dumka

The First Rain

2009-06-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

It is pouring heavily, the first rain. The smell from parched earth and I feel like eating it. Then I smile, to myself and say silently “that’s like a kid” and smile again, more at the thought of my childhood than the idea of eating earth. I wait under the shed and look in to the darkness around and extend my hand to feel the invisible rain through my skin. I feel the droplets hitting me at my palm and arm. They are cold and giving a pleasing sensation to my skin. I bring my hand back close to my eyes and in the intermittent lightening flashes see the tiny sparkles on my palm and arm. My hairs are raised, and it’s not due to cold. It’s the sensation of drops on my skin which has caused them to rise. Another lightening flash and I look at these hairs again.

Black, short, upright.

I remember when I was a child they used to be golden in colour, now they have turned black.

Just like my heart.

From golden to black, from gold to coal, and I hardly noticed it. That’s like most of us.

The wind has started blowing and I feel a cold gush on my face. I love it. I feel like running into the open, to feel the heaven pouring from above and fresh oxygen going into my nostrils with a rush. I used to do it when I was a naughty kid. I would steal myself from my parent’s eyes, have a gala time splashing in rain and would come back home completely drenched to be thrashed by them. They thought I would fall ill which I never did. Truly speaking I did sometimes, but then I fell ill sometimes even without getting soaked.

Haan, I come back from the nostalgia where I had been diverted just now and try to remember what I was thinking. Yes, I was feeling like having a splash in the rain. I think again. I want to go, but something is holding me, I don’t know. There is no one to thrash me when I come back soaked, but still I am unable to take the step forward, towards the open. There are others who are also in the shade, waiting for the rain to be over. I think again and decide to wait like them. Then, to give more support to my decision, my mind argues that I will fall ill if I get drenched in rain. My heart accepts the argument and I relax and wait leisurely for the rain to end.

One more lightening flash, this one of very large intensity and duration, and I can see the branches of trees dancing to the tune of thunder, the tiny rain drops making waves in the puddles, the green grasses bowed under the weight of water. Despite the continuous dripping sound and the intermittent thunder bolts it feels so calm, so serene.

Suddenly I feel an urge inside me; I can’t wait in this shade anymore. I need to enjoy the first rain, I need to feel the elements of life dripping over me, soaking my body and giving some of the simplest joys of the world.

On an impulse I take the plunge and start walking out of the shade. I feel the rain coming from the front, hitting my head and face with a force, piercing deep into my skin. I contract my eyes in order to avoid the water getting into them, extend my hands and keep walking. I keep walking for a while, lost in myself, thinking about many things but unable to recall any of it. I manoeuvre my way, avoiding any of the puddles on the road walking slowly, whistling in a low volume and wiping the rain from my face. It is a little cold and I feel a very faint shivering in spine. I stop my whistling and start humming old romantic songs. Although it doesn’t stop my shiver, it definitely helps. I see a big puddle and I run around it, I jump in it, splashing the just dropped water, making a big whirlpool. It is joyous experience and I like it.

I reach my home, dry my hairs from a towel, change the wet clothes and retire to the bed. While dozing off, I think about the first rain. It’s just like love. We give different reasons to keep ourselves away from it and thereby deny that indescribable joy which we could get. I ponder more over it, re-read whatever I have written replacing the rain with love and find a very striking similarity.

Yes, this rain truly taught me that Life was what that occurred to us when we were busy planning for it. We were busy concerned about planning for the life at the time when all we needed to do was take a plunge and feel these simple joys of life.

Terror Attacks and Spirit of the Nation

2008-11-29T23:36:00.000-08:00

Ahmadabad, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Delhi and now back to Amchi Mumbai. I don’t know when this terror is going to stop. The sorry state of affairs in the country is taking its toll, not only in the form of thousands of lives which we are losing every year but also in the form of fear which is creeping deep inside us. And to top all, it has exposed the shameless greed of various stakeholders of the nation.

Our country has become a pimpless brothel where anyone can walk in at any time, spurt some shots and then walk away as per their wish.

The home minister, to fight back the serious allegation about his incapability in handling the home affairs, announces in the public before the national media about the minute details of the program of dispatch of NSG team from Delhi which is aired live by our breaking news obsessed media so that the terrorists holed up in Mumbai may get the information to plan their move. The channels beaming live telecast of commandos being air dropped, which is being seen by the terrorists in the Nariman House. I am sure they must have laughed loudly on our country and the way it is functioning.

For politicians it is more important to prove (that too falsely) that they are not cleaning the Italian toilets in Janpath, even if it means putting the lives of few more commandos at stake. For news channels it is more important to give the ‘first news’ or ‘breaking news’ or blah blah news even if it means there would be no one left to hear those shit.

What more? After ‘performing’ their duties, our journos and politicians will dig out 3-4 words like resilience, tenacity, spirit from dictionary and then they will be overused till a new terror attack occurs, a new place is destroyed, few more men have died and a new ‘spirit’ comes to limelight. They don’t know that we don’t have any spirit left. it is just we have to choose between certainty and probability, livelihood and bomb blasts which is not a choice at all and that is why we are forced to display this spirit.

For sure we are heading in a dark tunnel that too at high speed, just hope that there is no dead end in it.

The Greatest Irony of Life

2008-11-09T09:52:00.000-08:00

Iris is over and classes are going to start, there will be n number of quizzes starting from tomorrow and I am in no mood to study. God has given me a, what I call, gold class mood. It always behaves opposite to requirement. And so here I was, trying to write a poem (my 1^st attempt) when what I really needed to do was immerse myself into the world of finance and quant. thankfully my maiden attempt failed, and so you are spared the task of reading some piece of garbage dump, which I was going to call poem.

You are spared the poem, but not the contents, which I am going to write in the form of prose anyway. It is all about the great equation between dream and reality. Call it the dreamy reality or real dream, or anything else. It is like a gentle brush with the soft innocence of romance which disappears after a head on collision with reality so hard and harsh. A beautiful glassy world, you are so pleased to live in, breaking down another moment in to pieces of shards. The glass once so fragile and lovely to look at, now sharp enough to make you bleed.

When it comes to pure dreams you don’t stop to collect those sharp pieces, to save as a souvenir. The moment one world collapses there is another one, ready to move in, just like a rented apartment, you move in and move out, without much sorrow or joy. This is the beauty of dream; this is the baseness of dream.

Pure reality, by definition, is just opposite of what a dream is. Your heart is the garbage dump, which collects all the broken pieces, bleeding itself in the process and dropping some salty drops in response.

I don’t know which one is better. But yes one thing I am sure of. What if all the dreams come true in reality? Won’t it be playing two roles for the same part? Trying to forget something by keeping a memorabilia of it.

Doesn’t it sound ironical?

Yes it is. But so is our life. Ironical by basic definition.

Born to be dead.

The greatest irony of life- Life itself.

The Five Alphabets of Life

2008-11-04T06:59:00.001-08:00

I am really bored up. The excitement which was there when I entered this B-School has lost its shine in the unending effort to save myself from a D. This is what our life has become; oscillating between the five alphabets. A, B, C, D, F- the five elements of life and death at an IIM. Out of these F is the deadliest, an instant poison, the Cyanide, the one you should always avoid. D is like a Hindu god, who forgives you three times, but if you commit the same mistake for the fourth time, you are out. Dead.

The irony is it’s the letter D which always maintains a close relationship with me. And why not D? After all it’s the letter which starts my name, and also my home town and not to mention the name of all the schools I studied at. Those were pleasant days and so were those Ds. But this is the untouchable D, the untouchable D & F of IIM, from which you have to keep a safe distance always, just like an explosive laden lorry on highway.

First term was kool. I came here with minimum expectation, just to pass in every subject and miraculously I managed to do that (MWC grades are still to come). I enjoyed the campus, the classes, the nocturnal routine, all of which I had left at ISM two years ago. It was very exciting to discover back those treasures in an entirely different place with entirely different people (with the exception of Nitin). I relished those treasures and am relishing them. The maggi at night canteen, the BC on LAN, the biking at the curvaceous roads of planet-I, the Saturday evenings at TI, the attention of girls on orkut, gmail, Indore city or even in the train while going back home. I enjoyed these things, every moment of it.

This is how life is here, exciting at some time, boring to the hilt at some another time. There are some really good lectures but the very next can be so soporific that you can’t help but sleep (there by losing your CP grades). Though there is an enforced ‘dryness’, there are wet spots which oozes out the ‘spirit’ of IIM. You can smell it on Saturday nights while passing through Manand’s or Vinay’s wing. That is the life at planet-I, a microcosm of the life outside, composed of five elements, evenly balanced against each other. Balanced, because every Mr. Green Eyes is counter-balanced by a friend like Mittal Saab, every dull fuddu is outshined by ‘ever sparkling’ Sharmaji. Yes I know that everybody is not fortunate enough to get neighbours like I have got, but again here is a balance. Every unfortunate soul having those Mr.Green Eyes type neighbours is counterbalanced by fortunate fella like me.

From Rumi

2008-05-15T03:39:00.000-07:00

A lover knows only humility,
he has no choice.
He steals into your alley at night,
he has no choice.
He longs to kiss every lock of your hair, don't fret,
he has no choice.
In his frenzied love for you,
he longs to break the chains of his imprisonment...
He has no choice.
- Rumi

My Holi Trip

2008-04-04T23:47:00.000-07:00

My train is at 2:30 in the morning and I am in no mood to catch it. My both sisters insist that I should take the train, as leaving it will mean waste of money; after all it was booked on tatkal sewa for which there is no refund. My Jijus say it’s up to me to decide. They want me to spend some more hours with them; after all it was some sort of family reunion, with my younger Didi and Jiju coming from Bilaspur and me from Delhi to my older didi’s place at Raipur. Finally I give my verdict- I am not going to catch that goddamn train and so now we have a full night and then a full day to spend with each other. There is a seemingly difficult task of getting a confirmed seat in the next train which is at 4:00 in the evening, but I know I can manage it. I make 2-3 phone calls and it is done.

‘No need to worry. This is not at all a problem. Just buy a waiting ticket tomorrow morning and give the PNR number. That is all you need to do’.

This is how things work in our country. If you know some babu in Rail Bhawan, be assured of confirmed tickets for the lifetime.

Long live the Indian bureaucracy and long live the Indian telecom revolution. My Jijus are impressed. ‘So you know few IASs in Delhi?’ I just give a vague smile in reply and the conversation is lost here. we have a good time for the rest of night and day and the time of departure of the next train has come which I can’t dare to miss; even if I dare to miss it, my dad will shoot a bullet from Dumka killing me at once.

So I pack my small bag with my two cloths and say good bye to everybody who are not going to station. Outside it’s drizzling a bit and I offer to drive the bike which is instantly rejected keeping in mind my speed and rashness. So I ride as pillion enjoying the somber mood of Chhattisgarh weather which matches mine currently.

The train is behind schedule as has been the case with me for ever and we have to wait for some time at the platform. The platform is clean and un-crowded unlike the platforms at all the Delhi stations. There is something which reminds me of Dhanbad Jn but I am not able to find out what it is.

The train comes after some time and I go to check the reservation chart, almost by compulsion. It’s not there and I am disappointed. It has become almost like a routine during my train journeys to check for all the Fs in my bogey in the reservation chart. Not finding an F of suitable age is disappointing but not finding the reservation chart is highly disheartening. It has stolen few minutes of cheap thrill out of my life.

The signal turns yellow and the train starts, just like me, behind schedule. I realize that I had been always behind schedule. It’s not like I have not run at all. But it has been more of running in loops, pausing for breath, wondering over some dark shadows in a moonlit night.

I stand on the foot board at the door. Incidentally it is a moonlit night today, the train is sliding very slowly on its track and the country is looking very serene, very calm very relaxed and very bright. I see a silhouette leaning against the door opposite and I feel a sudden jolt. Dark shadows from past pounce on me, threatening to tear me apart.

You can avoid your future but it is the past from which you can’t escape unhurt.

And here am I struggling on my journey to the future, fighting the assaults of memories I can’t avoid.

It is the most enjoyable moments of life which haunts you the most in retrospect.

They had been a sweet dream come true at some point of time but now they are the worst nightmares you have. There was a time when you wished that train journey to never end and now you get frightened by the same trains as if they are being haunted by some evil spirits. This is how it is- carrying the burden of old memories on the shoulders, getting crushed under its heavy weights.

The stoic in me wakes from the brief slumber. Err it was not a slumber, can call it a nap, so now the stoic wakes up from a brief nap. What a euphemism we use when we mean a stoic. Stoic is nothing but a heartless cold blooded bastard, and incidentally I am one. In fact I am the most heartless cold blooded bastard in the world (Koushik claims to be the second in line :))

I walk back to my berth to be surprised to see a girl in front of my berth. She is about my age, a little fat, just a little, but her face is cute. I start a conversation with her, just some casual chat for some time. There are two kids also in the nearby berths and we ask them to join in. we play some children’s games like ‘Raja Mantri Chor Sipahi’, ‘Chidia udd’, ‘dash kosh single bulbul’. It was so much fun that we laughed all the way. After few hours train stopped at Nagpur and the girl takes her leave and get down. I go up and sleep for the night. And here comes the real masala of the journey.

In the morning I find that one of the families which were traveling in my compartment while going to Raipur is returning in this train itself. A small family of four- Hum do, humare do. The man is bored up and we have some good conversation. He asks for my no. so that we meet over a mug of beer some time. I am not interested in friendship with strangers, but nevertheless I oblige, afterall what's the harm in giving your number. We have some more chat and I will quote the most interesting part of it in hindi, so that its meaning remain intact:

‘Aap Noida mein rahte hai, wahan to bahut ladkiya hai’

‘Haan’

‘fir to ghumne phirne ka poora jugaad hoga’ he seems to be certain about it.

‘bhaiya sab kuch ka jugaad hai’ I reply, boasting the things.

‘sab kuch ka!!' he picked only this part, with a dirty grin.'wah yaar, aapne to poora intjaam kar rakha hai. Aap to rehte bhi akele ho, isiliye koi problem nahi hoti hogi’ he tells in a way as if I have a hen which gives me a golden egg daily.

‘haan koi problem nahi hai mere yahan’ I start smiling on my lies, but seems he doesn’t understand it. He thinks that I am being shy.

‘aap to sharmane lage.’

I just smile at this again and he continues ‘makan malik kuch nahi bolta?’

‘makan malik nahi rahta is ghar mein’ I can defend my lies quite well. I never knew this about me.

‘arrey wah, fir to chandi hai aapki. Peechle janam mein jaroor kuch achha kiya hoga aapne ki dilli mein aisa ghar mila’ he says, as if he envies me.

‘yaar jugaad to mere pass bhi hai, lekin jagah nahi hai’ he continues, but this time in a sorry state of mind and then ‘aisa karta hoon, main apni girlfriend ko le ke aapke yahan hi aa jata hoon, aapko koi problem to nahi hogi?’

ohh god. What is this? I was completely shocked.

He seemd to read something on my face, but again wrongly.

‘Don’t worry. Main mil baant ke hi khata hoon. Aapko bhi milega, main girl friend se baat kar loonga’ he said shamelessly.

‘lekin aapke to biwi bachhe hai…’ I just trailed off. And what a shocking reply I got.

‘yahi to problem hai. Nahi to main aapke yahan aane ka thode na bolta’ he said, genuinely upset.

I don’t say anything, but feel a very strange kind of rage. I don’t know what to say out of it, except that Sigmund Freud seems very true in his study that men are inherently polygamous by nature. Some time has passed like this, doing nothing, thinking randomly and it is a tremendous relief to see the train jolting to halt at Nizamuddin station. It feels like I have been freed from a fourth degree torture in police barrack. I pick my bag and literally run. While going out, I can hear his voice promising to call me on Sunday.

PS1: he called me on Sunday and this time I told him very ‘politely’ that my flat was not a brothel and there are plenty of cheap rooms available in Paharganj and so he should excuse me.

PS2: don’t read much into the polygamous thing. I am unmarried and so can’t tell you for sure how correct Freud was on this theory.

In a warm cocoon

2008-03-03T18:51:00.000-08:00

The room was dark and warm. The heater, which had been heating the room continuously for more than two hours, had made it warm. A shaft of mild light from a street lamp, after filtering through mango leaves and dark green curtains, was falling on her face, illuminating those big beautiful eyes. Beside her Ashok was lying on the bed, just few centimetres away, holding her hand in his and gazing into her hallowed face. Her lips were slightly parted which though a little thick looked very cute. The room, like her face, looked calm.

Outside this cocoon, it was bitterly cold. The street lamps were in full glory, trying to pierce into the armour of fog, but in vein. There was a very slight breeze, which made the atmosphere a little colder, but none the less more romantic.

Cocoon, however, was oblivious of its surrounding, just like an isolated system in chemical thermodynamics. Its two inhabitants could feel each others’ exhaled air on their face, which felt warm, and sometimes gave a tingle on nose. It was a pleasure to hold her tightly. No, it wasn’t lust, for there was no pleasure in the groins. But it was something very hard to describe, like the taste of water on your parched throat- though tasteless but tasty.

There had been many nights which passed like this in that warm cocoon, with Ashok stretched on the bed beside Piyali, holding his hand around her shoulder looking deep into her eyes while telling the new story he had written. There was an enchanting world inside her eyes where he got lost often only to find himself brought out of it by her. Today he had to remain extra careful. He could not afford to get himself lost. After all he had some duties to perform. The duty of a bread winner to supply the monthly ration after his father got disabled, the duty of a brother to earn for the dowry of his sisters. He had already wasted years writing those silly stories in which no publisher was interested. Now he could not afford to waste anything else.

‘Has something struck you? You looking so dumbstruck?’ she sounded a little anxious.

‘Just got struck by your dazzling beauty ma’am, I can’t describe how beautiful you are looking today’ replied Ashok, in a manner it seemed as if he was rehearsing a romantic classic. The words had their effect which showed in the form of a pink blush on her face making her look more innocent. ‘I know why you are praising me today’ she said, trying to hide those blushes and look sterner. ‘But don’t think that I will get fooled. No entry into my room if you don’t have a story to tell. Go away right now if you don’t have anything to tell.’

‘See I don’t have a story today. I will tell you two stories some other day. Put one story on my credit account. Charge some interest on it if you wish so’ pleaded Ashok.

‘No credit, only cash’ came the reply in a manner of a child playing the role of a bania in a play.

‘What?? You charge money? And all these years I had been thinking of you as a respectful girl’ mocked Ashok with a mischievous smile on face.

‘Shut up’ she shouted, with a light giggle on her lips and hit him lovingly on cheeks with her both hands. He in turn held both her hands, kissed them lightly and then in an artificially serious tone said ‘I am going to Middle East, will earn a lot of money there and like sheikhs there I will also have a big harem of my own having beautiful Arab women’

‘If you want me to envy you for it then my dear Ashu you are wrong.’

‘No, I just thought you will envy those beautiful Arab women’ giggled Ashok, looking at her intently. Her brows were slightly arched but at the same time her mouth broadened a little giving on her face a look of mild pleasing frown. The kind of look people generate when hearing a good joke being targeted on them. She mumbled something but stopped, but Ashok was not in mood to stop. ‘But don’t worry, I think I will miss you’ he continued ‘Sometimes’ he added after some moments with even broader giggle.

By this time Piyali was completely enraged; her female vanity hurt. ‘What do you think? I can have many storytellers, like you, employed for me round the clock for their service. You go to hell or your harem in Saudi Arabia, I don’t care.’ She started blabbering. The more she saw the expression of mockery on his face the more her rage rose. ‘And don’t dare to miss me. I was never yours. I have not cancelled the ticket my dad has sent me for my engagement with Sushanth. I know he is better than you, not at all as mean as you’

Hearing the name of Sushanth the mockery on his face vanished which eased the frown on Piyali’s face. She relaxed a little, now it was his turn to settle the score. ‘You know, he has a big bungalow in Delhi where we will enjoy a very happy life after marriage. I will have lots of children, can’t imagine how much fun it will be.’ She was relishing the fun now. Ashok’s face looked blank now and he seemed to be lost somewhere.

‘What happened, are you feeling jealous of Sushanth?’

Ashok forced a smile on his face and said that of course he was jealous of anybody getting a wife as nice as her. Piyali was again at her usual cheerful self. ‘So do you think that I can make a nice wife?’ she inquired with the innocence of a child. ‘Haan baba, off course you will be the best wife anyone can have’ replied Ashok with a little weariness, but it pleased Piyali.

‘Don’t worry; I am not going to marry Sushanth. You are my kuchu kuchu man’ she started playing with his nose, pressing it and then rotating the tip in all possible direction.

‘Piyu, has all the issues settled between your dad and mom? You know that you can’t take any big step at this point, else it will hurt both of them badly’ Ashok sounded very worried. ‘In what an intricate web we have got ourselves entangled. There are some duties to be fulfilled, then your love life need to be taken care of. And then, as if these were not complex enough, people generated another nasty thing called Divorce’ said Ashok, the philosopher, to which Piyali cut him short and said ‘can’t you novelists stop sermonizing others. How many times I have said that things are going to improve, and once all the issues between my mom and dad are settled we will marry. I know that it will take some time, but it will be settled one day. But why will you bother about my point?’

‘I even doubt that whether you love me’ she continued with a hint of tear in her voice.

‘I love you Piyu’ replied Ashok, almost pleadingly.

‘How much?’ was the next question to which he got up on the bed, stretched his hands perpendicular to his body and said ‘this much’ and then immediately fell over her, with hands still in stretched position. She squirmed loudly and then started to tingle him. He started giggling to which she also giggled. They laughed like children till they got tired.

‘I love you’ she whispered very softly in his ears when she started feeling sleepy.

‘I love you too, and will miss you always’ he replied

‘What??’

‘Nothing dear. Goodnight’

‘Goodnight’

Piyali slept for what seemed like an eternity. After getting up when she didn’t find Ashok, she fell back to sleep again. She got up again and seeing Ashok still missing she got out of bed looking a little worried. The door was unlatched from the inside and there was a white sheet of paper on the table, with something scribbled on it in very dirty handwriting. Obviously it was Ashok’s. She picked it up and started reading.

Dear Piyu,

I know how you will be feeling after reading this letter. You know that I never believe in explaining myself to you, you are a part of me and so must be knowing it quiet well that why I did it. The moment you will be reading this letter, I will be on a flight to Kuwait so there is no point stopping me. I must have told you about a friend Sujeet who has been working in Kuwait. Sujeet has got a job for me there. It will take around 5 years of work in the oilfields of Kuwait to get enough money for me to fulfil the responsibilities I had been avoiding till now and makeup for the time I have wasted in trying to publish my silly stories. I know you love these stories so much and that’s why I have kept all the manuscript in your cupboard. You had been criticising my lousy handwriting forever so initially I thought to have computer typed prints of it, but then decided against it. My handwriting will remind you of my lousy face and I know that from now onwards you are going to love it.

Now the big question which must be in your mind- I am fleeing in the dead of the night because I don’t want you to see me doing this. I didn’t tell you tonight about all these because you would have never liked it. Your cries would have made things unbearable for me which I wanted to avoid. I wanted to imprint a beautiful smiling picture of yours in my mind which would sooth my mind whenever I remember you. A picture with lots of giggling, full of innocence mixed with little rage. I got it today. Thank you for this.

Call me a coward for not having the courage to part with you face to face, call me selfish for not being there with you to wipe the tear drops from your beautiful eyes but please never doubt my love. There are people who are better than me in all the qualities but you will never get a person who can love you more than I can.

Will be missing you badly

Ashok

Every Dog Has His Day, Let It Be Our's This Time

2007-09-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

There he was, Our Dog, in the lonely corner of his master's house. He seemed very serious and deeply engrossed in something which had stolen colour out of his cheeks. There was something in his manners which suggested that everything was not well with him. Indeed everything was not well. After running throughout his life he had come to that T-point where one road diverged from it, and one continued in the same direction and it was the tough decision, to be taken urgently, which had stolen colour from his cheeks.
Our Dog had not been always like that. Once upon a time he was cheerful, jovial and very friendly, not someone who will hide himself from others in some lonely corner. In the trendiest lingo he was a cool dog with lots of friends- old dogs, race dogs, black dogs ,bull dogs, doggy dog, and few bitches also( of same variety).
Everything went well before the time of their sale came. They were all taken to the market where there were lots of buyers, though only few were rich. There were other markets where only rich buyers came and who had a reputation of treating their purchase very nicely, and giving them the most satisfactory job a dog could get. Deer hunting. But entries to those markets were restricted and given to only few dogs who showed excellent aptitude and intelligence in a hunting test organised for this purpose. Such was the reputation of the customers of this market that all the dogs gaining entry in to this market were groomed for two years to make them fit enough to live with those wealthy customers.
Our Dog tried in that test but failed and so he had no choice but to sit in that ordinary market and wait for some ordinary customer to buy him. Finally his time came and he was purchased by a gaudy and flashy nouveau rich, who was so ornate outside and so dull inside.
Like every other nouveau rich.
Whatever. He was bought for the job of a watchdog on the agreement of few bread slices without any butter or tea, coffee. There was no other way left for him and so he took this monotonous job of watchdog. Life had become a routine and there was no excitement left in it. The un-buttered bread was not in such quantity that it could be saved for future use. The job of a watchdog was smooth, but there was no pace. It only involved swaying the tail after seeing the master or his associate. The worst part was wearing an ID all the time around neck.
Like a dog.
Yes Our Dog was a dog. But ain't a dog has dignity?
Our Dog was always thinking like this, of dignity, challenges, interest and god knows what other things which his colleague dogs had even never imagined. They despised him, for his frustration on such a 'white collared' job and 'beautiful and costly' surrounding. Our Dog, on the other hand abhorred these dumb mouthed morons who so much enjoyed the monotonousity of this fuckingly boring job and who were in such an awe at the ornate master's gaudiness.
'Ya the race dog is right. I am not fit enough to live among such worthless creatures. Its the hunting job which suites me and I am going for it'
But for hunting jobs were available in the rich market, entry for which could be gained only by passing the hunting test. But it would not be possible to train oneself for the hunting test while simultaneously serving that dumb master. He would never allow that to happen, and he had got spies who would report him of anybody training himself for the hunting test.
He desperately wanted entry in to the rich market where he could get a hunting job and secure a lifetime of buttered bread along with slices of meat, that too in large enough quantity to save,but his current job as a watchdog prevented the training which would be necessary for passing the hunting test and it was this clash of interest which was making our dog worried, stealing colours from his cheek.
He would have to leave his job for that training. But that meant loss of a steady and secure source of food. But it also meant more chances of securing a better source of food, and sometimes few glasses of wine too. It was not only the clash between coarse bread and buttered bread with meat, but it was also between a meek, tail swaying animal and a predator who can rip any one's tail apart.
All dogs are born predator, it is their domestication which make their tails sway. You can train a dog to be vegetarian for years with satisfactory result, but the moment he tastes blood all your training will go down a drain. It is the inborn instinct on which one relies most and it is the same inherent instinct one turns to when he is free from any external factor.
So you better know where our dog is right now.Ya, it's a dog race but let's not forget that every dog has his day. This time, let it be Our Dog.

ISM

2007-09-13T12:12:00.000-07:00

Doston CAT FM 99.98 pe aap sabhi ka swagat hai, aur abhi aap hai DJ Deepak ke sath 'Rat baki Baat baki' mein.
This is what I am articulating tonight when we, a bunch of ISMites have gathered together for a small party. Gone are the days of whole night parties which used to end at our Ramdhani, but many things remains, kept intact in ourselves, which will only die with our death. Also it is said that it is our soul and not the body which dies and everybody knows that this soul has been seasoned and conditioned in pleasant, fun filled crucible called ISM.
Many of my friends, mainly the non-ISMite blogger says that I write very well and I have got a depth in my writing. Poor souls. They have missed to see one thing. It's not me who write, it is the ISM deep within me which prompts me to write, compels me to unleash itself into this virtual world.But let me tell you that it's only a virtual world which has only that much significance as the number 99.98 has got, or for matter of fact the nos 7955,8260,8285,8288,8291,8296,8346,8347,8350,8360,8362,8370
,8377,8386,8393,8401 and 8456 has got. These nos are nothing but a bunch of nos to everybody, but for me its a part of me, sum of best four years of my life and I am going to keep it safe in the safest place of this earth- deep within my heart.
I sincerely think that I am the most heartless bastard in this world. I do not have any sentiments and I am not that sort of person who can ruin his whole life for somebody/something. But even though I cant resist my alma-mater. Logically thinking, how can I? There is no person on this whole earth who can resist the feelings for his Mother, than how can I?
There was a time when we ruled that place or rather this place ruled us. We had seen every phase of life in those quarters, from beaing a humble 'murga' to a 'barbar sher', from the matki of Janmashtmi to the bhaang of Saraswati puja, from an obscure no body to an opinianated somebody, ready to take the worldly challanges. This place is our karmbhoomi and its going to remain one.
Heard that things are changing now, over which, we , as alumni, has no control. But that is not a problem because the real ISM, which no body can change without our permission, is deep within us. Within our heart, and its going to remain there till our last breath. Infact it is so much a part of ourselves that we cant feel its existance, just like our breath or pulse. From our computer passwords to our internet banking password, from a cut chai in a dhaba to iced tea in a five star, from a small get together to some large expensive meets, from a tinch of frustation to a burst of joy, its ISM all the way, and I am so proud that no body can take it away.

वो ख़ून कहो किस मतलब का

2007-09-04T04:26:00.000-07:00

वह ख़ून कहो किस मतलब का
जिसमें उबाल का नाम नहीं
वह ख़ून कहो किस मतलब का
आ सके देश के काम नहीं

वह ख़ून कहो किस मतलब का
जिसमें जीवन ना रवानी है
जो पर्वाश होकर बेहता है
वह ख़ून नहीं है पानी है

उस दिन लोगों से सही सही
ख़ून की क़ीमत पेहछानी थी
जिस दिन सुभाष ने बर्मा में
माँगी उनकी क़ुर्बानी थी

बोले स्वतंत्रता की खातिर
बलिदान तुम्हे करना होगा
बहुत जी चुके हो जग में
अब आगे मरना होगा

आज़ादी के चरणों मे जो
जैमाल चढ़ाई जाएगी
वह सुनो तुम्हारे सीशों के
फूलों से गूनती जाएगी

आज़ादी का संग्राम कहीं
पैसे पैर खेला जाता है
एह शीश काटने का सौदा
नंगे सर झेला जाता है

dont remeber much after this.. but by far it was one of the best patriotic poems we had ever read during our school days..

Philospher In Me

2007-08-09T05:08:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what prompted me that the first thing I did this morning was to open the blog of Vivek. He had posted some nice stuffs and it woke up the blogger in me which had been lying dormant for last few months. One by one I started browsing through my friends’ blogs which have links in my blog page.
I went to Bhavesh.
No activity since Holi.
Then to Reena. It was good to see the activities going on in that page. She is writing awesomely good and so stopped for quite a while there. Came to know that she has appeared for GRE this Tuesday, will have to find out about the result. Though didn’t post any comments there (sorry for that Reena), the poem was really nice and so was the one about Semester exams. From there I went to Sandy sir. No activity there, like Bhavesh. Seems he is having very good time at Switzerland.
Megha is as regular and mystic as ever and after completing her posts the Blogger in me, which had been lying dormant and which had just waked up after reading Vivek, was in hyper mood and ready to post anything coming in his mind and that is why you (if at all any one is reading this post) are being tortured through.
The point I want to make is if any one gets mentally deranged or suffers any other such condition than I am not responsible for it and most of the blame should be put on Vivek and remaining on Reena.
Now, having made the necessary statutory warning and notices, I will start.

The days are pretty hectic now a day. Lots of stuffs to take care of. The CAT need to be belled and that too this year, but haven’t got the slightest idea how. And then there is a nasty thing called Phone. Call back home after getting a miss call and then hear my Dad talking something about saving, investment etc about which I don’t know a bit. And then there is didi, whom if I don’t call once a week then will have to hear a lot of ‘bhasans’ the week, and that too of double duration that I have forgotten about her, and if this is my attitude then what it would be when I get married ..etc etc blah blah… So I think it wise to call every week. Then my little sis- If I don’t call and remind her about studies than she will not care about it and so it’s better to invest a little time and talktime. Keeping my family aside, there are lots of friends and devoting 1 hour of talktime a day is to devote but too little. But what can I do? There are 24 hrs in a day out of which 8 is kept apart to have a ‘nice’, ‘cozy’ sleep in the humid, extensively power cut nights of NOIDA.
And then last but off course not the least there is my job, which you know sucks but after having a good round of war (first cold, then proxy and now at last direct confrontation) with my APM, PM and GM, I feel a little easy but more insecure about my future. But you can’t separate these types of feelings. Its universal law even more profound then that of Newton’s- If you are working for an IT company, then your job will suck and so will your managers. Upon this universal law all the jobs in this world are created and to which every body has to surrender. I think that I am becoming more of a philosopher. The philosopher in me has waked up, which had been lying dormant for last few years. And yes, I am not responsible for it. Please contact Vivek :)

Nandigram

2007-03-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

There was a feast organized, for police, in Nandigram. The only pre-requisite was a voracious appetite, invitation cards were signed by Buddhadeb Bhattachryya himself and CPM cadre were in sufficient number to insure that the feast went on without any disturbance from ‘outside’. At the end of the day, 20-50 full lives were eaten. Some were left half eaten, smashed beyond recognition that it was difficult to identify a Paneer Masala from Chicken kebab. But what the use of leaving them? They wont come in use again.
This is democracy. Yes, this is democracy.
You have full right to live in this country, to roam anywhere, to support any political party and to protest again anything you don’t appreciate.
But again, the butchers in khaki (or rather government) have their own sets of rights. They have the right to smash anything beyond recognition. They have the right to feast on anything they like, raw or cooked, depending on their mood. Because it’s democracy and unfortunately they were elected to power for some reason or other.

Are they satisfied? Or is there something more in the card? Don’t know what is going to happen next. It seems even worse than the Raj days. At least at that time we had a consolation that the tyrants were not our own people. Even that consolation is gone now.
Don’t know where our beloved Bharat is heading. Ab to bhagwan hi maalik hai.

One Fine Morning

2007-02-03T12:34:00.000-08:00

The days are getting hectic now-a-days. My seat in office has been shifted to such a position that I can no more have the luxury of getting away at 2 pm and, also now I have to come half an hour earlier i.e. at 10:30. My studies have also started and so are my worries but that isn't a problem. In fact those who know me, know that the only problem I have is, is with my employer. (what a serious problem you will say ;) )
In fact my grudge now is not just confined to my employer, but it has generalized to the whole Industry as such and some times I seriously think to torch down the offices of all Software companies in Noida one fine morning. what a fine morning it will be? At least Noida will be 'Bug free' and without an 'error report' and also it will bring back the old golden days when PM stood for Prime Minister and not for a stinking, sulking Project Manager.
I know it will harm our economy, but I cant help thinking this way. May be I am a pyromaniac, at least when I am day dreaming.
But let's move away from discussing software Industry because it's the second most boring thing to do, the first one being working for it. But I have grown tired that I dont think that I can write any more today but before calling it a day I will like to tell that if Laden Chacha is reading this blog then I will sincerely request him to ignore it and think about some body else to fulfill his resolve to destroy our software industry . I wont be of much help to him, I am very sorry.

Mayurakshi

2007-01-23T12:46:00.000-08:00

He was sitting over there, on the railing of the Maharo Bridge, with his legs dangling over the murky water, some 100 feet beneath. The sun had already set and there was no moon. Slowly the darkness was creeping inside and around him and it was too late to notice. Even he could not figure out that how this darkness had seeped inside. He was relieved to see that it was approaching alone today, without its companion Moon and so he could talk with the darkness freely and incessantly, as much as he wished.

The dark water of Mayurakshi was flowing down, reminding him of her dark black eyes. What a beautiful pair of eyes did she have? Just like eyes of a peacock.

Beautiful, dark and having a depth to kill.

Mayurakshi – Mayur + aakshi.

Having eyes like a peacock’s.

Name of the river was making sense now, reminding him of her even more. He had promised himself that he would forget her. But the result; he could not forget even a single unit of her. He stood up and started walking over the bridge.

The air was chilly and blowing straight to his face. A red dot was glowing at the wireless tower over Hizla hill as warning him of some unforeseen danger. Something crept in his mind in a flash. A small kid rushing down the hill with whole bunch of friends so that they don’t miss that episode of Ramayana.

A chill went through his spine and he stopped. Why this?

Life is a combination of light and darkness.

Black and white.

Zero and one.

There is no other color, no other digit.

Rest all are derived entities of hardly any significance. Out of these he had to choose one and he chose the omnipotent darkness. The zero without which mathematics was nothing but scrap. And he would not deviate from his stand. After all everybody had to die, then why not die in the depth of her eyes. In the gloomy waters of Mayurakshi.

Knowing that the longer he pondered, the more deviated he will get he jumped from the bridge. Now gravity was in full force, pulling him towards the center of earth which again was dark.

Suddenly he caught the glimpse of a mom crying loudly after finding her kid who had been missing for about an hour. A dad taking his 8 yr kid to a treat of rasgullas as a reward for topping the class. A sis bathing her younger brother ruggedly with a promise that it would make him fairer than Rimjhim.

Considering the air drag, it would take about 3 seconds for him to kiss the waters of Mayurakshi and at this point he felt that how long 3 seconds can be.

He closed his eyes but his vision had extended to 360 degree of view. Everywhere there were figures, leaping around hopping, jumping, flying. A kid clapping for a Mithun movie, a group of children playing cop and thief with plastic guns, a semi-dark railway station with a very long platform, a dark canteen with some chairs under a tree with a branch just broken, a beautiful girl with deep eyes having a depth to kill……. and his thoughts were disturbed by the cold splash of water over his body.

He continued to dip deeper into water under the pull of gravity until he started suffocating. It seemed that his lungs would burst open and then he realized that there was nothing similar between the river and her. And even there was something then he wouldn’t have opted for it. He realized that it was a bad decision but there was nothing he could do. All had been lost under the struggle of taking breath. He tried very hard to stay afloat but there was nothing he could do. And a few seconds later water gushed inside his lungs, tearing the whole world apart. He started feeling dizzy and lost all his strength to struggle.

Now he was submissive.

Submissive before the only truth of life.

One who has taken birth must die, and his time had come. He gave up his resistance and became still. His thought started wandering for the last time, but there was no restlessness. Instead a very sweet form of clamness was there, a calmness no one has seen in life.

There was a calm serinity encapsulating him- serinity developed out of the warmth of unconditional, possessive love which only blood can breed. The same feeling when a child wakes up from a bad nighmare to find that he is in the arms of his mother, secure and safe without anything to worry.

Again there were figures around him but this time they were lesser in number. No beautiful eyes now, and no sitting silhouettes in the canteen.Just few family members, he in dad’s lap with Sisters sitting around and mom singing a lullaby, stroking his hairs until he was finally deep asleep.

The Photograph That Moved The World

2007-01-10T23:43:00.000-08:00

I was just browsing through the web when I stopped at this picture. Don’t want to tell my feelings upon seeing this terrible site. I know that you must be feeling the same way. In fact every human being will feel the same shame.
I don’t know what happened to the child and nobody else does. But can you imagine the scene. A vulture waiting for a child to die to have a feast. The child crawling on her knees towards a food camp, for survival, which is one km away. And a mock spectator who is not only watching but also capturing this moment.
what must be running in each one's mind?
Vulture is not human and so have no feeling, no emotion nothing. It has just some basic drives and its aim is to satisfy these drives.
The child was a famished one and so she can also be counted as non-human. Her mind was focused at a single goal and it was the food camp. Her hunger was so great that everything including death had ceased to exist. It was just food, food and food.
Nothing else.
She wasn't even aware of a predator stalking, right behind her. An assassin ready to strike with its accomplice ready, to capture the moment, to glorify his work and shame the humanity.
What a contradiction these two words make.
Glorify and Shame.
Now what about the mock spectator?
The accomplice?
He was the one who was sane and sensible. He was the one who could think. He was the one who was human. The one with feelings and emotion.
And what he did? he took this photograph. He couldn’t touch the child because it will transmit disease. He chased the vulture repeatedly, but it returned and So he left the place as he had many more photographs to take.
Its as simple as that.
Though the photographer is long dead, by committing suicide (may his soul rest in peace for he didn’t after he took that snap), I am still discussing it because I was appalled by a sight so horrific.
Why in this age of prosperity, people are still suffering from hunger.
When millions of tones of grains are lying rotten in the godowns and being eaten by rats of the prosperous country, why living human beings are compelled to become the prey of a vulture.
why is work so important and fear of a disease so overpowering that a photographer, whose photograph made the whole world cry, is forced to abandon a child just outside the devouring mouth of a predator.

Though it has been more than a decade for this incident, nothing has changed except for the Proper nouns associated with it. Sudan has been replaced by Somalia and Iraq and there are automatic rifles also along with the hungry vultures, ready to devour anything which comes along.

2006-12-14T10:52:00.000-08:00

Petty Matters, Important Matters
I had been absent from blogging circuit for quite a bit. The reason not being my job (which sucks always) and neither it has to do with studies (supposedly about CAT).
But anyway as I had not been actively blogging off late so I have to write something, and so I am writting this piece of shit and you are reading it( and getting irritated I suppose).
My friends here are in a 'serious' discussion about the OBC reservation, child labour, primary education etc. And by 'serious' I mean really serious and that is why I am not participating in it. Why to risk life over these 'petty' issues and that also when I am already injured from an accident. After all I know what does a serious discussion means and how quickly its degree rises :).
So having settled in a noisy corner of my room I am typing something. Anything which is coming in this tiny head. The background score is cacophony mostly dominated by Jitender who is suggesting a very revolutionary way to tackle both poverty and child labour- allow children to work for only 2 or 3 hours of daily work and that too in some harmless industry like tea shop. I will pray for your tiny soul Jitender. Even when there is complete ban on child labour then also children are workin for 16 hrs in Dhabas and firecracker factories of Shivakasi then what will be the result if your 'revolutionary theory'?
Anyway I will not interrupt them because the pain in my hand reminds me that I am nursing an injury.
Now the discussion has shifted to other 'important' topics mainly the last weekend of this month. As there are 6-7 friends coming at that time the problem is where they will sleep? No there is no lack of space at our flat. The problem is the chilly Dilli ki sardi. We dont have extra razai and blankets. There are lot of suggestions on it some being as outrageous as-tell them to bring their own blankets or half of us will sleep during daytime and half of us during nights. If number of guests increases then we may device another way- we will then sleep in shifts. Shifts of eight hours, like call centre shifts or shifts in Mines.
Till the publication of this blog, the discussion was going on and the final conclusion(which will be inconclusive) will be published in the next blog. So stay tuned. Good Night.

2006-12-06T23:20:00.000-08:00

Fodu ki appeal

Celebration means......

Friday night,Saturday and Sunday

Group of 17 pillars

--Venue-RD --

glasses of chai. ,sutta

(OR)

An evening

Group of minmach and petro

Venue- canteen

Talking about swami and BSG group

(OR)

Maggi noodles. A hostel room. 4.25 a.m.

(OR)

one day mine visit..

Pillars in the backseat of bus

Abusing eachother with teacher in front seats

(OR)

A group of students

Venue –Mani’s café

Job celebration

Pouring colddrinks over ……

(OR)

A hostel room

Few students

Doing BC over crazy frog

Venue –classroom

Making sketches of $*#%^*

(umm, won't share this one)

And passing eachother with modifications

A hostel room

4 people

Playing 29 ..

Ending time none knowing ..

Doing BC on orkut

…..antisocial group….

And

Finally

Rakesh soni’s BC

We miss each other yaar…

Plz keep in touch

Fodu

Something from my side:

Venue: Hostel corridor

Koushik chasing Fodu

And

Fodu, running for his life.

Or

venue: same as above

Manoj patni shooting

with his handycam

a group of people

imitating the walk of

Reena, reddy, Sharmaji,Pattu, Fodu

Or

Venue: Canteen

Time-12:00 Midnight

occasion: someone's B'day

and the Janta..

looking for Rakesh Soni

to bash him nicely.

I will remember you People...

forever..

with love-

Dumka

2006-10-03T11:09:00.000-07:00

This is NOIDA
1) You can see bullock carts and Mercedes Benz on the same 6 lane road, may be competing each other.
2)You are allowed to jump the red lights unless you bang into some other vehicle.
3)Load shedding will occur after 6 in evening during the weekdays and 10 am- 6pm during the weekends
4) The UP electricity board's billboard say that they know their customers' requirement
5)Their are two type pf species roaming around in the NCR.
i) Human beings and ii) Jats.
(no if no but only jatt)
6)The second species eyes the first one with contempt over the absence of certain 'keywords' in their vocabulary.
7)The girls here are in no way inferior to their counterparts in Mumbai( as far as dressing is concerned)
8)you can see them in a mini skirt at 11pm in a december night.
9)Never mind that their boyfriends clad warmly in a leather jacket and thick denim pant.
10) The city does more business during Valentines days than during the Durgapuja
11)Though most of the publishing houses of the country are located in this metro, it has even less numbers of quality bookstores then smaler towns like Pune, Hyderabad.
12)The shopkeepers are the busiest lots in this city. They open up after 10 am and downs their shutters at 8 pm sharp. And yes!! did i tell you that their is a lunch break also, which is compulsory.
13)one shopping tip- Be very polite while buying any commodity. Any harsh word from you may end up the shopkeeper refusing to sell anything to you.
14)The best time to shop is when the shopkeeper is in good mood. Any irritation on his side may lead you to move to the next shop and god knows in what kind of mood is that fellow. ( Its Delhi man, its better not to take chances)

2006-09-14T05:18:00.000-07:00

Today again, after so many days we saw a spectacle which will keep the Indian cricket fans drenched in ecstasy. The reason being the brilliant performance of Sachin Tendulkar in his returning match. After so many days we again felt the same sensation with which we were familiar earlier. The sudden surge in the heart beat when he is at 99 followed by the rush of emotion when he unties his helmet and points the willow toward sky as if sky is the limit.
One thing is for sure now.'old is gold'. Though we may have thousands of Dhoni and Sehwag, but their twinkle cant match the radiance emitted by our own Sachhu.
The sixes he hit today were so elegant and their was such a smoothness in the way they were hit that everybody watched awestruck with their hands clapping involuntrily in unison.
Yes!! This is Sachin Tendulkar and this is his beauty.
one billion hearts skipping a collective beat when his bat swings in air and then their is such a mix of celebration that it's incomprehensible to distinguish.
Yes !! This is his beauty.
Somebody rightly said that if Cricket is religion than Sachin Tendulkar is God.A god, short in tallness but having very high stature. A god having who, though is a human, doesn't have human fallacies. Who plays for the game and not for fame. This is how the real gods are like.
Thank you Sachin for your century. Thank you Sachin for donning the tricolour on your shoulders and keeping its spirit high.

2006-09-01T11:38:00.000-07:00

HOW DOES IT FEELS?

The contents of this blog have been taken from some forwarded mail, and there is very little original from my side. But the thought process generated after reading each line will be pure and original, straight from your heart. So just read each line very carefully and take ample time to think over it and recollect the meories associated.

Have you ever wondered that how we express our feelings? By words mosrly and some times pictures also. But there are some feelings which cant be expressed by words. Some feelings which cant be depicted by a picture, however colourfull it may be. For instance how will you define true love, or for the matter of fact the first rain! And how about the first kiss?
There are some feelings above the constraints of twenty six alphabets, beyond the boundry of seven colours (or spectrum of 4000 monochromes).
I will list just a few.

1. Falling in love.
2. Laughing so hard your face hurts.
3. Getting mail
4. Taking a drive on a pretty road
5. Hearing your favorite song on the radio.
6. Midnight phone calls that last for hours
7. Running through sprinklers.
8. Finding a rupee 500 bill in your coat from last winter.
9. Laughing at yourself.
10.Laughing for absolutely no reason at all.
11.Having someone tell you that you're beautiful.
12.Accidentally overhearing someone say something nice about you.
13.Waking up and realizing you still have a few hours left to sleep.
14.Waking up and realizing you still have a few hours left to sleep.
15.Sweet dreams.
16.Hot chocolate.
17.Watching the __expression on someone's face
as they open a much desired present from you.
18.Making eye contact with a cute stranger.
19.Holding hands with someone you care about.
20.Running into an old friend and realizing
that some things (good or bad) never change.
21.Getting a hug from someone you care about deeply.
22.Knowing that somebody misses you.

and lastly

23.Knowing you've done the right thing,
no matter what other people think.

So, how do you think?

2006-05-18T13:41:00.000-07:00

Life

Today is my last night to be spent at ISM. Last night of the great BC session which started four year ago when I was immature, young, ignorant and above all sober and which is ending now when I am mature enough, experienced enough and drunk enough to write all these.

Satwik Pattanyak was writing a blog called “when do men cry?” I liked the title instantaneously. But I could not get the feeling. Now I am getting everything, Pattu, after seeing off Neha at the railway station and saying good bye to Lala and Budhanshu. It is 11: 59 pm now, Vikash will be going at 03:00 in the morning. I will be going to see him off too. Then it will be my turn, which will come a little 12 hrs later. But the moral of the story is that I will have to go.
There were many questions which are left unanswered. Why we have to live ISM? Why were we fortunate enough to get into this place, and why the lesser mortals could not get through? And above all- when do men cry?

The answer to the last question I got now.
Men cry, when they are leaving a place like ISM? Men cry when they leave a friend like Neha. Men cry when they become alumnus of a branch called Min mach.
There are some phone calls left unanswered. There are some stories which end at a blunt unexpected place. There are some ‘Important’ Mannats, to Viashno Devi, which are fulfilled in lieu of some unfulfilled lesser important ones.
But do these things matter?
No!
Absolutely NO!
Life has to go on, at its own pace, tracing its own predetermined path. This is the main moral of the story- the story of life. For every one. Be it a Petro Engg or a Min Mach engg like me.
Just a few minutes back, when I was drinking the Portuguese wine brought by Mohit Bhatnagar, one year back, from Germany, and kept for the occasion, Gaurav (GG) asked me to address him by the name Chirkut. His reasoning was that he will never get a person who will tell him ‘Chirkut Chamar’, after passing out from here.

Yes it is true. There will be no one to call me Dumka instead of Deepak Tiwary. There will be no one to say it in my face that I am a ganwar from a small town in Jharkhand. There will be no one to criticize my face expression while I am laughing.

Today after returning from station, I was returning back the things which I had lent from my friends. Lent is a formal word, I will use ‘taken’ instead, which shows more possessiveness.
So I was return things which I had taken from my friends. There was a book on handwriting analysis which was on my table, for six months. It was of Siddhant Dey and Koushik had given it to me. An ISM Track suit, taken from Koushik again, some time during winters and which I had not returned till now. Suddenly it came in my mind that I had given something to Venugopal Rao. I went to his room to collect these things. It was nothing but just a shirt taken from Nitin and a pant taken from Koushik and both lent to him by me.
This is the magic of this place. Here everything is yours. You have the same right over these things as that of the ‘real owner’.

There have been some bitter moments also, but why to recall them? I know that you people will understand. Mohit will not you?
Bitter moments should be recollected only to take a lesson, in order not to repeat it. That is the only purpose to keep these things in our memory space. This is the fundamental of life, and everybody should know it.

There are some persons who should be addressed here better than all those addressed above, but may be I don’t have the courage to address them.
There are some persons who deserve a phone call rather than an SMS, but may be they are reluctant enough to receive it.
There are some persons who can have my whole life rather than my humble friendship, but may be they are fortunate enough to get something better.

This is life.
A whole detail of phone calls, received or unrecieved. Of names addressed or unaddressed. Of mannats fulfilled or unfulfilled. Of dreams seen or unseen. Of stories finished or unfinished- at an unexpected blunt ending.
Yes. This is life.
Not only mine, not only an ISMite’s but everyone’s.

2006-05-15T00:20:00.000-07:00

Inspiration

Life gives an answer in 3 ways... It says Yes. And gives you what you want. It says NO... and gives something better. It says WAIT and gives the best in its own time!

2006-05-15T00:15:00.001-07:00

Plagiarized piece

something in life never changes, sometimes in life you don't find reasons, some moments in life aren't forgotten, sometimes you loose hope... when time rolls by, you try to forget what holds you on... some people in life are a part of you, and when you let them go, you never lose them. Because... You find them living in you.

--- A Plagiarized piece, taken from somwhere.

2006-05-02T09:18:00.000-07:00

MY LAST CLASS IN ISM

The twin Gulmohars in front of our department are in full bloom, orange flames of knowledge on its branches and a carpet of red petals rolled up at ground, near the entry gate. This is the 27^th time the Gulmohars are giving farewell to a Mining Machinery batch, every time in the same manner. Probably they know that every exit is an entry to some other place and so they bid us farewell by rolling a red carpet.

A painted board over the entrance reads

“DEPARTMENT OF MECHANICAL ENGG. & MINING MACHINERY ENGG”

Today I am seeing this board for a little longer than usual, trying to capture its image in my mind, to recall it whenever I need, for the rest of my life.

It’s amazing how we perceive things. Because whenever I try to recall the face of our department, it is EMM, which comes in my mind; as if it never changed its name.

Today we are going to attend the last class of ISM and we are dressed for the occasion, everyone in full formals. The whole department seems very perplexed at seeing us in this attire. ‘Are these guys having campus interview today? Or is there any conference or seminar?’ Lots of questions in there mind. The last thing they hope about us is to see us dressed like this.

But we have made an example and that also, a better one. I am sure that others will follow suit, some out of inspiration and some out of desperation, when they will be attending the last class of their B.tech tomorrow.

This is how traditions are made.

But the price for making this tradition is a dear one. Since we took some time in arranging the formal stuff, we were late for the class and so we guys have been kicked out.

No class today! On the last day!

We move to Prof Chattopadhyay’s chamber. To request, to plead, to beg him to take our class, but he is unmoved. He is a man of principles and he will never tolerate any amount of insincerity, doesn’t matter that it is our last day. Time and again he has tried to instill in us an iota of sincerity and attitude, some time in soft and most of the time in harsh words, but we were incurable. And you see the consequences; being kicked out for the last class.

We have learned a great lesson today.

Chattopadhyay sir, you are a great teacher. At last you have made us learn the most important lesson of life.

Learning this lesson we moved on, to some other teachers of department, to take their picture with us and record them wishing us goodluck on our handy cam .Today they are a different entity, a little different from their usual self. Their eyes are speaking of emotions today and there is no discussion about studies. Dr. T.K. Chatterjee has not told the usual ‘na…! padhna padega!’ even once. Instead he has traveled three year back, down the memory lane, recalling our irresponsible attitude at that time. He had been very concerned about our future at that time, even now he is. But now there is a feeling of re-assurance instead of insecurity, and yes, there is no ‘na....! padhna padega!’

Something in this world should never change. Like T.K.C. sir, like Kabir Dasgupta sir and Alok Mukhopadhyay sir, who are the very symbols of this branch. Mukhopadhyay sir has always been very supportive of us, very protective, like a father who is very confident of his child. Today, there is a gleam of delight in his eyes to see us standing on the threshold of our professional world. There is Dasgupta sir, with a straightforward approach, like always, wishing us good luck.

We will miss you both, sir!

So finally our last class is over. Someone suggests going to canteen before we return to hostel and so we move towards the ISM CANTEEN.

In canteen there is Vinod, to take orders- which means a delay of at least half an hour before being served our actual menu. So we sit idly under the Canteen tree, facing Opal hostel, chatting with each other about the amount of oil in samosas and day by day reduction in the amount of Maggi in a full plate.

Four year back we were here, in the same hostel queued up for our admission. Time has flown with such a high speed that it seems that it was just a few days back.

This is the distinctive feature of ISM; you loose count of time at this vibrant place.

Soon we will be going out of this place, becoming a part of the vast record books in the Admin block, carrying with us a large bag of memory along with our luggage.

There are so many things which I will miss out of here.

There will be no mess, with dogs running under the table. There will be no yearly athletic ritual called P.E.T., no matki fodna during Janmashtmi, no Srijan, no Basant, no soporific lectures to sleep through and no GJLT to hoot in.

Though we will get a better stage, it will not be Penman.

Though I will continue to play volleyball, but there will be no Diamond volley court to sprain my ankle in.

Though I still believe in love at first sight, but there will be no ISM girls to fall for.

Out of these what are the things which I will miss most?

I think its everything.

Yes, its everything.

2006-05-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

keep running

Every morning a gazelle wakes up in africa,
it knows that it has to run faster than the fastest lion to survive.
Every morning a lion wakes up in africa,
it knows that it has to run faster than the slowest gazeele to survive.
It does not matter whether you are lion or gazelle,
when the sun comes out, you better be running.
- An old African adage

2006-05-02T09:15:00.000-07:00

My Date With Chameli

Before I start, let me just tell you one thing- this is not a work of fiction. It is just a fact, a fact with no moral, no theme, no inspirations. It is a real life incident encountered by me some six months ago, which I just wanted to share.

I was waiting at our railway station, Jasidih junction, to catch Patliputra Express to my way back to Dhanbad, after a weekend at my home. The platform was not as much crowded as it generally is. There were even some unoccupied benches, which is a rarity at a railway station nowadays. I was sitting on one of the unoccupied benches, totally engrossed with myself. Suddenly my train of thought was interrupted by a female voice in Bengali, who was asking me the platform from where she could board a train to Malda. I turned to see a girl sitting on my bench. She seemed to be 16 or 17. Though she still had the innocence of child on her face, there was something which looked very unusual in her. I tried to think but could not find it. I just told her plainly (in Hindi) that there was no train for Malda from Jasidih and slid a little away from her on my bench. Now my thought pattern shifted towards her. I was trying to figure out what it was which made her look so unusual, so different from other girls of her age group. I stole few furtive glances to see that she was wearing a dark lipstick. The way she had dressed herself looked cheap. I must confess that even a wild idea came to me that she was not a girl but a eunuch, but her female voice and soft features made me discard the idea as quickly as it had come.

She tried to say something, this time in Hindi, but her vocabulary failed her and she ended up asking me in Bhojpuri(a dialect of Hindi) how she could reach Malda from that station. I was trying to think about some break journey route to Malda when a man in his 50s, who was trying to hear this piece of conversation, interrupted. He started telling her some route and then both of them engaged themselves in some casual conversation in Bhojpuri. I felt a little relaxed and happy over the ‘divine intervention’ and thanked god for sending that man to my rescue. But the fact that she was not able to say even any word in Hindi and was very fluent in Bhojpuri, started to give me some concern and other sort of thought train started in my mind.

I originally belong to the Bhojpuri region of Bihar and so I know that region very well. They have still retained the feudal culture and there is still the tradition of mujra and ‘whore-dancing’ during marriage ceremonies in that region. The prostitutes for that purpose are imported from the poor villages of west Bengal. Those Bengali girls end up being fluent in Bhojpuri without knowing a bit of Hindi. Summing up all those facts I came to one conclusion that she was also one of them and this made me a little nervous.

Meanwhile the duo was continuing with their casual conversion. I heard the man asking her about her home etc. and then the girl asked him whether she could ask him something. Getting the reply from the man in affirmative, she asked,

‘Can you give me Rs twenty? I don’t have money to buy me my fare’

It appeared from the man’s expression that somebody had asked him his whole fortune.

‘What do you think; you will be able to buy a ticket for Malda in just 20 rupees?’

‘no, actually I will travel without ticket, by train, till Malda. But from there I will have to take a bus to reach my village, and the Bus-wallah will not take me without money. So I need at least twenty bucks’

The man paused for a bit, after some thinking he said that he didn’t have extra money but a friend of his would be coming in few minutes and then he would be able to give her the required money. Saying this he quietly slipped off. After his exit, my comfort level started dipping. I noticed that she had two heavy bags as luggage which she had carried herself. It seemed that she was running away from somewhere. I sat there for few seconds and then decided to ask her about herself that who she was and why she was traveling alone and under this condition. Collecting my whole mental strength I asked that from where she was coming.

Her reply knocked me off my senses. She was coming from Bhojpur. Now it was almost confirmed that she was one of the horrendous creatures, whom some of us love to hate and some hate to love. Before I could make a quick exit from the scene I had done a grave mistake. I don’t know which bug bit me in my mind that I asked her the most insane question you can ever imagine.

‘Are you a baai jee’ was my question. (Baai is a euphemism used for prostitutes)

Even today also, after six months have passed I become uneasy when I think that how could have I asked such type of question.

You can’t ask a question like this from anyone roaming around, or for matter of fact, anyone sitting on a railway platform. It doesn’t matter that whether you have used a euphemism or a dirty slang.

But what could I do?

Words, once spoken, can’t be taken back and so after this formidable mistake I was sure of a tight slap on my face. But hearing a cold reply which said that I was correct surprised me. I looked up to see her face. It was blank, without any sign of anger or guilt. She reacted in the same way as I when asked that whether I am an engineering student

Wasn’t she ashamed of herself, was my first reaction. She could have easily told me a lie, or even she could have shown some fake anger over my question. But all she did was she answered me in affirmative that I was correct about her profession

. Now when I think more closely, I ask that why should she alone be ashamed?

The whole society should be carrying the same amount of shamefacedness on their faces. But then, there was no time for all these things. I was just another guy from a reputed background, sitting very uncomfortably in a ‘tainted company’. My first impulse was to run, but something held me back. I decided to wait there, as only 5minutes were left for my train besides, I wanted to see that whether that middle aged man would turn up or not. I just slid away on my bench, as far as possible from her, just sitting on the edge. I was so nervous that I could hardly think anything. Only one thing was coming in my mind that I was sharing my bench with a prostitute and it was giving a shiver wave through my body. I was on verge of trembling.

Time passed very slowly. I was literally counting every second due for my train. The man turned up after about 2 minutes. As expected, his friend had not come and so he was unable to give her the money. But he had some very good suggestions. If she asked from some other person, she would definitely get the money. Saying this, he disappeared. What a suggestion!

I saw an expression of disappointment on her face, as if something on which she had banked heavily, had failed. I started thinking that what should be my step. Should I give her money? Since I was returning from home, money was not a problem and that too twenty rupee we waste on cold drinks everyday. But the main issue was that, was I supposed to talk to a girl after knowing that she was a prostitute? From whatever faint knowledge I had about Malda, I knew that she wouldn’t be able to reach there before 10:00 in the morning. The electronic clock on platform showed 8:45 PM. So, she wouldn’t be able to eat anything for about 12 hours. And god knows how far her village from the railway station was. I had become concerned for her by that time. But would I give her money? Suppose anybody saw me then? What if my hand touched her while giving the money? The very idea seemed so outrageous that I got up to go away from there. As I was picking my bag, my sight fell on her again. She was looking at me and our eyes met for a moment. It seemed that her eyes were pleading something. I stopped there for a moment, took out my wallet. There were some 10 rupees bills. I kept one bill for myself for paying the rickshaw-wallah and threw the rest on her lap telling her to buy something to eat from whatever she would be left with, after paying for the bus ticket. Saying this I ran as fast as I could, from that place, without bothering to see back that whether the bills I threw, landed up on her lap or not. Luckily my train arrived at that moment itself and so no one seemed to notice me running there, like a madman.

I boarded my train and sat on an empty seat. The gush of wind through window was giving a soothing effect. But still I wasn’t able to concentrate.

From what brutality was she fleeing from?

May be, she was the sole bread earner for her old parents.

How her parents must have been feeling while eating each bite of their food.

How unlucky are those families, who have to use their 16 year old daughter to satisfy their hunger?

And how unlucky are we people, who are lucky enough to throw money over their 16 year old daughters.

2006-05-02T09:12:00.000-07:00

Chanda mama

He was a small child. A child living in the Fantasy Island just like everybody at that age. An island dominated by fairies & ghosts. An island decorated with flowers and littered with toys. An island, where trespassers were welcome, but only during the night, and that too for singing lullabies and telling the stories of Rajas & their Ranis.

He was passing through that phase of life when there is only innocence without any trace of treachery. When there are only emotions and no reasoning. Where it is easy to differentiate between grief and joy but it is irrelevant to think about its implications. Where you can start loving something to extremes without thinking about the end result. And so does our story starts.

He was lying on a charpai in a full moon night with his mother on his side singing him a sweet lullaby to sleep. He was staring at the moon. Intently. Very intently.

Chanda mama dur ke,

Pooa pakai gur ke.

Not paying any attention to the sweet voice of his mother which seemed so faint at that time. The moon seemed so bright and serene. There was an absolute aura of calmness about it. How can be anything so beautiful? So radiant yet so calm. So bright yet so soothing

Aap khaayein thali mein,

Munne ko de pyaali mein.

Suddenly a gush of dark cloud came into sight, coming straight towards the moon. Black monster eying a silvery elf. The beast neared. A chill went in the body of boy. The gloomy cloud had started engulfing the moon. The sight was terrific. King Kong holding the delicate Jessica Lange in his hands. Something shattered deep inside the boy.

Pyaali gayee toot,

Munna gaya rooth.

‘What happened?’ mother suddenly noticed the restlessness in his child.

‘Maa, I want the moon.’

‘When the clouds will be gone, you will again see it my son. It has not gone permanently’

‘No maa. I want it here. With me. Away from those sinister clouds.’

‘Ok boy. We will get it for you tomorrow.’

‘Thanks maa’

Now go and sleep, goodnight’

‘Goodnight’

Night gave way to morning and he was awake. Unexpectedly, he again started demanding the moon. The mother tried to persuade him but he wouldn’t listen. He would have his moon.

‘But son, god has made it for everybody than how can you have it for yourself alone?’

‘There will be thirteen more for others’

‘There is only one moon, dear’

‘Don’t fool me. There are fourteen. From crescent to full moon. Cant I have one’

‘Oh son, there is only one moon. What he does is change his dress daily. So he looks different on different days.’

‘Whatsoever be the case I want moon. I will not eat anything till you give me one.’ The boy looked obstinate.

Every trick to persuade him failed. He wouldn’t budge from his bed, just ask for moon. No food for last five days. He had fallen ill and his condition was deteriorating. But he wouldn’t listen. God knows from where he got such an obdurate attitude. He had never been normal, but this was height. God knows what he would do when he would grow up. But there wasn’t any time to think about all these, for his life was in danger. He was hardly able to move his lips. Doctors said that he has lost the will to live and so they couldn’t be of any help. Sorrow was in air.

He was on his bed. It had starting to be dark. He had started feeling dizzy. Suddenly he saw a shaft of light in the room. So bright was it that he could not fix his gaze on it initially. Slowly his eyes adapted to condition and he saw a very handsome man with an absolute aura of calmness on his face, staring directly at him.

‘Who are you, and what are you doing here at my room?’ he wanted to ask, but his lips had failed. They just quivered a little.

The man’s expression didn’t change. His lips gave a hint of a faint smile. Then he spoke.

‘Son, I am the symbol of unfulfilled desire in this world. I am Moon, Symbol of all those cravings for which people are so desperate, symbol of all those unsatisfied longings for which they are eager to give or take lives.’

‘Oh, I am so glad that you have come. I knew that you will, one day. I had read in one book that there is no object which is away from the reach of a person. Just long for it from the core of your heart and never give up, and you can win any thing you wish. Now I know that I have won’. The boy was so overwhelmed with pleasure that there was no sign of weakness in his body.

‘you are too young to understand all these things, but at the same time you are so stubborn that I had to come. I have not come here because you wished for me. I have come here to teach you something. To teach you the art of letting things go. Now listen carefully to what I am going to tell now, as you will need it for your whole life. Such type of problem will keep on coming to you even when you grow up, because there is a little bit of child in everybody.’

“The first thing to know is that there are some things which are not made for us. No matter how hard we try or how earnestly we desire. The best example is me myself. No matters how much earnestly you long for me, you won’t be able to get me.”

“The god has given the mortals everything except the control over their destiny. This power he has kept for himself to show his supremacy, which nobody can challenge. I am not telling that we should leave everything to destiny, or give on trying when we fail. We should keep on trying till we achieve it. But if we don’t get it despite repeated effort, then there is no need to kill ourselves on that issue. The more you will cling to it, the more will be your loss. It is like clutching the grains of sand in your palms. The firmer the grip, the more the sand-grains will come out of your hands.”

“It’s very good to dream about something. Success is all about daring to dream and working hard to make all those dreams come true. But don’t hold these dreams so near that their thorns start pricking you. Dreams are made of glass. Don’t lean over them so closely that when they break, they hurt your eyes and when they die, the smoke of their funeral start smothering you.”

“Look at me. I have been made to remind the humans of their frailty. I come in different shapes and sizes to tell you people that the intensity of your desire can be varied. I don’t come on New moon day to tell you one thing. That however dear an object may be to you, it is really possible to live without it.”

“I hope that you have understood my point. So don’t desire for anything which is not possible. And life has to go on, whatever may be the circumstances.”

With this he was gone. There was no one in the room except for his mother, who was staring at him perplexed. ‘To whom were you talking?’

‘With the moon! Didn’t you see?’

Probably it was a dream or some hallucination, she thought. She was too much worried by now. But suddenly she was startled to see a much unexpected thing. His son walking out of bed after five days, and that too without any persuasion. He walked straight to the balcony. His mother went behind him, too puzzled to speak anything.

Probably he was looking for the moon. Not finding the moon there, he seemed disappointed. His mother was more worried by now.

‘Today is the New moon day’

‘New moon?’

‘Yes, so there won’t be any moon today. You can see it tomorrow. But son, please eat...…….’

He was not listening any more. Only one line was coming in his mind.

‘However dear an object can be to you, it is really possible to live without it. Life has to go on, whatever may be the circumstances’

He saw his mother looking very worried, telling him something, he had no desire of knowing.

Her mother was perplexed.

‘What has happened to you son? I have no idea what are you talking about?’

The boy continued with his thought process, he didn’t hear anything.

‘However beautiful the moon can be, it will not be able to match the beauty of life.’

‘What! What are you talking son?’

‘Nothing Maa. I am feeling very hungry, can’t you give me something to eat.’