tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46158802708329879642023-11-16T05:16:25.132-08:00Journals, Reviews and StoriesA collection of writings that mirror my thoughts and the highly opinionated person that is me.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-65099865573625669052012-01-06T19:28:00.001-08:002012-01-09T09:14:59.734-08:00I am strongReading the account of women being tortured in the melee of the Somalian famine, chaos, and war, I was moved too strongly to not vent my anger and sadness at their desperate situation. This is what I write for them<br /><br />I am strong<br />Even when a random snapshot<br />Flashes a memory flood<br /><br />I am strong <br />Even when the throat lumps up<br />At the thought of a wrong done<br /><br />I am strong <br />Even when I want to cry out loud<br />But a silent voice escapes <br /><br />Only the strong can survive<br />The nightmare of a nightmare<br />I am strong because <br />I do it even in the day.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-38421754961170351072011-06-11T16:50:00.001-07:002011-06-11T17:03:03.269-07:00In a better placeThe modernity of life amazes me a lot<br />I remember the words, think of what you need and want not<br />Childhood was simple, no denying it<br />Strutting in shreds that grandma would creatively sprout<br /><br />Nostalgia is attractive, such a delightful escape<br />From the life of today, my nerves with drudgery grate<br />I take a step back and look around in strong belief<br />Who am I kidding, my world couldn't be a better place to live<br /><br />The simplicity of modern life <br />May seem to many a crippling complexity<br />Yet my faith buzzes with optimism that <br />These frailties have made human life much easier to be !<br /><br />On a mission away from the comfort I know<br />Away from family, friends, in an isolated burrough<br />Yet connected I am, each minute if I choose to<br />Freedom I have, as not known before<br /><br />Free to choose what I want to do<br />And how to live my life, to worship or not<br />Free to choose my partner, my livelihood<br />Even free to let life silently pass by<br /><br />Yes, I know this fortune <br />Is only available to a chosen few<br />More imperative then, wouldn't you think <br />To acknowledge it is an ideal nearly come trueHarinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-22095435030423120002011-03-19T17:49:00.000-07:002011-03-19T17:51:22.207-07:00See thisOh yes, I want to direct some attention to my other blog, and absolutely want some feeback there. <br /><br />http://hpsarathy.wordpress.com/2011/03/19/counting-my-blessings/Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-47388664619996412982011-01-31T12:14:00.000-08:002011-01-31T12:36:24.390-08:00An ode to theeFrigid cold was yesterday<br />The wind on my face<br />The steel on the knobs<br />Hands and feet all sore<br />The wedding ring stinging white gold<br /><br />He searched for life<br />And found a face botoxed<br />In cold, weary, worry<br />Expressions of delight I lacked<br />Stranger was the warm hug that slacked<br /><br />He stared at me in silence<br />Knowing I know his question<br />Caressing that strand off my brow<br />Wiping away that cold unwelcoming tear<br />Holding me when I was too afraid to answer my own fears<br /> <br />What else can I do but stand up<br />When inspiration looks at me in my face<br />The warmth of love searing<br />Without burning my hopes in flame<br />Oh! Love is such a loopy game<br /><br />This sunny morning <br />I sit in my chair at my desk<br />Thinking of my husband<br />When a wish to succeed surges in me<br />I halt only to pen an ode to thee. <br /><br />And then I smile<br />It's coming back to me<br />All falling in the loop I own<br />My pen, my thoughts, my drive<br />You complete what I call my life.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-81683423398367124232010-09-12T14:53:00.001-07:002010-09-12T14:59:10.073-07:00Under the rubbleDark heavy clouds<br />Surround me up close<br />Thunderous steps<br />Bellowing applause<br /><br />My heart beats faster<br />Thrill palpable <br />Lungs choke on my throat<br />Chest under rubble<br /><br />What was it, an earthquake<br />a landslide, a wall<br />That fell on my vision<br />Smile, and my pride tall<br /><br />Will I ever get out<br />Will there be a lending hand<br />Can I ever push away these rocks<br />Ever seen the coloured bandHarinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-84873804081394008212010-05-16T10:22:00.000-07:002010-05-16T10:54:29.664-07:00through the agesI was seven<br />When I dreamt of this place<br />Far from my reality<br />Entrenched in future faze<br /><br />A helping hand<br />Radiant smile glowing face<br />Hope served on breakfast platter<br />To ill, weary, sick and lifeless<br /><br />I was seventeen then<br />When I dreamt of this space<br />Of fragrant roses and bright bougainvillea<br />Adorning the soft grass in my front gaze<br /><br />Romance, a man of thinking and integrity<br />Toothless smiles in cherubic faces filling my days<br />Inane endless tell me whys<br />Retrieving my father's answers to my quests<br /><br />I am to be twenty seven now<br />Living that dream but just a trace<br />A bit lost in the wilderness I find myself to be<br />Second thoughts, revisions, in a daze<br /><br />And then I realize I have them all<br />My education, an honorable man, a loving family, designed my way<br />Cruising pleasantly with a dream distinct<br />Reality and aspirations will merge, I have determinedHarinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-55334210907113964952010-05-03T11:21:00.000-07:002010-05-03T11:28:29.170-07:00no moon daysparks fly<br />tiny stars<br />eye lights<br />glimmer afar<br /><br />stupefies<br />sinking heart<br />affect incongruent<br />liar epitaph<br /><br />give me rhythm<br />give me space<br />give me music<br />to save myself from disgrace<br /><br />storm inside<br />i cannot feel<br />know not see not<br />what's right for me<br /><br />crystals fall<br />a plea to stay<br />to strive righteous<br />rewrite the play.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-43462876667387005422010-04-19T07:25:00.000-07:002010-04-19T08:19:19.957-07:00Delayed gratificationI have never thought of myself as being indecisive, ambiguous, or confused. Well, definitely not about major decisions in my life. (That the trivial mundane simple daily chores pose a Herculean task to me, is, well a story for another day). Taking up studies in medicine and then pursuing a seemingly-misdirected attempt at a degree in epidemiology have been well-thought, well-planned, and well-weighed agendas that have over time proved worthy in my service. Yes, of course, there are those momentary lapses of 'what if(s)', but these transgressions of resolute are permissible and well within limits.<br /><br />Then,what am I talking about now? I have always wanted to define my work in the field of health. That is something I have been absolutely sure of. I worked my way into a place in medical school that I earned for sheer hard work and dedication in preparation, topped with a little luck - what is popularly known as the 'merit seat'. I mention luck too, as I am sure there were many peers who similarly worked hard and lost out to factors intangible and inexplicable. Medical school brought me face to face with people - and it was this aspect of medicine that I loved. The feeling of bringing health to the ill, of saying a comforting word and lending a helping hand was honestly the reason I took to medicine.<br /><br />Yet, behind this humane face, there is so much competition and the pressures of doing well, examining and reaching a decent diagnosis and treating the ill can indeed be overwhelming. I was surely overcome by fear of not being up to the mark. And in my growing disenchantment with my own capabilities as a doctor, I found solace in a field where 'we save million lives at a time' - epidemiology and biostatistics. <br /><br />The daughter of an engineer and a mathematician that I was, I was always encouraged to love the rule of numbers and figures. Sometimes, I surmise, my act of entering a non-mathematical field was an act of rebelliousness against my parents. Little did I know how mathematics would continue to haunt me years later. I still marvel at how population genetics and genetic variation are fundamentally explained by the one equation from my 7th Std algebra class by Mrs Sati Purushottaman - a^2 + 2ab + b^2. How diagnosing a case is an individualized method of hypothesis generation, and how exploratory data analysis helps us identify patterns of characteristics in groups of people and how tweaking numbers and equations helps us define associations and causation such as smoking and lung cancer, identify and radically institute treatment measures such as that seen in the SARS epidemic or more recently the influenza pandemic in 2009. I also learnt how numbers can be manipulated in clinical trials and how vigilance can force reversal and recall of drugs after they were marketed. It was because of rigorous experiments on a large scale that gave impetus to local governments to create policies banning smoking in public places and especially in closed environments. But there is so much that goes on in the background of 'research', that my earlier dismissive notion of epidemiology has largely been corrected and I am humbled. Health policy, treatment, prevention, health promotion, natural history of disease, causes - I saw it all happening during my sojourn in epidemiology.<br /><br />Then why now the thought of going back to clinical individual medicine? I am not frustrated, nor do I find the lack of a challenge. Logistically, I do feel my experience as a clinician will bring more to the table than just as a medical student - only because I do not have hard core statistical background, and especially because I regret neglecting calculus in high school. (Yes amma - you were right!). But now, I truly miss talking to patients, I miss learning from them. I have learnt that it is okay to make mistakes, and that all doctors kill people before they start saving lives. Yes, even in clinical medicine, we are allowed a few mistakes - as long as we recover from them, learn from then and make sincere attempts to never repeat them. As scary as it sounds, this is probably why our careers are renamed our 'practice'.<br /><br />I am oft asked about the reason for my digression. These are manifold, some of them I do not understand too well myself. And then in times like these, I close my eyes and go back in time to three well-etched memories. One in my 3rd of medical school, talking to two of my dearest friends and confidants while strolling around our campus; an earlier memory that occurred a year earlier of me talking to one of those two friends in my room; and the oldest one, of an unsent letter to my parents and sister, that was discovered by my dear grandpa. And the common thread connecting these incidents was the desire to study populations to make inferences about clinical medicine, to be involved in disseminating the technology involved in this process, and to devote some of my time in the service of those ill and to make their illness disappear, improve or at the very least bearable.<br /><br />I always knew I wanted to marry mathematics to biology, and in this I was fairly inspired by a close cousin who uses mathematics to model how drugs affect cells in the body. At the school of public health, I went through a phase of low morale that kept me from believing in myself. My plan was to get into a residency program next year and start running at full steam. Somewhere, I started to doubt my own abilities as a doctor, as a healer. I reached a nadir, and then when there was no lower to go, I started climbing up. With so much support from those closely associated with me, I have begun to realize that I was consumed with fear of uncertainty and with time and experience, my skills as a doctor will hone and fine tune themselves. I have finally begun to believe in myself, and I want to give myself a second chance with this attempt at my residency.<br /><br />i do not want to rush into it, and then be overwhelmed by the whole process. I would rather take slow but sure steps. When I think about the big picture, I realize how there are some loose ends that I need to tie up, before I plunge three years of my life into the oblivion of residency. One more year, I sigh. And then think, one year, where I can firmly carve out the next five years of my life. (And work on enlisting the support of friends, confidants, family, and some special people in planning and espousing my dream). <br /><br />I see myself coming back to me. I have begun to feel happier with the person I am. One year for a life long dream. A gift to myself with the promise of delayed gratification. I think, it is worth it.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-11098878916418158982010-03-10T16:13:00.000-08:002010-03-12T09:32:47.217-08:00skewed love distributioni was always in love with me, as loving oneself should be<br />a living joy fueling my run, indulging in my own fantasy<br /><br />i could adorn myself with the golden sun and moon silver<br />pitter patter drops, intoxicating the senses, dancing in a mad fever<br /><br />secretly i craved to be an equality, even thought aloud about it<br />a simultaneous equation you had to solve, a statistically significant hit<br /><br />i am baffled even today, the start of the whirlwind<br />who are you, where are you from, the merging of reality and dreams blurred<br /><br />i love myself still, but now in my love i think of you too<br />surreptitiously in my consciousness, sanity has gone askew<br /><br />my moods unleashed, floodgates of my thoughts opened to your gauge<br />but four full moons later, virtual loneliness leads to blues plague<br /><br />so as i sit and sulk over a conversation not had this evening, smile downslope<br />of not being able to enjoy the bald baritone, getting high on your dope, i hope<br /><br />you see the skewness of my love distribution and its exponential serial correlation<br />the mean and mode sky high when we're together, median cruising on consolidation<br /><br />expression to the nines, didn't cupid forewarn<br />reactions and over reactions, jocund and then some forlorn<br /><br />i am an idiot sometimes, as you can see<br />but i am sure you'll cope with it and still love meHarinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-46038626940989363322010-03-10T13:11:00.000-08:002010-03-10T13:44:28.608-08:00Budding flowerGo away, cried petulantly, said<br />But a large bud, I am, so let me be so,<br />You think I am a small flower, then pray explain<br />Why after so long, the petals, still refuse to grow colour<br /><br />I dream of reaching the sky so high<br />Alright, at the least, of shining aloud<br />Carving my own niche, is what I want<br />A bright spot in a corner or in a bright crowd<br /><br />My aspirations are my own design, I know<br />Crafting them I ought to, with my own hands<br />Where should I face to grow more, yet not wither<br />A flop show at the end of it all, I fear.<br /><br />Hey! a small flower you are, not the bud you’d like to be<br />You know your curve to your flower, your type, your face, your direction<br />Don’t look backward, don’t lean too ahead, steadfast in your expression<br />Just follow your instinct and your glorious passion.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-35396501092371473852010-02-15T19:28:00.000-08:002010-02-16T07:18:58.553-08:00seasonsStaring at all the snow outside, I wondered if I should think of this cold chalky ice as resilient in its refusal to melt in the warmth of the sun or as basking in the golden sun. Either way, that was a positive win-win thought. So there. <br /><br />We learn everyday, from people, from experiences. I, then, stop to think of how our earliest ideas of life and living must have been drawn from nature. Men and women have amazingly still not exhausted of writing paeans to that dogged human spirit that will not fall in the face of adversity. How often do we hear our wizened wise grandparents and admittedly (alas, with reluctance) more experienced parents reigning us with good ol' metaphors about the sun rising after sun set, that daybreak will always come after a long dark new moon night. The silver lining under the dark clouds, the lull before the storm, the list is quite endless. <br /><br />Seasons come, seasons go. We learn to weather the storms and brave the heat with temerity that springs from the abyss of helplessness. As I walked on the ice, shivering in the cold despite being under the many layers, I kept thinking of my favourite season and what season I'd like to be. I know it seems inconsequential and reeks of intellectual arrogance, yet as I sit down to write after so long, I decided to essay my thoughts on a seemingly abstract subject. Yet, abstract it is not. <br /><br />I have always thought of the rains as my favorite season. The soft fall of the first drizzle giving way to the pitter-patter of raindrops on tinned roofs, and the sweet smell of wet mud on the first day of the monsoon, with the dream of a peacock spreading its feathers in a beautiful dance lurking in my mind, is probably a favourite moment I happily share with many others. Of course, the gustatory and olfactory lust for chai and pakodas and the childlike delight at the announcement of holiday after a heavy bout of rainfall are events that I shall continue to crave. Then came 26th July 2006 when I first saw what it meant for the poor and less fortunate to be caught in mad showers. Wading through dirty waters, it was for the first time, that I truly understood why floods were truly distressing. Living on the third floor I escaped the misery. <br /><br />So while rains in moderation bring lushness, bounty and prosperity, the rains in fury can spell destruction, helplessness and loss. Not a good metaphor for me. Moreover, Baltimore rains have made me cry. The gloomy cloudy weather leading to light showers that leave one sticky and icky and cranky, are annoying to say the least. Considering that we have winter in varying degrees of severity for nearly three quarters of the year, to suffer wet cold damp weather is something I truly dread. So after a quarter of a lifetime loving the rains, I have decided that the rains are no longer my favorite weather.<br /><br />I expounded on the rains as they would have possibly been my instantaneous impulsive erstwhile answer. Now I think about harsh summers in India that we would willingly suffer a thousand deaths to win respite from, and then I think of just last April, I would look to skies asking for divine intervention in bringing in an early summer. Summer in Baltimore was a beautiful experience. Beginning with the lovely white cherry blossoms in early spring, summer arrived later than usual. But once it settled in, the joy of seeing life abound was unparalleled. Trees got green, people started coming out of their closeted residences. Joggers, dog-walkers, lovers, book-lovers, open-air theaters, friends, picnics, parties, fairs, camps, life seemed to be straight out of Noddy-land. It was beautiful. Yet, come August, the sun went into a bad mood and burnt our skin, left us tired and withered. <br /><br />I can obviously go on extolling the virtues and dithering over the inconveniences of winters, yet I think I will stop here. For I realize, that it is true that nothing is permanent. One gives us respite from the previous weather, peaks into lovely climes, and degenerates into extreme conditions leading to the next. I remember reading about this somewhere, that we need to know to live, we learn by the time we are five. And if we then need inspiration, I have found that my richest sources were metaphors derived from life around me. And how much more beautiful can it get, that no matter where I go on this planet, nature throws similar instances for me to find solace and comfort in familiar seasons and reasons. Mother and nature give me the same advice, "it's all about attaining equanimity, my child!". <br /><br />I know that this exercise in writing was seemingly futile, as we all know about this. It seems redundant and irritatingly so that I might chose to bleat the old tune. I needed this dose. Needed to do this for myself. As I do for every blog of mine. Seasons will come, seasons will go. But I will stand right there, strong, stubborn, adamant, unshaken.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-69334695590735267042010-01-02T07:31:00.000-08:002010-01-02T07:47:27.835-08:00CraniocaudoplegiaInertia grips me <br />Holding my fingers tight<br />Tying down my body <br />Invisible threads to the couch<br />My face motionless, the smile not even a slight<br /><br />I can't get up<br />I can't stand<br />But the scariest of them all<br />I can't work or think. <br />And this, the erstwhile workaholic can't withstandHarinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-89013190463165351872009-11-09T02:59:00.000-08:002009-12-17T15:37:53.187-08:00PhotographyMy friends tease me that if I am given a camera on a said day, I'll get captivated by shutter-bugging all the time and forget to spend time with them. The predicate of the sentence is utterly false. (Yeah, remember 1st Std English Grammar?) In fact, until the SLR was gifted to one of my friends on her b'day, everyone pretty much took it for granted that I would be taking pics at each and every outing. <br /><br />Never mind that I choose not to focus on the fact that if a camera in any form is placed in front of me, I will happily pose for it. I choose to relate this to a healthy level of self-esteem; but this I will leave for another day.<br /><br />Coming back to my love for photography - I never owned a camera until March 2007. The family owned an old outdated Nikon that was lost in my father's cupboard - a testimony to his general disinterested self in the last decade and half of his life. I remember him asking my uncle to buy it for him in the early 90s in the US and airship it with my grandparents on their way back from the US. I believe and hope my memory rightly prods me to say so that Appa spent a decently large sum on the camera. In fact, I remember the pride and content on his face when he first received it - probably among his favorite material possessions. I am personally fond of this camera now for a personal reason - that it adorns my laptop wallpaper; a picture of Appa taking a picture of someone with his camera.<br /><br />Wow! I do get distracted very easily. But my point of this anecdote was that at some level, I was influenced by my dad's short-lived interest in photography. My first camera was a gift by mom's sister and her husband to me. My aunt definitely experienced relief that I had completed my MBBS and had finally hopefully rid myself of exams. I haven't really pursued photography as a skill, haven't learnt the art of still photography, haven't learnt about influence of lighting or any other nuances. I admire people who take an avid interest in developing this hobby and love to listen to their tidbits. Yet my love for photography is different.<br /><br />I love taking pictures of people. Maybe it is because I am a people's person; but I reason it is more likely from years of time spent in the local trains in Mumbai silently observing people. As arduous, tiring and even nightmarish that local train travel can be, seasoned travelers will all subscribe to this shared cultivated passion for observing others during the long travel times. Calm, contented, happy, elated, uncontrollable-laughter-filled, retail-therapied, surprised, taken aback, anxious, worried, scared, hopeful, prayer-filled, angry, irritated, disgusted, foul-mouthed, peeved, miffed, discontented, tired, hungry, sleepy, sleeping, dozing, snoring, sleeping-with-mouth-open, sleeping-with-mouth-open-and-drooling, ogling-from-the-video-coach ... and expressionless faces... I would always think to myself about how amazing it would be to capture the entire range of emotions in one moment, in one picture. More ambitiously, I would imagine the cool idea of capturing the same face at different times - a feat possible as we were all 'regulars' who often bumped into each other and shared a quietly acknowledged bond. I missed the camera when my friends and I would jump in a puddle created by the rain. I missed the camera when a friend and I caught one of my studious (annoyingly boring) med-school classmates gorging on a watermelon on the road on one hot summer afternoon - and we couldn't figure out if those black spots were the seeds or flies. I missed my camera when that little 4 footer old man danced cutely with his iktara outside Parel station to the tunes of devotional abhangs. <br /><br />I love capturing candid moments involving people. Sunsets and birds and mountains and valleys - I love to inhale them and keep them alive in my memory. But people, especially, in their unguarded moments are my passion. What is the use of having many pictures of the same person uncomfortably posing in their apparently most docile self for the camera? I want to capture the spirit of that person in the camera, as difficult as it may be. Everyone is beautiful and everyone makes the camera better - if they are allowed to do so by being themselves. While I do not approve of the candid camera violating boundaries of accepted noble behavior, I definitely heartily encourage the spirit of capturing my friends, relatives, loved ones and even strangers in the narrow aperture of that awesome device.<br /><br />After all, it makes for great memories. <br /><br />And my subjects usually love them too.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-21138669512293810672009-11-07T14:45:00.001-08:002009-11-07T17:57:14.365-08:00TV journalism in IndiaA passing glance through Abinav's facebook (Abi- this is the second time I have referred to you in this week) linked me to a recent impassionate commentary of the apathy a.k.a. Mumbaikar. Thus, I stuck upon the perfect set up for my next postin.<br /><br />While we haven't milked the indifferent Mumbai enough just yet, I choose not to focus on that issue today. Instead, what riled me up was the author of that article - Rajdeep Sardesai. Yes, it was a very well written piece about a situation I am loathe to have been a witness. There again, I am not talking about this particular article. Seeing his name associated with it sent me on a train of thoughts and memories chasing recent news and debate coverage on national television - and erupted the discomfiture.<br /><br />The 90s cable t.v. revolution brought home a new member - the 24*7 news channel. With it, entered Prannoy Roy into my life. That suave, bearded handsome man captured my semantics-loving heart and I would watch him speak, sometimes without blinking an eyelid. But when I think about it, I realize that I was always struck by his calm unfazed demeanor that never once betrayed his position. He was there to report the news as it was, and that he did without slipping a personal emotion. He was to moderate a debate, and therefore, he never played judge. He never blatantly or subtly played favorites, however agonizingly wrong one side of the argument was. Hence, when it was time for Roy sahib to give roots to his sapling, everyone applauded bravo!<br /><br />Roy brought in a host of fresh faces, enthusiastic workers with a range of baritones that chirped away updates on current affairs, sports, weather, entertainment and the like. Suddenly, there was a systematic improvement in presentation with attention given to even something as minute as the facade of the backstage drama. In a matter of months, hitherto unknown (but good looking) faces like Rajdeep Sardesai, Vikram Chandra, Sonia Razdan, Barkha Dutt, Srinivasan Jain, Vishnu Som, Arnab Goswami took turns at joining us at the dinner table and spurred hour long passionate debates across the familial table. <br /><br />Sooner, they became celebrities in their own right. While I never had a concept of a weekend back then, Saturday 8:00 pm was about Rajdeep's "The Big Fight" and Sunday 8:00 pm was about Barkha's "We, the People". I think I speak for most of my peers when I say that these two reporters captured our imagination by their fiery brand of question and counter-question, impulsiveness, the ability to provoke politicians and then sheer eloquence. Barkha inspired girls to give a voice to their opinions, she inspired a movie character (speaks volumes of her personality in a cinema crazy country). Journalism gained a new-found respect in a new-found avatar and now seemed like a near-lucrative one too. Come elections, Mahesh Rangarajan and Dorab Sopariwala, two contrasting personalities, enamored the elite with their numbers and statistics. Roy took a backstage and allowed himself to play mentor to his proteges except for the election time coverage.<br /><br />With fame, comes attraction of greater fame. Probably, more so, the attraction of a new challenge. And as the now-old timers moved to better prospects with news TV channels, the audience could salivate at the prospect of better news coverage. But it has turned out a huge mess. None of these journalists have retained their charm. The pressures of competition are seemingly wearing them off. Rajdeep and Barkha are now incapable of playing fair and square. Yes, communal riots get us all riled up, but face it, you have to play moderator and not judge on that dias. You can't invite people over and then give them a dressing down. Last I saw, Barkha spoke more on her show than the guests. And the 26/11 coverage was insufferable, to say the least. Vikram Chandra has managed to stave off some criticism, but it was quite long before we could accept his inheritance of "The Big Fight". Arnab Goswami, the less said about him the better, although I will comment that his handling of the 26/11 tragedy was by far the best and by far the most composed in the face of horror.<br /><br />Journalism is a tough job. Yes, anyone can strum words and report. But it takes an astute person to separate the wheat from chaff. We need the Prannoys and the Vinod Duas of yesterday. I personally feel that these known faces need to understand that they carry the weight of intelligentsia and therefore, are responsible for a decorous conduct befitting their job. Keep the emotion aside and do your job well. <br /><br />Please.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-9870757503320116652009-11-06T07:35:00.000-08:002009-11-06T08:00:26.614-08:00...This is a continuation of a story I first wrote. I intend writing a long short-story. Hopefully, I will be able to develop further the core idea very soon.<br /><br />Don't leave. Anjali's doe-like eyes pleaded. Flooded with tears that stoically refused to trickle, yet refusing to be placated. The soft rays of the setting sun entered between the bars of the window and cast a mushy glow on her that longed to be caressed and held in my hands.<br /><br />I looked at my hands. Large, rough, hardened. My hands yearned for her soft palms, my fingers longed for her delicately shaped ones that playfully intertwined with mine. I looked at her, at the yellow chiffon dupatta curled around her neck and shoulders. How radiant she looked even in sadness! I stared at her for a while. What was it about her that pulled me away from my world into hers. Was it the curious mix of sheer brilliance of conviction admixed with the genteel charm she exuded? Was it the sharp contrast of her quiet disposition in the public against the opinionated and outspoke I knew when we were in each other's company. She always had and has this knowing look in her eyes, the quiet confidence that I quickly lost myself in. She would listen in wondrous innocence, like a child discovering the world; and then she could speak in a continuous gush of words as if there were no tomorrow.<br /><br />What was it about her I wondered. I mulled. I hated confusion. I hated ambiguity. I hated this quagmire of not having my answers. And then again, I loved every second of this medusa.<br /><br />to be contd.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-64431306438386753962009-11-05T11:31:00.000-08:002009-11-05T11:33:48.039-08:00Get GoingSo, while I struggle to come up with half-a-decent idea for my thesis, I ran into this I-need-to-write-a-poem-to-vent-the-frustration mood that culminated into a fun piece... here it goes:<br /><br />oh c'mon you ferret<br />sitting morose and upset<br />your mirror image disagrees<br />asks the dead mood to get upbeat<br /><br />what the hell is wrong<br />you sing such a dull sad song<br />the madness is missing<br />monkeys won't swing along<br /><br />sorry the hand won't move<br />the words don't any sense strew<br />but excuses gotta stop<br />the champion has to start anew<br /><br />seeing my own words with pride<br />i smile and decide<br />if i can write so much<br />the thesis should be a jolly ride!Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-85419055158203501442009-11-05T11:28:00.000-08:002009-11-05T11:30:00.800-08:00no more sapMethinks me has to stop the sap. It's boring to look at the weepy stuff I put up here. So from now, I am going to do some serious diary-style mulling, and some serious story writing here. Need to hone the story telling skills. Is that the maternal instinct beckoning? Who knows!Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-55452720815345239272009-11-01T16:59:00.000-08:002009-11-01T17:27:52.018-08:00UntitledI haven't written in a while. I try to post something every month, I guess I missed Oct 09 by a day. It's ironical how my blog is full of poems, yet the blog identity suggests anything but a collection of poems! Abinav also pointed out recently that I haven't written in a while. So here I go again!<br /><br />My life has been anything, but peaceful, in the last couple of years. I lost all father figures in my life in this span, all men in my life just disappeared. To be honest, it sent me reeling. I just don't know how I managed to breathe in the last year especially after my father passed away. But live I have! And my facebook pics are testimonial to my working-weekdays-partying-weekends lifestyle. <br /><br />Yet, I find the greatest joy in a quiet moment of solitude, in contemplation. Not just introspection, as a matter of fact, I am wary of self-prosecution as I end up feeling cut up with myself. I think about the ways of the world, the times we live in, the events we are witness to. I often think about how difficult it must have been for the first generation Indians to come to this faraway land and alien culture that must have been so hostile to them in the beginning. Hostile climates, clementine interactions. A friend was talking about how her dad came to the US in 1970 from the then Bombay to Chicago in January. And everyone looked at him as though he got out of a UFO. They hadn't heard of a place called India. Strange? More terrifying, I would say.<br /><br />My life is so simple. I chat with mom everyday, see her face everyday - though she lives oceans away. I can talk to her at any time. My sister is updated with the important events in my life. I haven't as yet held my lil nephew in my arms, yet I see grin and monkey around to catch him smiling on the webcam at least once a week! A long lost friend was rediscovered and I am in conversation with her everyday though she lives in NZ. I cook Indian food and my kitchen is stocked with exotic stuff ranging from kesar to kokum to tamarind to even goda and dabeli masala! All bought in the local Indian store. <br /><br />Those first generation Indian immigrants were a courageous lot. Traveling miles from the familiarity, comfort and luxury of home to a place not-so-welcoming of them, that calls for courage of conviction. Yes, they sought a better life, but they had to sacrifice a lot to win their medals and build their homes. I can't imagine living in those times. I would run back home. I know I couldn't have survived. <br /><br />I often chide my parents for belonging to a confused generation that was stuck between the traditions of the old, the liberterian younger generation and their own dreams. Yet, today, I stand to benefit from some of their sacrifices, their inventions, their discoveries. Quietly, they lay a solid foundation for us, the children of the 90s to erect our glorious edifices on. And to them, I credit my comfortable life of today.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-41047497229178714822009-10-04T17:21:00.000-07:002009-11-09T04:38:34.648-08:00the first journeyStarting out as a cell<br />A white morulous swell<br />Lubbing dubbbing third week<br />Spouting fingers'n'toes sleek<br /><br />Squished up inside<br />A warm cocoon to reside<br />Months of hibernation<br />Then kicking in preparation<br /><br />Our lives squeezed in a funnel<br />through the whirlpool of a narrow tunnel<br />We come to the light<br />Of warm hopes, smiles and delightHarinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-32952865663238250372009-09-11T03:20:00.000-07:002009-09-11T03:34:34.944-07:00ThanksDelirious with joy am I<br />Eyes brimming with tears<br />Oscillating wildly between extremes<br />Emotional pendulum, I cry<br /><br />Coldplay cooing a trance<br />I lift my hands wide in the air to the chorus<br />Rain drops falling large and fast<br />Wiping the sweat and wrinkles from my face<br /><br />Levitating I am in tragicomedy<br />Who might it be elevating my status <br />A thousand faces I can fix on those strong shoulders<br />Bow to thee all, in utter humility <br /><br />The interplay of laughter and tears<br />Antonymic in their act<br />Thanks to you, I survive<br />The roller coaster we ride togetherHarinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-15065409589777359702009-09-11T02:27:00.001-07:002009-10-04T17:30:32.246-07:00Come back NOW.The temptation to call<br />A peek into my inbox<br />Has there been a shred of evidence<br />That we're being remembered this Fall?<br /><br />Shunt you out, I haven't<br />Blasphemous a call<br />Yo-yo goes the plea<br />For a distance unpleasant<br /><br />Come back old times<br />For fun, frolic and smiles<br />Unbridled with distraught<br />Bring back the sunshine.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-52709648009522125902009-08-23T20:04:00.000-07:002009-09-11T02:44:06.863-07:00miss you, my dear friend.i sit here in silence<br />thinking about you<br />wondering how you'd be<br />shuffling in your seat<br /><br />i am so excited that<br />dawn will here be soon<br />and i can call you and chirp<br />about the last two moons<br /><br />you will be gone soon<br />i think sadly<br />how close we've grown<br />over the summer gladly<br /><br />yet i will wait<br />for your return each time<br />and sit and fool around<br />with you my friend anytime!Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-85979908712477245332009-08-22T19:22:00.000-07:002009-08-23T04:51:57.659-07:00vishnu sahasranamamAnger is tiring. That's my latest realization in life. It's such a build up of unnecessary wasteful energy - if retained, I lose myself to a foul mood; if vented, I spew harsh regrettable words. These days, Vishnu Sahasranamam has been my panacea for calming the bullish rage in me, and yes it works! Writing has been the other effective creative channel I have adopted and patronized - and yes, this works perfectly too!<br /><br />I've never been overtly religious, but I would definitely call myself spiritual. I explain the difference in describing the form as a disciplined yet ritualistic way of life and spirituality as my own personal connection with a higher form of energy we commonly refer to as God. This being defined, the shloka mentioned is extremely soothing to my frayed nerves. Reciting it or just listening to MSS's version radiates positive warm vibes and in a matter of minutes, I am a different person. I have been practising listening and reciting the Sahasranamam everyday for the past 9-10 months now and it has only helped me tremendously. I often ponder over what could be embedded in these shlokas that has such a powerful effect on me. Is it the words, the tune or the rhythm of the breath when we recite it? The mystic surrounding this befuddles me all the time and yet I am happy to enter the realm of confusion everyday.<br /><br />Anger, sadness, disappointment are all washed away. The unwanted energy dissipated, and suddenly I experience a suffusion of fresh thoughts, ideas and creative energy. Suddenly, life seems so much more manageable than it was 30.20 mins ago. I also listen to the Suprabhatam in the morning - one of my favorite activities of the day. And the more I listen to them, the more I am inclined to believe that we're all just interacting forces of energy. I'll explain this metaphysical idea another day. But for now, I just feel humbled by the thought that I am actually just a miniscule mass of energy in the play of the universe. <br /><br />Om Shanti Shanti Shanti-hi.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-86774206144760351602009-07-19T11:11:00.001-07:002009-07-19T11:23:18.572-07:00Sitting by the window I stared into the river<br />Wondrous and amazed by nature's bravado<br />Spanning insurmountable and ferocious terrains<br />that lead to serene and felicitous plains<br /><br />Suddenly I saw myself sitting by the window<br />It wasn't a reflection or a picture<br />I was looking at the scene from behind my back<br />As if that girl were someone I knew from before<br /><br />I looked at myself intently, <br />As if this were my own creation<br />I understood that person wholly yet<br />I chided and rebuked to her running to perdition<br /><br />I commended her on her altruism<br />And pointed out where she could improve<br />I crushed her shoulder warmly<br />Hugged her from the back and cruised<br /><br />A shiver ran down my spine<br />Did I just travel between surreal and reality<br />Is this body mine leased to another's soul<br />Who am I really, i trotted on introspection<br /><br />Should I be fearful of myself<br />Should I take a walk down introspection<br />Was this an over analysis, a hallucination<br />Maybe I just lull myself into the realms of sleep.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4615880270832987964.post-17596645446862632742009-07-18T18:57:00.000-07:002009-07-21T05:07:52.064-07:00The touchHe didn't move a muscle when the door slammed open. His eyes were locked in an empty gaze at the floor. The pregnant silence deafened him to the voices muttering in the background. His olfactory senses were numbed by the stench of blood and rotting flesh. He wouldn't respond to his name, her name or the baby's name. His tongue slipped out between the tenderness of his lips, twitching at times as if giving us a sign of life. His back slumped against the wall, The terror hiding in his crouched limbs was blatantly evident even to the most hardened of officers, yet his bravery in the face of ghastly violation did not fail to evoke admiration. The crow’s lines around the old Inspector’s eyes melted into compassion as he eyed the boy, the inspector opened his mouth but couldn’t speak a word.<br /><br />The room was at the end of the dark long corridor, beyond the communal bathrooms and communal tap, beyond three rundown unoccupied homes. The stench didn’t hit us until we crossed the first house. We didn’t need sleuths to suggest that here was ensconced the perfect setting for an unobtrusive act of brutal disaffection. As we neared the flat, guarded by masked policemen, I felt the need to run back urgently and vomit out the lack of guts. Even seasoned officers betrayed their confident demeanor and enquired after the severity of the scene. I gathered my wits and hid behind the inspector’s shoulder as he slammed the door ajar. I wasn't prepared for this face-off. Something told me that today was different. That scared the hell out of me. <br /><br />Treading the room with caution and fear, I skewed my eyes hoping to notice pieces of evidence possibly missed by cursory glances. Kali, the goddess, looked down with rage - her hair flaring with anger, her tongue spewing fire at the enemies of her devotees and scorn at friends who couldn't help them, her eyes protruding with disgust, her hands shaking with the raw instinct to avenge the losses. Suddenly, my field of vision was invaded by an image that will remain etched in my memory, even if I get struck down by Alzheimer’s disease. The little boy. I remember the boy sitting shocked in a fetal position with his head between his knees, still in disbelief. He found solace in the corner of the cold 10 by 12 feet room. The one-room house exuded the aura of raw instinct, of exceeding human passion, of the horror of neglect. The blue distemper was peeling off in large parts and the mosaic tiles uneven in their lay. The walls were now newly painted. Large bold streaks and splashes of dried dark red blood besmirched the old walls. Pieces of torn clothes were strewn on the floor, the minimal furniture in utter disarray. The foam of the torn cushions mirrored the frothing at the mouths, the blotches of spilt ink resonated with the sight of large bruises. <br /><br />What had he seen? What did he know? Would he recognize the barbarians? There was no flicker of emotion on his face, just an empty stare. He didn’t blink for many minutes at a stretch, as if forcing himself to retain the memory of the incident. I wanted to touch the little boy, pat his head, hold his hand; yet I knew that nothing I said or did would reverse the chain of actions that left him orphaned and abandoned. Cherubic, button like black eyes, a soft plump nose, thin pursed lips, with thin plucky hair, in khaki shorts offset by a blue polo necked t-shirt, barefoot. Unharmed. Untouched. Untarnished. Yet the scars couldn't be missed. I could have made a nursery rhyme describing his appearance had it not been the brevity of the circumstance. Just about 3 feet tall, he couldn’t have probably seen more than five years in what was now a dastardly cruel world. Did he want to hug his mother and hide in the pleats of her sari? Did he want to tug at his sister’s hair and run all over the place? Did he want to sit by his father as he narrated stories of how the pen was mightier than the sword? What was he thinking? Was he thinking anything at all? What was to be done of him? Did he understand the gravity of the situation? Fear painted his tanned face a pale white, mortification made him a rigid frozen statue. I had been down this path before, yet I had never met someone so young and innocent there. I wanted to scream, but my throat was hurting with dryness, my voice lost to the the helplessness of deep sorrow.<br /><br />This wasn’t my first assignment and won’t be my last either. Yet, there was something lecherous about it, something extraordinary. Perhaps, it was because the man lying with over twenty stab wounds was a close friend, a fearless journalist, a true patriot. Or was it because the woman, happy in her ignominy, played a silent hapless victim to the ruthlessness of her husband’s murderers? The woman who sent her husband on his mission, praying silently for his safe return, while cradling her unborn child in her womb. The elder daughter whose laugh filled the ears and hearts of all who knew her, opened the door of her life to the ones who'd close life on her forever. But weren’t similar stories played out to us before? What was it about this incident that affected us so much? I knew the answer and I think I was scared to admit it because of the futility of our endeavor to bring justice. Wasn’t he the man braved his life and went undercover to reveal the modus operandi in the slum rehabilitation scheme? Yes, he was the man, who socialized with crass and class that looted the city under the garb of rehabilitating slum dwellers. He was the one who traced the path of corruption from the lowly servant to the highest echelons of power. He knew the path ahead was full of thorns, he knew he held more than his life at stake. He’d gathered a dedicated coterie around him, but sadly, he failed to recognize the Judas. So much so for his bravery, he lost all evidence, his family and finally his life. The threats had been coming for a while. But he wasn’t among those to be daunted easily. He mentioned it casually to the Commissioner once. The next day, police in plain clothes hovered around him unobtrusively. Nothing happened for a few weeks. Then suddenly, in the Nov 26th terror attacks, the demoralized police force recalled their men from these extended services. And here we were, the morning of Nov 28th, in this room, amidst strains of news reporters belching ‘live’ coverage of the military retaliation. <br /><br />… I remembered why I was here. I was here to do a job, and not allow my train of thoughts to take me away. I felt my hands shivering and feet glued to the floor. I shuddered to fetch the lenses from the case and capture the scene for posthumous justice - and posterity. As I started the mundane routine of clicking away strategic pictures, I felt vindictive adrenaline coursing through my veins. I felt the need to attack every nook and corner into the aperture of my weapon. As a crime photographer, I was supposed to observe and gather evidence bravely, dispassionately and impartially. Yet, within the walls was encapsulated a gush of violence that was breaking the walls of my emotional dam at its seams. <br /><br />I had finished my job and packed my bag. Investigations had picked up a frenzied pace. Tempers were soaring, papers flying around. Phone calls were attended to in voice modules of servility. But something tickled my conscience and I decided to stay. I usually manage to maintain my equanimity. What was it then today? I stared into a distance as if looking for an answer, but I found my neck turning to the little boy. How was he forgotten in the melee? Why wasn’t he taken away? I remembered a poem from school that described how a warrior’s widow remained still in shock and cried only when an old lady place her newborn baby in her lap. What psychotherapy could I offer? I was a cynic, who always wondered how we could have the audacity to predict human behavior. Living in the world of crime only strengthened my belief and denigrated any iota of respect I’d had for humanity. Yet, I knew, I had to something.<br /><br />I trudged toward the boy wondering what to say. Should I be solemn? Should I smile reassuringly? Should I just sit by him? I held out my trembling hand and touched his shoulder. I don’t know what pulse of electricity jolted him. He turned to me with piercing eyes, and a moment later, he was in my arms wailing for his mother and father. Like a dark cloud slapping another heavy dark fluff of moisture. Like a flood arising from the juxtaposition of a storm with the high tide. Like a dam broken. <br /><br />Everything came to a standstill. He clutched me tightly and refused to let me go. I stroked his hair, he cried out for his father. I kissed his cheek, he yelled out for his mother. I felt helpless in my ignorance and ashamed of my hesitancy to help. Yet, I felt responsible for him. What was it that just connected us momentarily? Was it humane touch? Was it destiny or a past debt? Was it a relation that trespassed the boundaries of blood? Then I remembered something I'd heard a long time ago. "Some things in life do not follow the rules of logic. Some things in life are not meant to be within the realm of conscious understanding. Some things in life are inexplicable and are best left so". Where did those words come from, I don't know. They weren't mine, they belonged to someone I'd discredited a long time ago. Now, my karma had just boomeranged and was standing in front of me. A doubt erupted. Should I be brave enough to think aloud? Yes. Should I take him and leave him with authorities. Yes, maybe. Should I? Can I? Maybe I can. Could I be the plastic surgeon who wouldn't be able to erase the scars entirely, but could at least graft them with new memories? Will my hands have the power to soothe away the pain and gore? Will I be able to live up to the responsibility? Am I suffused with immature enthusiasm? Am I running away? Oh my God or whatever supernatural energy you are, where the hell are you now when I need you to give me the answer? <br /><br />I closed my eyes for a minute. I envisaged. A vision of my future appeared, surrounded by an illuminating halo. The halo encircled me with the boy in my arms, his head resting on my shoulders. My heart was racing. The boy experienced trust and peace. I was filled with warmth and happiness. We were happy. He and I. My heart was beating to a slow peaceful rhythm. I opened my eyes and found myself standing with my head firmly on my shoulders, head held high, bursting with a sense of purpose. I looked at the little boy. Curiously, warmly. Suddenly, he meant more to me than just a colleague’s son. Suddenly he was more than just another child. Suddenly I felt wanted. I felt the presence of another in my lonely life. He lulled himself to sleep in a few minutes. The feeling was comforting. The embrace was humbling. I looked around to have a last glance at the past and to prepare myself for what lay ahead – the task of erasing painful memories and building a new life. For him, and for me. I felt a surge of blood in my heart, a sense of belonging. I took a deep breath, picked up my bag and walked out into a new world.Harinihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11169205254703173251noreply@blogger.com2