Railways: quite true to its appellation! :D

People:
I have realised off late that neighbours (read: people) bear a rather important significance over the neighbourhood itself. Here are the three most interesting people I befriended over my journey who helped me attain the Jaagriti so to say!

1. Babaji. Doesn’t reveal his real name. Has incredible worldly wisdom. Spends most of his time smoking up! 15 mins of conversation with him was far more revealing than an entire semester’s lecture!

2.

Psvedolski (am sure I got the spelling wrong). Prefers being called “Prem” in India. On his 9th tour to this country. Gardener by profession. Is continuing his studies in Agriculture Technology. Has been seeking the truth and essence of life. Follows Krishna. Heading for Haridwar. Has plans to visit south later. Hope to meet him at Bangalore again sometime this July!

3. The kid Shiva. Again doesn’t reveal his name. Spends the day tramping. Demands cash to pose for a pic :P. Picks money over chocolate. Walked down some 50 odd mts with me, primarily because I offered him chocolates and tried talking to him, in general. You probably would certainly bump into one like him at Rishikesh. Please don’t shoo them away!

Saare Jahaan se achcha...

2009-05-28T23:26:00.000+05:30

"Saare Jahan se achcha Hindustan Humara; Hum bulbulein hain iske, yeh Gulsitan Humara"

Now the million dollar question is; who happens to be "Hum" over here? Is it the North Indians a.k.a. UP ke Bhaiyaas or the South Indians a.k.a. Annas from Madras; or is it even our very own self centric Mumbaikars. Or could it even be the Hindus or the Muslims or the Sikhs or even the Dalits for that reason. The only time this "Hum" includes all of them is when a local train is blown up at Mumbai or about 20000 people are left dead to an earthquake in Gujarat. So much for the sake of national integrity!

And when these forces of nature and the not so good people subside, our very own people raise an uproar calling Mumbai be for Maharashtra, Hokkenekal for Karnataka and Kadhamal for any non follower of Christ. This longing to take each other's life not withstanding, the sensible few opt for the safer path by moving west or better, bringing west to India through its culture. Blame it on the love for religion or region, but the few “Indians” left in the lot are fast getting extinct. We despise our governance system; we condemn the political set up; we crib over our citizens being socially irresponsible. But to view it from a broader perspective it is this “we” who function to constitute this governance system, choose the political set up and for that matter, are the citizens themselves.

But why should I even give a damn. All I need is to take care of embossing my curriculum vitae, get a hefty pay package at the end of it, and probably see around the world with that money. It is so convincing to loose hope and run away from the happenings around after all.
I am not patriotic; neither have I done anything of substance to serve my country, yet! But I do derive a silent pleasure with every match that India wins; I feel proud when Rahman is up there on stage receiving his award when half the world is watching; I am delighted when an Aussie goes on record saying that Sachin is the greatest batsman he's ever bowled to; on a race day, the first thing I look up for is Force India's standing; and I am left speechless standing there at the door of a speeding train as a Polish student on his 9th tour to India says "India is the greatest place I have ever been to".

It’s true that we have come a long way, since those moral science lessons and patriotic chants at morning prayer back in school. But I am sure, the amulet hasn't died already! :)

Conjecture

2009-03-26T02:58:00.000+05:30

Here I intend to propose my three profound theories on Human Life and its behavioral and psychological subtleties:

Theorom 1: "Everything in this world is relative"

Theorom 2: "Opinions are specifically one's own"

Theorom 3: "The most relevant thing in existence is time"

Theorom 4: "Every good side has a bad part to it, and vice-versa" (courtesy: Guru)

Howmuchever, trivial and obvious might they sound, the cogency of these statements is very certainly undeniable.

The other side of Kay Gee Pee

2009-03-16T00:55:00.000+05:30

I can barely say no to anything asked for with a smile, and when its an invitation to a Anurag Kashyap movie, the repudiation gets all the more difficult.

And so I found myself in a rickety rickshaw hired from Puri Gate to Bombay Talkies. It is not very often that one ventures out of the campus at Kgp given the kind of engagement (read: laziness) bestowed upon the inmates. As the Auto Dada enlightened me of quite a few things on way, I quite obliviously kept wandering over what was it that actually made me devote the all precious Sunday afternoon for the trip; the idea of spending some time with good old friends, Anurag Kashyap or Bombay Talkies (enigmatic as it sounded)!! :P

The moment I got down to see the hoarding right in front, I knew it was worth it. "Dil ko Churanewali", it read in large bold letters with a kind of illustration that has always captivated my imagination! And somewhere down the edge of BOMBAY inscribed vertically in even larger letters, there was this poster of the movie "Gulaal" that brought me back to austere reality.

Anyways, we were in. Balcony seats worth 30 bucks , hardly any soul in the theater, hard fiber seats that bizarrely seemed more comfortable than any multiplex settee, perforated ceiling, aroma of a strange mixture of tobacco and gutkha set the perfect arrangement for an equally perfect piece of masterwork. I certainly am not going to disucss the movie sticking to my resolution of not writing posts that go too long for a reader's comfort and anyone still jobless enough to crave for the same can visit http://passionforcinema.com/gulaal-and-the-future-of-indian-cinema/.

Thus came out the three of us from the theater, one overwhelmed, one confused and one bearing an expression that somewhat seemed like a mixture of the two. It was followed by a 20 mins hunt for an auto down the Kgp streets, as we passed through a few red painted quarters (which reminded me of Macondo yet again), a market selling vegetables, utensils, cheap electronic goods and junk food under the same green plastic roof sheet; and yes, a lane with Bengali (assumingly Political) slogans painted in red on boundary walls of either sides.

Its been over an year and a half at this place but I have never had the opportunity to explore this facet of Kgp, and quite unfortunately, never even heard of the same! But then its just the beginning of a long journey after all; five years is indeed a long time.

May be the next time "Dil ko Churanewali" would do just as well!
;)

Too many "I"s

2009-03-13T02:51:00.000+05:30

I realized it sometime back that writing looooong blogs make no sense as there's hardly a soul that manages to browse past the whole thing. And I certainly do not blame them for I myself wouldn't have behaved any differently. Besides, I never thought I could blog again, owing partly to my laziness for having to do all the typing and partly to the indecisiveness upon what to type. I so very hate myself now.
But given that my head is overflowing with random thoughts, some depressive, some creative, and some that I can barely categorize; I guess I will have to pour them somewhere.
And so, this one is to mark my return to business.

The Fountainhead : A Review

2008-09-11T09:21:00.000+05:30

"Seven days, six hours and forty two minutes"; starting right from the moment I opened the book on my way back from Hyderabad, to the moment I slammed it back on the study table in my room; was all it took to change the ideas accrued over a span of a little more than nineteen years, or perhaps for the rest of a lifetime. If that wasn't ironical enough, I had it done to myself at an expense of just eighty five bucks spent down at a traffic-signal to buy the book.

For a student pursuing his major in Architecture, it becomes rather mandatory to have a fair amount of knowledge about The Fountainhead, considering the fact that it happens to be the most commonly mentioned term across coffee tables, design analysis or even a general philosophical debate. And this precisely was the reason I decided upon a bargain for all that time and money. The consequences of it, I had never foreseen though.

Quite unlike the works of fiction I have come across being a fairly avid book reader, The Fountainhead has an unusual flurry about it. The book quite evidently is more of an ideology than a fictitious account of melodramatic happenings to grip the reader with exhilarating excitement. The very reason is underlined by the fact that the author chooses to have a progression in the form of character sketches rather than a precariously unfolding storyline. It would perhaps take another Ayn Rand to review or elucidate this book and so the best one can do as a mere mortal is just cite his personal inferences.

On a broader overview, The Fountainhead is an interpretation of the philosophy termed "Objectivism" by the author undermining the faith in Leftist Collectivism. This in a way refers to the intellectual freedom pertaining to the realisation of self-importance and self-interest in a preposterous yet a very rational and radical manner of the essence. The book was rejected by twelve publishers having been termed "too intellectual" before the author could finally get it to print and stay as a best-seller for sixty years to come. This in itself speaks volumes of the legend that The Fountainhead has become.

The story revolves around an architect, Howard Roark and his life and struggle with the conventional ideologies of both the people and the profession. Roark is the epitome of perfection that a man can only strive to achieve in this materialistic world of pretentious beings. Peter Keating, Roark's college-mate is one of these very pretentious kinds whose character portrayal depicts the general psychological mindset of almost every one of us. Keating starves for success and limelight in all his endeavours hoping to excel in them all; but that at the expense of his personal interests and relevance. Throughout his life Keating kept being the one the world wanted to see him as, rather than what he would have wanted to be. This in a way is how we keep running from the flaws within us trying to evade the ghosts of truth, chasing for solace in the ignorance of personal blemishes. Keating stays dishonest to everyone around him and more importantly even to himself and so eventually goes on to win everything he ever wanted to, but still stays a looser at the end of it all.

Ellsworth Toohey, an outspoken newspaper columnist voices for the common welfare of all thereby glorifying his dignified public image in the long run. He strongly believes in the collective interest of all and denounces individual supremacy in form of either distinctive talent or success. He represents the intellectually sensible few in the society who understand the nuances of human behaviour and have the calibre to manipulate and influence both the public as well as individual opinions. Gail Wynand, the mighty newspaper tycoon on the other hand is reasonable enough to realise and comprehend the psychological and commercial aspects of the game; but at the very same time is foolish enough to run for materialistic gains for self supremacy. Wynand having had risen from a destitute childhood, goes on to make a fortune for others to gasp at, and power giving him the liberty to acquire and achieve things one could only dream of . But consequently the shrewd plans of his lead to a point where is left at the verse of loosing everything he ever accumulated for the simple reason that in the long run to the pinnacle of success, he lost the real motive he started it all for.

Dominique Francon, the female protagonist of the story, is a diva so perfectly flawless in every sense that a man would kill to have and a woman would die to be. She understands her true vocation and enjoys realizing it to the fullest extent making the most of things she can. She despises being obliged and strives for blissful loneliness helping her achieve a sense of independence of the free soul. A lady of strong wills, she stays bold enough to get into a marital relationship twice being completely aware of the fact that she is in love with another man; and still continues to love him as much as she always did regardless of everything else.

Howard Roark stands in the midst of it all untouched, unaffected, and indifferent. The margin of distinction between his indifference and insolence being so well defined, Roark is portrayed as the personification of an impeccable living integrity. The relevance of almost everything and everyone lost in the vicinity of this very man, Roark cares the least to bother about the very existence of them at all. All that matters to him is his aptitude for a thing; all that he pursues is very own passion. He looks for a reason in everything he does with the conclusive effect of it leading to his very own personal interest and satisfaction, though in no way violating or offending anyone else’s version of it. But somewhere down the line it does tickle people to see a man of his kind exist and survive among the kinds of them all.

The Fountainhead depicts the supremacy of a single being as many may say, or even the idea of man-worship as it has been put at times; but it certainly portrays the most complex form of emotions in the most subtle way as well.

This undoubtedly is one of the best books I have ever read, but that by no way means that I liked the book. I would be rather lying if I said so. I despise the book. Or perhaps I love it as much as I hate it, for the very simple reason that it makes me feel so sickeningly imperfect; and so does every single person to read this book feel. But it does make one think; and think of things one never could have thought about; and so the huge number of critics of Ayn Rand doesn’t come as a surprise at all. On a personal note I strongly believe that Roark is a myth after all. People would rather stay in an illusive bliss and starve for reel perfection than reach out for self-realisation.

As Rand puts it through Toohey, “Genius is an exaggeration of dimension, so is elephantiasis. Both may only be a disease.” Perfection so to say, is just a psychological figment. All that matters at the end of it is just solitary recognition of one’s own alter ego.

Somnath Meher

Back Home but still Missing Home!!

2007-12-11T14:20:00.000+05:30

Its funny actually........ironical rather that how you so..desperately want things to be in a particular way and at the end of it all when you somewhat get them going right finally, you kinda sit back to think if it was what u wanted afterall......??

sounds like I 've lost it...doesnt it?? well i dont blame u...!!!

hmmm.......and now coming to the point...jus wanted to let u guys know....

how good it feels......
to be back home, sweet home!!

how good it feels......
to finally take bath "everyday" for a change!!

how good it feels......
to have those home-made dishes prepared specially for u!!

how good it feels......
to wear a clean dress everyday without requiring to get them washed all by yourself!!

how good it feels......
to be able to wake up at your will not worryin about Merchu waitin for u sharp at 8-30!!

how good it feels......
to finally be able to sleep when its "ACTUALLY DARK OUTSIDE"!!

how good it feels......
to lay back and watch ManU thrash Derby 4-1 with some old pals instead of working on some model!!

how good it feels......
to have people reminding you constantly on how thin you have actually got!!

how good it feels......
not to have dreams about the assignments u needta submit the moment u are supposed to get up!!

how good it feels......
to chat for hours over the landline phone whose balance or refillin u need not worry about!!

how good it feels......
to realise that this world doesnt have all Males and everyone isnt a gay afterall !!

and hence how good it feels.......
to see some "REAL FEMALE SPECIES" all around!!

and given the kind of hectic shedule we had during this short stay at kgp, starting right from the production days of the respective societies some of us were involved in....
then....days of Zonasa practice or rather the nights I must say....and then the VDP kept us preoccupied...!!
and finally it was the SOP which further deprieved us of the hours of sleep a normal human is supposed to have!!
and of course....not to forget the two exams we encountered in the process!!

Having said all this I guess most of u will understand how badly I must have prayed for a break to finally have some time for myself !!

Well all those who made it reading this far must be swearing at me currently....
but the real story starts now!!............

as I said......
somethings in life are so funny yet so subtle....

because today when I sit in a cosy corner of my room and type all this....I wonder if this is my real room afterall or the one I left some 600kms far a couple of weeks back!!

all the things I talked about dont happen to "make me feel that good" anyhow!!

for just a simple reason that somewhere in the back of my mind it does tickle me......

that when I talk about being back to my sweet home I myself know that the defination of home has changed quite a bit in the recent past....!!

that I now know the pleasure of not takin bath for days at a stretch and then finally the shower that lets u actually understand what freshness is!!

that even on havin a table filled with dishes you love the most, you still happen to miss the trademark Kgp Maggi and JCB alu paraatha....and of course Tinku at 3am !!

that it doesnt matter if u put on a shirt u have been wearin for the past one week, spray some Deo over it and attend the class feelin as clean as ever!!

that life is all about facing adversities and overcoming them...and Profs literally help us learn this!!

that life afterall starts in the night because in day's bright sunlight we happen to miss out the small light sparkles of happiness around!!

that all those small efforts we put in make us realise the big things of life..everyday in Kgp sets a new learning process!!

that there's none afterall who gives a damn about the length of ur hair or even the nail for that reason!!

that one thing I know for sure is that nothing can beat the spirit with which we work for all the tasks we are put to...the teamwork...the enthusiasm...the fun involved...success...failure...and how can I forget...."The TEMPO"!!

that it gives a different pleasure to use up all the balance within a week of recharging the cell and then stretching the leftover amount for the rest of the month!!

that its at Kgp only where we have realised that Gays are for real in this world and they arent as bad afterall!!

that finally and most importantly...its only after having stayed at Kgp that we have learnt to appreciate beauty in its true sense..because the deficit of soemthing only can make u realise its true importance and same is the case here with the fairer sex!!

whatever said and done....
we all know that life has changed for all of us....quite a lot to be frank...we have matured a lot in this short span...or lets say..we are still in the process....
we have learnt things we could never imagine we would....we have discovered ourselves to be someone we never thought we could be!!

Thanks a lot buddy if u actually read this far because I never expected any of you to do so........but always hoped that someone will afterall !! :)