Journals, Reviews and Stories

I am strong

2012-01-06T19:28:00.001-08:00

Reading 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

I am strong
Even when a random snapshot
Flashes a memory flood

I am strong
Even when the throat lumps up
At the thought of a wrong done

I am strong
Even when I want to cry out loud
But a silent voice escapes

Only the strong can survive
The nightmare of a nightmare
I am strong because
I do it even in the day.

In a better place

2011-06-11T16:50:00.001-07:00

The modernity of life amazes me a lot
I remember the words, think of what you need and want not
Childhood was simple, no denying it
Strutting in shreds that grandma would creatively sprout

Nostalgia is attractive, such a delightful escape
From the life of today, my nerves with drudgery grate
I take a step back and look around in strong belief
Who am I kidding, my world couldn't be a better place to live

The simplicity of modern life
May seem to many a crippling complexity
Yet my faith buzzes with optimism that
These frailties have made human life much easier to be !

On a mission away from the comfort I know
Away from family, friends, in an isolated burrough
Yet connected I am, each minute if I choose to
Freedom I have, as not known before

Free to choose what I want to do
And how to live my life, to worship or not
Free to choose my partner, my livelihood
Even free to let life silently pass by

Yes, I know this fortune
Is only available to a chosen few
More imperative then, wouldn't you think
To acknowledge it is an ideal nearly come true

See this

2011-03-19T17:49:00.000-07:00

Oh yes, I want to direct some attention to my other blog, and absolutely want some feeback there.

http://hpsarathy.wordpress.com/2011/03/19/counting-my-blessings/

An ode to thee

2011-01-31T12:14:00.000-08:00

Frigid cold was yesterday
The wind on my face
The steel on the knobs
Hands and feet all sore
The wedding ring stinging white gold

He searched for life
And found a face botoxed
In cold, weary, worry
Expressions of delight I lacked
Stranger was the warm hug that slacked

He stared at me in silence
Knowing I know his question
Caressing that strand off my brow
Wiping away that cold unwelcoming tear
Holding me when I was too afraid to answer my own fears

What else can I do but stand up
When inspiration looks at me in my face
The warmth of love searing
Without burning my hopes in flame
Oh! Love is such a loopy game

This sunny morning
I sit in my chair at my desk
Thinking of my husband
When a wish to succeed surges in me
I halt only to pen an ode to thee.

And then I smile
It's coming back to me
All falling in the loop I own
My pen, my thoughts, my drive
You complete what I call my life.

Under the rubble

2010-09-12T14:53:00.001-07:00

Dark heavy clouds
Surround me up close
Thunderous steps
Bellowing applause

My heart beats faster
Thrill palpable
Lungs choke on my throat
Chest under rubble

What was it, an earthquake
a landslide, a wall
That fell on my vision
Smile, and my pride tall

Will I ever get out
Will there be a lending hand
Can I ever push away these rocks
Ever seen the coloured band

through the ages

2010-05-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

I was seven
When I dreamt of this place
Far from my reality
Entrenched in future faze

A helping hand
Radiant smile glowing face
Hope served on breakfast platter
To ill, weary, sick and lifeless

I was seventeen then
When I dreamt of this space
Of fragrant roses and bright bougainvillea
Adorning the soft grass in my front gaze

Romance, a man of thinking and integrity
Toothless smiles in cherubic faces filling my days
Inane endless tell me whys
Retrieving my father's answers to my quests

I am to be twenty seven now
Living that dream but just a trace
A bit lost in the wilderness I find myself to be
Second thoughts, revisions, in a daze

And then I realize I have them all
My education, an honorable man, a loving family, designed my way
Cruising pleasantly with a dream distinct
Reality and aspirations will merge, I have determined

no moon day

2010-05-03T11:21:00.000-07:00

sparks fly
tiny stars
eye lights
glimmer afar

stupefies
sinking heart
affect incongruent
liar epitaph

give me rhythm
give me space
give me music
to save myself from disgrace

storm inside
i cannot feel
know not see not
what's right for me

crystals fall
a plea to stay
to strive righteous
rewrite the play.

Delayed gratification

2010-04-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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'.

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.

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.

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).

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.

skewed love distribution

2010-03-10T16:13:00.000-08:00

i was always in love with me, as loving oneself should be
a living joy fueling my run, indulging in my own fantasy

i could adorn myself with the golden sun and moon silver
pitter patter drops, intoxicating the senses, dancing in a mad fever

secretly i craved to be an equality, even thought aloud about it
a simultaneous equation you had to solve, a statistically significant hit

i am baffled even today, the start of the whirlwind
who are you, where are you from, the merging of reality and dreams blurred

i love myself still, but now in my love i think of you too
surreptitiously in my consciousness, sanity has gone askew

my moods unleashed, floodgates of my thoughts opened to your gauge
but four full moons later, virtual loneliness leads to blues plague

so as i sit and sulk over a conversation not had this evening, smile downslope
of not being able to enjoy the bald baritone, getting high on your dope, i hope

you see the skewness of my love distribution and its exponential serial correlation
the mean and mode sky high when we're together, median cruising on consolidation

expression to the nines, didn't cupid forewarn
reactions and over reactions, jocund and then some forlorn

i am an idiot sometimes, as you can see
but i am sure you'll cope with it and still love me

Budding flower

2010-03-10T13:11:00.000-08:00

Go away, cried petulantly, said
But a large bud, I am, so let me be so,
You think I am a small flower, then pray explain
Why after so long, the petals, still refuse to grow colour

I dream of reaching the sky so high
Alright, at the least, of shining aloud
Carving my own niche, is what I want
A bright spot in a corner or in a bright crowd

My aspirations are my own design, I know
Crafting them I ought to, with my own hands
Where should I face to grow more, yet not wither
A flop show at the end of it all, I fear.

Hey! a small flower you are, not the bud you’d like to be
You know your curve to your flower, your type, your face, your direction
Don’t look backward, don’t lean too ahead, steadfast in your expression
Just follow your instinct and your glorious passion.

seasons

2010-02-15T19:28:00.000-08:00

Staring 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!".

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.

Craniocaudoplegia

2010-01-02T07:31:00.000-08:00

Inertia grips me
Holding my fingers tight
Tying down my body
Invisible threads to the couch
My face motionless, the smile not even a slight

I can't get up
I can't stand
But the scariest of them all
I can't work or think.
And this, the erstwhile workaholic can't withstand

Photography

2009-11-09T02:59:00.000-08:00

My 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

After all, it makes for great memories.

And my subjects usually love them too.

TV journalism in India

2009-11-07T14:45:00.001-08:00

A 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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

Please.

...

2009-11-06T07:35:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

to be contd.

Get Going

2009-11-05T11:31:00.000-08:00

So, 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:

oh c'mon you ferret
sitting morose and upset
your mirror image disagrees
asks the dead mood to get upbeat

what the hell is wrong
you sing such a dull sad song
the madness is missing
monkeys won't swing along

sorry the hand won't move
the words don't any sense strew
but excuses gotta stop
the champion has to start anew

seeing my own words with pride
i smile and decide
if i can write so much
the thesis should be a jolly ride!

no more sap

2009-11-05T11:28:00.000-08:00

Methinks 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!

Untitled

2009-11-01T16:59:00.000-08:00

I 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

the first journey

2009-10-04T17:21:00.000-07:00

Starting out as a cell
A white morulous swell
Lubbing dubbbing third week
Spouting fingers'n'toes sleek

Squished up inside
A warm cocoon to reside
Months of hibernation
Then kicking in preparation

Our lives squeezed in a funnel
through the whirlpool of a narrow tunnel
We come to the light
Of warm hopes, smiles and delight

Thanks

2009-09-11T03:20:00.000-07:00

Delirious with joy am I
Eyes brimming with tears
Oscillating wildly between extremes
Emotional pendulum, I cry

Coldplay cooing a trance
I lift my hands wide in the air to the chorus
Rain drops falling large and fast
Wiping the sweat and wrinkles from my face

Levitating I am in tragicomedy
Who might it be elevating my status
A thousand faces I can fix on those strong shoulders
Bow to thee all, in utter humility

The interplay of laughter and tears
Antonymic in their act
Thanks to you, I survive
The roller coaster we ride together

Come back NOW.

2009-09-11T02:27:00.001-07:00

The temptation to call
A peek into my inbox
Has there been a shred of evidence
That we're being remembered this Fall?

Shunt you out, I haven't
Blasphemous a call
Yo-yo goes the plea
For a distance unpleasant

Come back old times
For fun, frolic and smiles
Unbridled with distraught
Bring back the sunshine.

miss you, my dear friend.

2009-08-23T20:04:00.000-07:00

i sit here in silence
thinking about you
wondering how you'd be
shuffling in your seat

i am so excited that
dawn will here be soon
and i can call you and chirp
about the last two moons

you will be gone soon
i think sadly
how close we've grown
over the summer gladly

yet i will wait
for your return each time
and sit and fool around
with you my friend anytime!

vishnu sahasranamam

2009-08-22T19:22:00.000-07:00

Anger 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!

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.

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.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti-hi.

2009-07-19T11:11:00.001-07:00

Sitting by the window I stared into the river
Wondrous and amazed by nature's bravado
Spanning insurmountable and ferocious terrains
that lead to serene and felicitous plains

Suddenly I saw myself sitting by the window
It wasn't a reflection or a picture
I was looking at the scene from behind my back
As if that girl were someone I knew from before

I looked at myself intently,
As if this were my own creation
I understood that person wholly yet
I chided and rebuked to her running to perdition

I commended her on her altruism
And pointed out where she could improve
I crushed her shoulder warmly
Hugged her from the back and cruised

A shiver ran down my spine
Did I just travel between surreal and reality
Is this body mine leased to another's soul
Who am I really, i trotted on introspection

Should I be fearful of myself
Should I take a walk down introspection
Was this an over analysis, a hallucination
Maybe I just lull myself into the realms of sleep.

The touch

2009-07-18T18:57:00.000-07:00

He 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

… 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

miss you, my dear friend.

2009-07-17T19:27:00.000-07:00

hey dear friend, wassup with you
we're sitting together, yet it all seems anew
seems like moments ago i walked into your life
even a week ago we laughed with delirious pride

feel taken for granted, it really sucks
to think of what came between us
suddenly i find myself waiting in the line
twiddling my fingers hoping you'll find the time

you would walk into my door, held ajar for you
i gave you the liberty, yet i find myself eschewed
was i just a replacement for a love gone by
not even that, maybe just a substandard alibi

i've noticed you talk to me, but your eyes digress
im not edgy, yet the surrender is amiss
i can't deny, i've feared this time
thought i was prepared, but the insecurity can't be denied

suddenly it seems im out of your league
i throw pebbles in water, won't the anxiety recede?
since when did you forget our code decodes
your signals are more noise, expressions a cloak

come back to me, i can't even say
cos you're still with me everyday
but i am not the person you'd rather inform
and though it hurts, i understand it's your call

a plea to the angry river

2009-07-09T18:41:00.000-07:00

you glitter as if adorned by million crystals abound
never did the moon seem brighter than its reflection in you
sitting by you, i experience a calm, yet
i walk on thorns for fear of uttering a perturbing sound

your graceful sway, a temptress, a delight
you purse your lips and whisper a cool breeze in a teasing display of might
but when did this breeze become an angry wind?
and when did you trample homes with your angry gait?

you're so simple, yet frittered with complexities
unpredictable and quivering in your stance
one moment you laugh like an innocent child full of wonder
the next you rage with ferocity and drive yourself to the abyss

your path transpired peaks, you conquered valleys
yet you remain edgy among plains and landscapes that are friendly
why do you tread with precarious balance
why can't you accept the offer of unwavering trust

equanimity and balance are not easily conquerable traits
yet once acquired, you'll walk head held high with a peaceful steady gait
the angst will go, fear will disappear
take my word, it's not a spiteful bait

72 months ago

2009-06-27T17:06:00.000-07:00

we trotted one-legged, laughing at our heroics unsung
counting our falls and splashing around
the spirits kept floating in one by one
angels and devils together on a song

friends sent the beaded necklace to do their thwart
of the evil eye sending fires by
but we believed the garden of love
was impervious to the flashes of envious draughts

but ashes remain, the shards of the wine glass poke
charred are the bouquets and the cards swim afloat
it was fun that time, the red dress on, the mile long walk and the rainsong
that was years ago and time moved on, now i see your silhouette on the horizon.

Six Months

2009-06-25T20:50:00.001-07:00

I'd told myself that I am not going to keep this count going. But I can't help it. Honestly, this makes me feel better.

Today, I only remember odd quirky things about Appa. Yet, I am so choked with emotion that I can't bring myself to smile. But I am going to allow myself this effusion. I think I must go through these motions of grief... if I truly intend to move on.

Move on, I must.

... and it is getting an iota easier with the passage of time. I'll be happy with that.

Miss you lots Pa.
I'll especially miss the huge b'day signed "With Love, Dad the Great", the lovely bouquet and the black forest (with the biscuit base) that came every year.

I miss our daddy-daughter dates. (though we last had one 5 yrs ago).

Thanks for everything.

Haru

Shaun is a year junior to me at med-school... and on of the few people who share my attraction to public health. I feel proud of the fact that I stalled his journey to Bawlmer and redirected him to have fun at the Tea Party.

that aside, he's a madcap i've known for a while now!

His cartoon strip Boze M.D. is hilarious and provides me my daily boost of laughter. Highly recommended to those who suffered the trials and tribulations of sitting in the library with a big fat Harrison.

Religious power baits.

2009-06-24T04:57:00.000-07:00

Prez Obama's now-famous speech at the Cairo University was poetic, to say the least. I was mesmerized by his clear voice and lucid diction as I watched him address the audience at the university and the world outside ... on youtube. While I appreciate the large-hearted token of friendship and understanding extended by the new president, I am cynical about how this man can really change a million attitudes.

I read the transcript of that speech ... and it looks like an award-winning essay. Obama is well-traveled, has the distinct advantage of mixed parental and step-parental lineage, highly educated and more than that an enthusiastic deep thinker who carries him nothing more than the force of conviction. But as much as I respect and love Obama, I am wary of how much he can translate his words into action.

Yet, I have hope. I was talking to one of my Iranian friends (perks of living in this new world) and she was obviously terribly upset over the rampant blatant violence and injustice in her country. But it was the voice (more like hearsay) of another Iranian acquaintance that caught me... He says that it doesn't matter whether Ahmadejinad or Mousavi come to power. It won't make any difference because ultimately, as the world is witness to, Khomenei and his orthodox puritanical clergy are the 'supreme' power in the country. He said, the rebellion should actually be directed towards ousting the religious heads from fiefdom as they are truly responsible for the unrest in the country. The cry for change is one for a more liberal society and not just for a change in leadership...

Which reminds me of something that MP once said... "A country based on religion can never be successful"... in the context of the 1947 partition. And the more I think about it, the more it seems true. Pakistan and India are cultural twins. (and I can vouch for this as I mingle with quite a few Pakis here). Jinnah apparently envisaged a future for the two countries as one similar to the bond between the USA and Canada - competitive but peaceful. The only reason Jinnah pushed for the creation of Pakistan was to ensure a living in accordance with the principles of the Quran. Yet, even in a country that is homogeneously Muslim, their people are caught in the midst of strife - Muslims killing Muslims. Israel, also created for religious homogeneity, is constantly striving for survival... with ambitious surges of expansion. India on the other hand (while truly not secular), has relatively managed peaceful habitation and co-existence amidst a garden of religions. The USA is similar. Yes, there is no denial that there is a constant show of religious one upmanship in these countries... which makes MP's statement stronger. Personally, religion for me is just a way of instilling discipline in our lives... the matter of God is more spiritual. And you can't dictate the correct way of living... it is a personal choice. MP, you're absolutely right.

I hope the Hindutva ideologues see this glaring evidence. For the love of my country, I pray that we are never wholly saffronized.

P.S. ... we keep teasing MP about being a kid... but he does seem to have some sparks of brilliance and mature thinking. ;)

2009-05-28T14:02:00.000-07:00

Phew! Finally the end. Cliched at may sound... I am breathing easy now. One year at Hopkins. I should be proud. I am. It is not an easy place to be and I also have a tendency of screwing up the easiest tasks. But it's over. So over. (As Meredith Grey once said!).

What a year it has been.

It was a year of win some lose some. Throughout. I made great friends, made some im-definitely-not-your-friend(s). One thing I will attest to was that there was no monotony. Maybe the constant action and reaction was tiresome.

I got over some well-entrenched prejudices, saw myself in a new light... i.e. accepted that I have my faults and I am really not as perfect as I imagined myself to be. :)

It's been a year where I've done some growing up. And some age-defying regressions.

If I sit with an account book, my family size has stayed constant.

I've learnt so much in the past year, I think I haven't retained even half of that. And I am not talking academics here.

My weekend love notes are a hit. Atleast with some ppl.

Cooking has been good too. Though tidiness needs to be worked on.

Love for clinical medicine is returning. That's a change since my last year's b'day post.

I've begun earning. And more than half my pay goes in paying rent for a house I hardly live in. Apparently, it's called modern-day life.

I am pathetic at negotiating.

I still get tongue-tied with people I have crushes on. It's ridiculous.

I was blessed with an awesome roomie. Hopefully I'll say the same thing same time next year.

My old friendships stayed intact. That's cool!

Hmm... so much to mull over. Should do that on my shuttle ride.
Have decided to start making to-do lists. For everyday. For life.

5 months

2009-05-26T14:59:00.001-07:00

... 2 weeks became a month... became 3 months.. became 5 months.
i am still standing... or rather finally standing. but not without wavering.
the tubes still haunt me. the bruises from the needles still tarnish the lasting memory.
the grief remains. it's a lil easier to deal with and accept now. but it hasn't lessened.
i guess this is what the others meant... you'll move on. but it never goes away.
how can it go away? how can he become just another piece of memory stored in my limbic system?
he's watching over me. i feel that all the time. i feel the strength.
... and that's what keeps me going.
i have two dreadful exams in the next two days. but he told me that the only thing i should fear is fear itself. yes, i am learning dad. learning the hard way - because now you aren't around to chase away my fears and i have to do it on my own.
i wonder why i don't have a recording of your voice. but i am assured that i'll never forget the baritone.

love you dad.
more with everyday. and i know that you know it too.

love and hugs,
haru

mindstats

2009-05-02T19:36:00.000-07:00

Pleas to melt the stone hearted we've heard
But butter turning to stone has been a recent sight
Few moons ago, we could melt in each other
Now we stay apart in silence, such a pathetic plight

Introspection is tearing neurons apart
Silent voices make a lot of noise
I am trying to identify the right signal
That will give me the true association to set this right

Why is our interaction regressing into a confounding variable
Your presence positively modifies the effect of my happiness
It doesn't matter how close or how far we keep the variables in the equation
How do I assure you that your significance in my model will never depart?

Lifegiver

2009-04-28T16:32:00.001-07:00

I trudge along a desert of emotions

Try to keep pace with the wind pushing me

Halt please, I can't, I say in a pleading voice

But the gushing wind can't hear me in the whooshing noise

The desert suddenly transforms into a whirlpool

I am panting for breath, squeezed into the tiny space

Not a second to react, not a moment to think

I feel weighed down by the boulder of a heavy heart, the wish to sink

Then I hear a warm voice thundering me to gather my wits

I recognize the sounds from a really long time ago

A lady who soothed me when I threw tantrums and kicked

In the confines of a cocoon, in her cozy womb

She gave me my senses and taught me to use them sensibly

Sensitivity and sensibility is what I inherited from her

I fail her every now and then, but she eggs me on

I am with you till the end, she says, and pushes me to take the plunge

Without her, I am lost

Without her, I am a stranger to myself

She brought me to the world

And now she's introducing me to myself.

Vellai Pookkal

2009-04-25T07:07:00.000-07:00

On my dad's insistence, I began my first attempts at reading newspapers when I was about 9 yrs. To his credit and fanaticism about Indian politics, I began reading the front page avidly to be able to impress him with my knowledge of current affairs. I cannot pinpoint when exactly I moved from current affairs to cricket to page 3 affairs in the course of these years (something Appa would chide me for), but the truth is I am hooked.

I don't have access to any newspapers here in Balto; neither can I afford subscriptions to NYT or the Washington Post right now. Google News has been my best friend for a while. It's got the most relevant feeds and I keep tabs on India as well as current affairs in the U.S.

What is appalling and saddening to me, everyday I read about war. Everyday. The news isn't glorifying wars, but that is the truth. Though I might just be an insignificant speck of life in this whole world, the thought that millions of people are dying of bullets, infections and starvation as a retribution of human fallacies and greed, pains me each time I see it. Is this really the beginning of the end of times? I wonder if I will stay alive to see the proverbial 'Kalki' come to our rescue.

The pathetic situation in Sri Lanka brings tears to my eyes. Innocent people being held ransom - each second must be a torture for them. For some reason, I remembered this song from the movie Kannathil Muthamittal that I believe is more a prayer for peace. Thanks to Google, I found the translation... and here it is... a desperate heartfelt prayer pleading for peace.

veLLai pookkaL
Song: Vellai Pookkal
Movie: Kannathil Muthamittal
Singer: A.R.Rahman
Lyrics: Vairamuthu
MD: A.R.Rahman
****************************************************

Pallavi
--------
Vellai pookkal ulagam engum malargavey!
Vidiyum bhoomi amaithikkaga vidigavey!
Manmael manjal velichcham vizhugavey!
Malarey soambal muriththu ezhugavey!
Kuzhandhai vizhikkattumae, thaayin kadhakadhappil
Ulagam vidiyattumey, Pillayin siru mudhal sirippil...

Charanam-1
-----------
Kaatrin paerisayum,
Mazhai paadum paadalgalum,
Oru mounam, poal inbam, tharumo?

Kodi keerthanamum
Kavi koartha vaarthaigalum,
Thuli kanneer, poal artham, tharumo?

Charanam - 2
-------------
Engu siru kuzhandhai,
Than kaigal neettidumo,
Angu thoandraayo, vellai, nilavey!

Engu manidha inam,
Poar oindhu saaindhidumo,
Angu koovaayo, vellai, kuyile!

Vellai Pookal (Translation)
===========================
Let white(peace) flowers bloom all over the world,
Let peace heal the unrest world(not the best translation),
let the sun’s rays fall on this soil,
Let the flowers lose their laziness and bloom.

Let the child open its eyes
in the mother’s lullaby
let the world wake up to
children’s laughter

In the breeze’s melody,
In the music created by raindrops,
Is there anything that give utmost joy than silence?
Would a crore melodies and words penned by poets be as meaningful
as a drop of a tear shed?

Let the moon rise in the place where the child reaches out its hands
Let the white bird sing in the place where there is no war

kites

2009-04-23T20:25:00.001-07:00

I dreamed a dream of flying high
Soaring above the misty clouds
I dreamed a dream of flying across valleys and hills
Of diving through depths and emerging at long bounds

I wished for sight that would take in at lengths
The ants scurrying below the people in the market
Eagle eyed vision is what you'd call it
Unfettered freedom, would it beget?

I like the feeling of being held up
The kite runner's anchor drawing the string
Letting the kite fly without fear of fall
Fly with confidence and innate joy of all

I fear for the kite when the anchor fails
Cos the kite then loses its way
Sight becomes oversight, enthusiasm is foolishness
Without a direction, the kite falls in its sway

What is a kite without it's anchor
The hand that holds its string, rules its world
Unfettered freedom it doesn't truly enjoy
In its anchor, it places its whole life

Yet, I prefer such curtailed freedom
To be able to relate to another, is what I crave
What life would it be at the end of it all
If there isn't anyone to shed a tear at my grave

For Anita and Meera

2009-04-07T13:42:00.000-07:00

You call to tell me that I make your day

I am stunned as that was just what I was about to say

That you are the object of my affection

And a driving force behind my sanity and passion

I miss the craziness of our times together

Memories flood me of sheer madness and gregarious laughter

I am not alone, never in solitude

Cos I can feel your presence in my courage and attitude

I cannot thank you enough for your gift

Of generosity and love without an iota of thrift

Because of you, I stand with a smile today

In the same place where I shed a tear everyday

I stand strong with my head firmly on my shoulders

I do not feel scared or abandoned anymore

Your words have given me the confidence that hence forth

I can be replace my dad as my strength and force

You might be with me only as an abstract construct

But the validity of your influence on me is absolutely perfect

Gratitude overwhelms me and makes me say this

I really hope I never let you down and give you a miss...

Unsettling

2009-03-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

The sand feels soft

Yet it isn't doughy enough to stay in my palm

Trickling away like the seconds of time

Painfully reminding me that nothing is here to stay

I lost you and yet I live

I don't just exist, I lead a whole life

Filled with hope, expectations, ambition and love

The pang appears suddenly and pierces like a pointed arrow.

I am jolted out of my dreamed up reality

Surreal is what true reality seems

Where do the two merge and where do they separate

The sounds of the waves crashing seem to echo my cry

I can remember the lines on your face clearly

The harsh feel of your stubble, the warmth in your eyes

Yet sometimes I wake up trying to feel you,

Trying hard to remember the face that was once oh-so-familiar

It hurts that you've left without a word

Just took an unreturned goodbye kiss from me

You've moved on to greener pastures and so have I

Yet you're sorely missed, every moment, every day... all the way.

Adventures of the Haripa girls - 1

2009-03-05T03:39:00.000-08:00

While walking towards Taste of China one cold dull snowy afternoon and chattering away to glory, the haripa couple spotted this thin, gaunt, eh actually cachexic looking African-American girl with signs of malnutrition screaming aloud. RipuChuckling, suddenly becoming conscious of her med-school past, mentioned in passing:

R.C.: "Arre, poor girl yaar. She's so malnourished. Upar se itni heavily pregnant bhi!"

Hari P. Sadu can never multi-task when she's walking and especially when there is food around the corner.

H.P: "Kahan, kaun?, Ohh really that girl is pregnant, I didn't notice?" In Sadu's defense, the girl was facing the other way and Sadu was also looking at the Burger King logo.

R.C.: "Nahin shayad she is not pregnant, may be it's only ascites. Malnourished mein hota hai na?"

H.P.: "Yeah, ascites hi hoga. Peeke talli hui hogi"

R.C. (interrupts): "Cirrhosis... Ascites"

R.C. & H.P. are waiting for the signal to cross the narrow alley like path between school and B.G. Ms. Cachexia is waiting to cross Monument St.

H.P. suddenly goes quiet. Intense observation and scrutiny. More like a lull before the storm.

H.P.: "Ayyyyy! Woh kuch pregnant-wegnant ya ascitic nahin hai... She's carrying a big bag under her coat!"

R.C. squints her eyes in close observation... and spots the big blue bag (as big as H.P.'s bori-bistar) under the girl's coat.

And the goofy couple smile brightly and widely, thank the supernaturals for sparing Ms. Cachexia a terrible illness and walk with a sheepish grin towards T.o.C.

Accused!

2009-02-22T12:28:00.001-08:00

So I stand accused of making my blogs very sentimental - I plead guilty.

Too bad - live with it!

Welcoming a reason to smile!

2009-02-12T21:15:00.000-08:00

A call from Mom usually never goes unnoticed. Especially under the present circumstances. But to hear an excited voice from the other end of the line proclaiming me as the aunt of a baby boy born unexpectedly was I guess what you'd term ' a call out of the blue'.

My nephew was hardly ready to come out or so it seemed to me. But seeing his picture, I feel he looks as healthy as a full term neonate. Well formed fingers and toes, tall for his age and with a face that is a replica of his sister's when she was born and was brought of the OT by the nurse. To spare me the desperate urge to see my lil child, my sister proclaimed that if you've seen Ananya when she was born, you've seen Advait; they're identical. Which means, I've seen him. So has my Dad.

My brother-in-law excitedly narrated over the phone about his first interaction with his son. Apparently when N went into the NICU to check on our lil baby (I say our as I consider them my children too), he was asking the nurse about the baby... and the lil one opened his eyes to the familiar voice and was desperately trying to form a facial structure for this voice he so often heard when he was in a warmer darker maternal environment. N was super excited and proud. As proud as he was when he first saw and held Ananya - that was one of the few times I've seen N go quiet. :) My dad was really amused - he missed the moment of holding his newborn, both times.

...Which brings me to another anecdote. When Ananya was born, N, Dad and I were excitedly waiting outside the OR in the morning. Around an hour after R was wheeled in, the nurse came out with a bundle and proclaimed a girl. While N took the baby in his arms and admired her in complete awe and amazement, Anan opened her button like eyes filled with worry at the sudden change in environment - from a dark world to a really bright one. She kept shaking her head in utter disbelief as her dad and nurse took her to the NICU. When my sister (groggy with anaesthesia and writhing in pain as the anaesthetic wore off) came to her room, Anan was brought in. N's aunt, R and I were in the room - very quiet as we admired this lil addition to our family. And R tried to turn to her baby and said softly, "Hi baby!". Anan who was lying awake supine, suddenly grew aware of what seemed a really familiar sound and tried to tilt her head to this voice that she'd heard so often since her senses came alive, a voice that comforted her and nourished her, a voice that she'd soon call Amma. R held Anan's tiny but long (contradictory I know) fingers and mom and daughter held each in one of the longest glances I've seen.

As an aunt I can never forget my niece's first discovery. As a sister, I can never forget the look of amazement and pride and love on my sister's face. As a mother, some day I hope I cradle my baby similarly in a loving glance.

My niece Ananya has taken to the role of the elder sibling very well and infact R says that they've already forged a strong bond. Apparently if he's awake when she's in the room, he always opens his eyes if anyone calls out to Anan. She cradles him in her lil lap and doesn't let anyone come near him. Fiercely protective is how she feels towards him. Ananya and Advait - both mean "unique"... it's so cute! Of course, they're going to pull each other's hair (or want to do it atleast) and slap each other sometime in the next decade, but once they outgrow that phase, the bond that they've forged in the past week will hold them together for an entire lifetime. Even if they run away from it, they can't. I know from experience, neither can and neither wants to let go. It's what Dumbledore called ... "Love".

Dear Daddy

2009-02-04T08:58:00.001-08:00

I call home in the expectation

That you will answer the phone

And I can tease you

To let me talk to mom

I come on the webcam in the hope

That you will call out to your baby

But now Amma struggles with the cam

sigh! ... that has become the norm

Where did you disappear? ... leaving us in the lurch

We're left with memories, failures that besmirch

What more could we have done?... we can't get over the question

No answer, no voice, just an uncomfortable silence

We speak of you each day, think of you all the way

The feeling hasn't sunk in yet, that you've traveled beyond the horizon

Unreachable, unseeable,... are you now

Mom stays upset, Ramya suppresses her tears, I live in denial

Appa, we love you and we're aware of it now, more than ever

I remember the wise man saying, love others as if, tomorrow will come never

I tried, I faltered, I nearly failed

But I hope you know that our love for you, did and will forever prevail

We hope you're smiling in happiness and joy

At the reunion with your loved ones, sailing in a buoy

I imagine you, to be, an angel high above

The angel of strength, will power and of unconditional love

We love you very much pa; and we hope you're really at peace wherever you are.

Haru, Rammu and Leela.

a heavy heart

2009-01-16T18:43:00.000-08:00

I feel it physically. I just feel like tearing my chest and pulling the lump stuck in my heart. It is very heavy, presses on my lungs and causes a lump in my throat. The pain that this ailment causes makes me want to cry... The root cause and the sole remedy of my complaint would be this man who is responsible for bringing me into this wonderful world. A man who loved me to bits and then even more. A man who lifted my spirits each time they sagged. A man who I will now meet only after I leave the world.

I wish I could give him one tight hug. That's all I crave for. Appa, I miss you badly. I want you to know it. I've seen tough times, this one is the worst for me...

Stay with me in spirit, pa. I need you to be with me through this.

Love you pa,

Haru.

P.S. Everyone around is so sad because you left. Everyone. You won't believe it. But everyone misses you. You were really special.

Kolhapuri chappals... and a quiet Bandra

2009-01-12T05:53:00.000-08:00

I went to Bandra today to meet an old friend, to take a trip down nostalgia, to revisit haunts where my heart skipped a beat... Nothing's changed. I didn't notice anything new.Yet, I found myself shunning the place and the memories. I muttered to myself, that without the jocund company of friends, Bandra drives me crazy and to tears.

I went to my old favorite stall that sells Kolhapuri chappals. It is this unique stall that isn't lost in the commonness of the Linking Road stalls. It stands separately near Metro shoes. It doesn't have a name, yet it has it's own identity. You can't miss it. I've been coming here for close to 15 years now; initially in accordance with my shopaholic teenage sister, later on my own adventures.

I love the stall. It retains its old world style and design and yet has some new, funky ones. It is nothing but a hutment on the road selling footwear - yet there is this alluring charm to it. Owned by an old Muslim chap who wasn't sitting on his small stool when I was there; his young sons were manning the stall.

Muslims. I came by Bandra station at 5 p.m.. Usually, the mosque there is blaring the evening prayers in a nasal twang that would put Himmesh to shame. (I hope I spelt his numerologically inspired name correctly). Yes, nothing changed. Yet, a lot was different.

There was a subdued character in the air around. Bandra station and Linking road are crazy places to be around in the evening. Yet there seemed to be some order and hitherto never-seen decorum. Crowds weren't thronging at Linking - and there is always a crowd of young girls there even on Monday afternoon.

Something has changed about Mumbai. It is deceptive, only a seasoned resident can detect it. I didn't initially, then I had a glint of suspicion and the more I think about it, the more convinced I am.

People seem to be wary of lingering around for too long. Either that, or young kids really have jobs or colleges that they're attending. The latter idea though, seems highly unlikely to me.

My hometown doesn't seem to enjoy frivolous and idle activities the way it used to. New Year's celebrations were not enjoyed with the same gusto as before. The city is still mourning, still recovering from the shock of being violated. I will be going to the city tomorrow, near the Taj. I am still debating if I want to pay homage; but I argue that it might be superficial and hypocritical. I am still debating.

Baltimore entices me because if offers me quiet even in a crowd. My hometown seems to be luring me with the same idea. Although I'd love of the idea of Mumbai becoming quieter, this pregnant silence is seriously deafening... and heart-wrenching.

There is sadness at home... and there is sadness at home.

2 weeks later...

2009-01-08T05:16:00.000-08:00

Everyone's left. The sadness persists. Loneliness envelops. Reality is still sinking. The chair is empty without him, his stick waits for him to take it for a walk. Moksha longingly looks into our home waiting for her uncle to play with her. Santosh hesitates to cross the threshold. Anan looks for him in every surrogate grandfather and expects them to indulge her in comical antics and monkeying around - the way he entertained his daughters and granddaughter.

Yet, I feel his presence. I hear his voice waking me up in the morning promising me hot coffee. I hear him calling out my name to eat, to sit with him and talk to him, to make him rotis and to give him his medicines. I hear his loud booming voice shouting angrily at irresponsible people, muttering loudly at the pathetic state of governance. I hear him craving for his favorite foods and describing the best hotels in and around the city. I hear him pleading with me to make his fingers move freely - a plea I had no remedy for. I feel him patting my head when I lie down, trying to soothe my worries and lulling me into a deep sleep and into the realms of a utopian world. I feel his presence even though he isn't here anymore.

What he meant to me is inexplicable and verbose enunciation will only kill the feeling. I don't think anyone will even under-estimate the beautiful bond that a doting father and his daughter share. To be able to spend 25 years of my life with a man who exemplified strength, steadfastness, courage and will power is an honour that I have been bestowed with; but to spend it as the daughter of a man who loved to love is the greatest gift I have received. I think my sister will nod in agreement to this testimony. In her, I see his resilience, his strength and the innate resolve to keep things going. In her, I see his large eyes and humped nose. In her, I see his ability to forgive and love.

Appa has been the epitome of will power - and I say this again and again... and I will keep saying it all my life. He shielded us from all the sorrows and took the big blows himself, my mother keeps saying; I cannot but agree with her. He was shattered, but picked up the shards and glued them together and led us to believe that there will be a better tomorrow. But the todays were good enough for me as we were together in it. No matter how glossy tomorrow will be, Appa, it will never be as good as yesterday - for you were there yesterday, to give me hope and to give me a smile and keep me smiling. For you, I will keep smiling, we will all keep smiling; in the wonderful hope that you're smiling with us wherever you are.

Love you Daddy.
Yours forever,
Haru.

What if ..... by Kate Winslet

2008-12-30T20:09:00.000-08:00

This is the song, by Kate Winslet, that Anan and I have been singing hoarse in the last few days. I've always loved this song and she loves it too... and today I dedicate it to the first love of my life... my Dad.

Here I stand alone, with this weight upon my heart
And it will not go away
In my head I keep on looking back, right back to the start
Wondering what it was that made you change.
Well I tried but I had to draw the line
And still this question keeps on spinning in my mind

What if I had never let you go?
Would you be the man I used to know?
If I'd stayed, if you'd tried, if we could only turn back time
But I guess, we'll never know...

Many roads to take, some to joy, some to heartache
Anyone can lose their way
And if I said that we could turn it back, right back to the start
Would you take the chance and make the change?
Do you think how it would've been sometimes?
Do you pray that I'd never left your side?

What if I had never let you go?
Would you be the man I used to know?
If I'd stayed, if you'd tried, if we could only turn back time
But I guess, we'll never know...

If only we could turn the hands of time...
If I took you back would you still be mine...
Cos I tried but I had to draw the line
And still this question keeps on spinning in my mind

What if I had never let you go?
Would you be the man I used to know?
What if I had never walked away
Cos I love you more than I can say...

If I'd stayed, if you'd tried, if we could only turn back time
But I guess, we'll never know...

We'll never know......................................................

Love you pa,
Keep smiling wherever you are.
Anna.

Taj

2008-11-30T10:12:00.001-08:00

Majestic splendor,
A metaphor for opulence and power
Yet it arose as a symbol
Of resistance, of revolution
Of refusal to bow down

You stand upright with pride
Staring at the imposing brown stoned structure
That symbolized imperialism
You mock aloud, that she is but, just a mere gate
Into your hallowed hallway

A testimony to change
As hard as stone, but warm and mellow inside
Large heartedly welcoming guests
With hospitality that makes us proud
Then you got stabbed in your back

Your cry was heard the world over
A cry of betrayal, treachery, mind-numbing brutality
You bore the suffering without a word
Resisted the wounds and burns inflicted on you
Let yourself be raped by hallucinating ruthless vagabonds

The stains of innocent blood will be washed away
Not by the sea you stare at everyday
But the efforts of brave men and women alike
Who will stand up and retaliate, I hope and pray
And not let bygones be bygones anymore

Oh beloved Taj, like your older namesake
You are pristine in your loyalty and untouched in your innocence
Even after the massacre, you stand unshaken
As if inspiringly exhorting us mere citizens
To remember the sacrifices of our brave brothers
To remember the splattering of blood on your walls
To remember the shattering of your glass panes
The plumes of fire bellowing away from your crown
You inspire us to stand tall and unshaken
In the face of wrath, anguish and pain
To be less aggrieved and take more action
But do we have the strength to do so, ask I of us…

ANSWER

2008-11-29T19:19:00.001-08:00

This might seem redundant - to beat my chest and cry aloud for what is happening to my beloved Mumbai, my city, my home. I have always been asked what community I belong to - and people are always surprised to know that I am a Tamilian. (Apparently, I look like anything but a Tam). I am not bragging, but I have always claimed to be a Bombayite at heart and a Mumbaikar for political correctness. I identify more with the cultural bhelpuri that Mumbai is a moniker, a metaphor for, than with my Tamilian roots. Make no mistake, I am not denouncing my roots - I am very proud of it. Yet, if I were to choose, I would choose the city of my childhood, the city that gave me everything I have today - the city that shaped my dreams.

And today, my home is burning. With rage, with shock, with sentiment, with grief, with red tears that stain its structures in the false hope that the sea, betrayed by treachery, will wash them away.

I am oceans away from home, yet my grief is no less and the pain is palpable even in this cold town I live in.

My questions might seem redundant, boring, oft-repeated. But as Mumbai's child, as a stakeholder, as someone whose home was invaded, ransacked and whose home survived an attempt to reduce its structure and fabric to rubble, I demand answers to my questions - NOT BECAUSE IT'S MY CITY, BUT BECAUSE IT'S MY COUNTRY:

1) How can the home minister of the state have the sheer audacity to relegate these horrific incidents to be termed as "small" incidents that Mumbai is now used to? Does he have a heart? Does he have a brain? Does he have eyes? Does he have any sense?
He hails from a small town unaccustomed to the terror that Mumbai has seen in the last 15 years. He came with a baggage of small-town mentality that was focussed more on shutting down dance bars (as if they were terrorising the city) and forgets that as the Home Minister, it is his duty to ensure REAL EFFECTIVE EFFICACIOUS BULLET-PROOF JACKETS TO ATLEAST THE ANTI-TERRORIST SQUAD. It's a no-brainer situation to me. He sits in a plush bungalow surrounded by commandos who ought to have been protecting innocent citizens, but were forced to protect this insignificant insensitive man as a call of duty. Will someone at least slap him?

2) WILL PEOPLE PLEASE STOP BRAGGING ABOUT MUMBAI'S RESILIENCE? There is a limit to how much you can falsely hype our helplessness for resilience and use it as an escape into amnesia. Does anyone remember the lives lost in the July 2005 floods - where is the promise to clean the Mithi River? A 2001 report had pointed out the failure of intelligence activities on the Indian coastline - the primary route for terrorists in the the 1993 Blasts and the 2008 Massacre in my home. How many years and how many more lives before you sitting in that high and mighty chair will decide to do something about it? Don't politicians at least have a collective conscience that reverberates into action for national security consciousness?

3) WILL SOMEONE INVEST IN THE POLICE FORCE OF MUMBAI? PLEASE. It is no joke that the city falls prey to terrorism time and again. If it is not suffering from chilling spineless ruthlessness and cowardice of terrorism, it is held to ransom by the mindless bloodshed by the underworld, or just the gimmickry of cranky politicians greedy for print space.

4) Will the responsible politicians please step down? I DEMAND THE RESIGNATION OF VILASRAO DESHMUKH, R R PATIL & SHIVRAJ PATIL.

5) WIll AFZAL GURU PLEASE BE HANGED - ATLEAST NOW? (Yes, I absolutely support capital punishment for the devil incarnate).

I am seething with anger, I am pained with the grief, I am scared for my people. We have been taken for granted for too long. It is payback time - to give Mumbai its due and not leave it to bleed each time in the false hope that resilience will bandage its wounds and the need to survive will nurse it to normalcy. Enough is enough.

Never alone

2008-11-26T10:32:00.000-08:00

I am never alone in this crowd
It’s never quiet, there’s always a shout aloud
Yet loner they call me, so it be
The silent noises wafting seamlessly

Lonely I walk, but am not alone
Stalking me is my past soul
It’s funny that my alter ego talks in a guy’s baritone
If he comes alive, he better be handsome and toned

They talk to me, I stare at them
Wondering if they said something now
It’s queer to ask them to repeat their lines
Once, twice, thrice; but then how many times?

It feels so weird, so many voices
When it’s just two of us debating the choices
Physically I might look like two
But now my mental twin is trapped in my body too

AAAAAA I wish I could scream
I stuff the pillow on my face screen
To stifle the cry, and deafen the noise
But their sounds penetrate them even otherwise.

Friends

2008-11-12T15:40:00.000-08:00

Twas’ a dull dark morning, the sun unlit
I was walking fast when I saw it
A vision bright, blinding light
I was alone then as I was in the enlightenment
It seemed like I needed none
But without them, it wouldn’t be so much fun

My life was not incomplete without them thus far
But now for them I hold my heart’s door ajar
They’re there to hold me when I twist, sprain and fall
They laugh at me, for me, with me and that’s them my friends I call
Come share my madness, my dreams, my fears I beseech
Never do my pleas go unheard, but so also never do they preach

They’re my loved ones in a new world unknown
I lead the way, tread carefully in the know
That beside, behind and in front of me they will be
And they will always love me. :)

...

2008-10-03T15:07:00.000-07:00

She stood by the door, waiting for a friend
Twiddling her thumbs, pacing end to end
Smiling to herself and then breaking into a frown
Looking into the faraway and then staring at the marble down

Seemed like she was nervous, anxiously excited
As if in the next few minutes, would be her future decided
She looked at her watch, her cell phone, the clock
Then slumped into a chair, like a ship pulling into the dock

She stood up suddenly, put her hands in her pocket
The time of reckoning had come, the time of docket
She took a sharp breath and another long and deep
Knocked at the dark brown oak door and took a peep

I wondered what news it would be, good or bad
I certainly liked her, wished it wouldn’t be sad
I was waiting for the bus, it was cold and dark outside
It was past half an hour, when the door creaked aside

They came out kissing, hands intertwined
I saw the ring and gladly resigned
I was happy for her, the glow on her face was bright
The darkness outside lessened because of her light

What is it about happiness that makes light out of dark
Doesn’t joy and enthusiasm make you want to sing like the lark
It’s so amazing how time can tell a story
One moment of tragedy and then a blaze of glory

I‘ve dived into that uncertain happiness, I’ve swam in it before
Until yesterday, when disappointment washed me ashore
Someday venture again into the unknown, I’ll dare
But for now, I’ll just build my castles in the air

Stranger

2008-09-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

You touched a chord in my mellowed heart
Music came alive and rejoice in the hearth
Where were you when I intended to silence my voice?
Or were you always there to dampen the other voice?

Were you my companion in boredom?
Were you the one who plastered a smile over my misery?
Were you the one who walked with me so I wouldn’t fall
Were you the one who loved and hugged my all

You seem an old acquaintance, yet I don’t remember seeing you ever
We’d probably just brush our arms in the crowd
We’d probably acknowledge each other in the elevator
Yet I wouldn’t know who you were, but this is what I have to say

I never want leave you thankless
I never want the sun to come down on your face
You bring cheer, joy and light that precious candle
The light of hope that brings with it the zeal of life

Good-bye ol’d dear stranger
Whose identity was never revealed
All I saw were the footprints in the sand
Yet I am as far from the ocean as can be

Blind Vision

2008-09-16T11:03:00.000-07:00

I set out with a vision bright

My head held high, legs rapidly astride

Nothing escaped me, nothing failed to cheer

The green foliage, the wet earth, the cool breeze

Sending me a reminder that the universe was with me

That I was a part of them and they were a part of me

That I would survive and prosper just like

An old ancestor of theirs did.

Along the way, I saw many faces

Some gay, some tired, some anxious, some excited

Some of the faces joined in my smiles

We paced ourselves together animatedly

A journey we called friendship

But then sometimes we would have to split

So that we could meet again at another turn

And what a surprise it would be,

To meet them where the twain roads met!

I kept walking, I wanted to explore

I was curious, how could one tiny cell

Bring so much beauty to the world?

It could rule a body, a mind, a soul

And it was just a nucleus and some fluid walling it off

I didn’t mind come rain, come shine

I would keep walking alone or together

Until the end of time

I kept walking until the landscape changed

I had never looked back until I came here

And now when I did, I found myself

In a vast endless desert

Far removed from where, I could

Reach out to someone

Isolated, tired, in desolation

I trudged along with trepidation

In the hope that I would find an oasis

I was petrified of that scorpion sting

The heat of the sun was scorching

The sand was angry, hostile to me

And then all I remember is a feeling of bile and

A black vision in front of my eyes

I had set out with a vision so bright

That wouldn’t dim in the light

But I cheated myself

For I shouldn’t have dreamt

Of seeing the world

When I knew

I was blind.

Sex and the City: The movie original soundtrack

2008-08-28T16:14:00.000-07:00

I've never really been a SATC fan. Could never keep awake for the 11 p.m show on HBO when it was telecast in India. The movie released around a time that I was ready to pull out my hair in angst and boredom. Moreover, my cousin, an avid fan of SATC (a fall-out of the in-flight entertainment aboard Continental Airlines flying from Newark to Delhi) was persistent in her efforts to drag me to PVR Cinemas to watch the movie - and she won.

So there we were, on a Thursday morning at 10 a.m. for a show that was unbelievably priced at Rs. 70 (considering PVR is a fabulous cinema hall, with lush purple cushions and a cozy ambience and the tickets are never less than Rs 150). So that was paisa vasool no. 1.

The movie itself was cool - it wasn't just about sex and the city, actually it hardly spoke of either. It was more about relationships, friendships, misunderstandings and letting go / forgiveness. I really took to the last lesson - it was portrayed subtly without being preachy, without the melodramatic dialogues, without any fuss. I have my gang of girls who I love to hang out with, talk to, confide, confess. We're a closely knit group without being glued to each other. The friendship that the girls share in the movie could have been a depiction of what I share with Meera, Anita, Namrata, Poorti, Mano, Bhu, LP, Ashlesha, Chan... I can write a whole blog dedicated to just us, but I'll save that for another day. The camaraderie that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda share (without breathing down each other's necks) is probably the story of a million girlfriends in the world. So the storyline and script and the acting in the movie - was paisa vasool no. 2

And now finally, the subject of today's post. The Music - paisa vasool no. 3. The first song that caught my attention was a catchy foot-stomping number that had me remembering it even days after I saw the movie. I later discovered it to be Labels or Love by Fergie. (The only song by Fergie that I'd heard was Clumsy - it's a favorite for my niece). I was thrilled when I discovered it on youtube and it left me wanting more. Courtesy Ruckus (a music player that is exclusively available to college students in the US for free), I downloaded the entire soundtrack.

And I loved all the songs. Each and everyone of them. Each song has its own mood, a life of its own. There's Nina Simone, Jennifer Hudson, India Arie - yes, of course it has a more feminine touch to it. Don't expect rock or anything loud. It's pleasant to the ear and it grows on you. It really does. My personal favorites are Kissing and Labels or Love. But I really like each one of them.

I would really recommend that you listen to these songs. It's a superb ensemble - and you'll have one for every mood.

Even if you're PMSing!!! :)

Change

2008-08-23T13:26:00.000-07:00

Cancerians are supposed to be hoarders - of antiques, nostalgia, memories, general clutter. They cling to the familiar, are home-bodies, love their nest. I am all of that, but then, every once in a while, we humans need something that stretches our comfort zone beyond the comfort line. It's a good thing, to want to experience something new, to learn a new art, to meet new people, to see a new place. But for me, I've never really wanted all of that. I've always been happy with where I am, where I was.

Until, one day, I realized, I needed something new - a change.

So, I decided to digress from my career path, make a bold decision (and a heavily-priced one at that) and move away from all that was familial and familiar before they translated into contempt. I took a leap, flew across the great oceans and came to a new land. New land, new people, a new me? It was all amazing at first - the freedom, the opportunity to be answerable only to myself, the different way of life. My friends around me loved it. I did it too. Atleast, I pretended to - and then I ran back home.

I couldn't take it being away from what I knew as mine. And yet, now that I was back home, I didn't like it anymore. I had taken a large bite of my enticing apple - that first gagged me, but the sweetness remained and I lusted for more.

So I decided to try it again. Start over. I came back to the new land. No wait, it wasn't new anymore this time round. I knew it. I knew the shuttle stops, the groceries, the bookstores, the cafes. I knew the people and they knew me. They recognized me even after all these months. That felt comfortable. Warm. I felt like I belonged.

So, I am happily cocooned in my comfort zone in a new place. I created it last time round and this time I'm enjoying it fully. See, I love the familiar, the old, the memories. I like to relive my life over and over again.

And yet, everything seems new. The way I see things around me, my outlook on life, my perspectives on socializing, everything is new. I have left a large part of ME back home and another significant part of my life left me.

So like Harry Potter in the last book, I have actually been able to see parts of my life leave me piece by piece or would it be peace by peace? Parts and people, I thought were indispensable - and I am just discovering the fallacy of my blind beliefs.

This time, things are the same old, but I am a new person. So new, that I am excited about discovering myself, little by little. I am going to take it slow. This time I don't need others to put challenging things in front of me, I am going to challenge myself. Small tricks here and there. I am on my own, but I do have my Hermione and Ron around.

This time, I am going to create magic. For myself. By myself.

Change is good. Every now and then, I think I am going to need it.

For now I am just fine.

Impacted Wisdom - II

2008-07-19T21:58:00.001-07:00

It all started with a poky sensation in the right lower corner of the inside of my mouth. It came in spurts initially trying desperately to grab my attention, and when I refused, it decidedly took the upperhand and became a constant nagging pain in my neck (ear and mouth).

A sudden change of travel plans forced me to consider a visit to the dentist - something I shuddered at for the last time I went there for one complaint, I ended up with 3 painful root-canal treatments. Actually this incident was the preamble to the final showdown. Apparently there are three nerve roots for each tooth which need to be anaesthesized during a root canal treatment. But me being me, I apparently had 5 nerve roots in one tooth, which my veteran dentist could not locate. So I had to bear pains throughout the procedure while she shoved, dug, poked and pulled.

So after the initial shock of seeing me back in her clinic after many years (read - 2 years), Dr. Dentist peered into the hollowness of my mouth, did her customary hmms, shook her head and said "your wisdom teeth, all four of them, have got impacted into the bone. They're half out and don't have any place to maneuver and they're beginning to show signs of decay. (saving grace - she said my brush wouldn't reach the wisdom teeth and that's why there were beginning to decay). Let's remove them. Come tomorrow and I'll remove all four!"

Me: "all four? At the same time?" (Now, I am brave even in the face of Goliath, but removing four teeth at the same time?)

DD: "Of course. It's a small procedure. Each one will take just a couple of minutes. Plus, your school friend SA who is apprenticing with me also got hers removed last week. And she did the procedure on another patient this morning".

Me: "Oh SA, it will be so good to see her. (Then on second thoughts), But I hope you'll be doing the procedure on me".

DD: "Of course. Here take this prescription for antibiotics and gargles and I'll see you tomorrow".

D-Day

SA: Gives me a bear hug. "So great to see you. blah blah blah. ... she got married.... blah blah blah.... im getting married... blah blah blah... when're u getting married?"

The nurse hands me the consent form. I take a cursory glance and then as an afterthought I look at it horrified as it warns me about severe swelling, other teeth getting dislodged, pain throughout and after the procedure, failure of the procedure and worse a temporomandibular joint (jaw joint) dislocation. Ouch! I don't why and DD wonders why I asked her, "what is the worst complication of this procedure that you've come across?". Portent intuition?

DD: "Relax, it's a routine thing"

So I slip into the large chair, swivel my feet up, gargle, laugh away nervously, and look up to see capped-masked-gowned-gloved DD and SA with syringe-needles and retractors and other scary looking things in their hands.

DD starts poking me with the needle to numb me. And my tissues swell. She takes the scalpel, I reflexly close my eyes and before I know it, she has taken a plier-like instrument and drawn out my first decadent wisdom tooth.

DD: "See. I told you so. But it's a large tooth"

Feeling better and more confident now, I let her take a sharp jab at both corners of my hard palate and lo behold, 2 more wayward teeth were out!

And then the battle began. What seemed as an innocuous tooth removal resulted in a 2 hour ordeal with naked vision, x-ray vision, imagined vision about the orientation, angulation and curvature of my 'large' wisdom tooth. Needless to say, it was disoriented compared to the normal way and so accessing the root was getting difficult. Moreover, each tooth has two roots so that they could be sectioned through the crown of the tooth and each half removed easily - but not mine! My wise tooth had decidedly fused the two roots into one and so it couldn't be extracted by divisive methods.

The drill of the bone grated my nerves, the flush of the suction tickling me but I kept my cool. And then suddenly,

DD: "H, I think I've drilled too close to the inferior alveolar neurovascular canal. I can't go further. Can you come with me to my mentor's place in Matunga. He's an expert in these cases and it would be over in a jiffy".

And in what seemed like after-a-whirlwind, an hour's drive later, my mom, DD and I were sitting Senior DD's clinic and a couple of minutes later, I was "lying on the operating table" (yes - like in the operating theater) and surrendered to the whims and expertise of SDD and DD. Another 10 mins later I was sitting in front of SDD chatting about my Johns Hopkins plans and we struck a deal that I'd pay him by being the conveyor of a gift to one of of his friends at JHH in lieu of Rs. 6000! Nice deal!

So 4 days later, I am sitting with my laptop in hand recounting my tale with a swollen face, toothache, bitten lips, cheilotic torn angles of the mouth hoping fervently that this be an end to my toothy saga - for life.

Amen.

Unwise wisdom

2008-07-16T02:33:00.000-07:00

Too much of anything is bad. I guess that's what happens when one is too wise for one's own good. Wisdom gets concentrated, sedimented and nearly fossilized into the maxillary and mandibular bones (the upper and lower jaws for the layman) and then begins the great war!

I am sure with our evolutionary history, as homo erectus and homo sapiens, we needed 32 teeth to bite into flesh and leaves. But if you trace our monkeyed-heritage, you'll notice a distinct change in the size and the shape of our homo sapiens sapiens faces. Our faces have become daintier, foreheads have flattened, shapely eyes, sharper noses, less-pouting lips, smaller ears and finally a smaller jaw.

So when all our facial features have shown developmental regression, isn't it a natural progression that nature would start to modify our teeth accordingly? My theory is that 32 human teeth are actually inhuman - considering that the four wisdom teeth hidden away in the recesses of the mouth have for all purposes become vestigial. I mean we don't use them to chew or bite and our brushes don't even reach that far into the cave. They don't even contribute to aesthetics and cosmetics and finally more than half the world needs to get them out.

And in propounding this hypothesis, I am ably supported by my exhausted dentist who is minting money while pulleying and pulling out stubborn wisdom teeth and gracefully admits that "God made man and wisdom teeth, man improvised and made dentists and dentists make merry with wisdom teeth".

My teeth and I have been enigmatic nemeses. We reside in the same body, eat together, chew on thoughts, spruce up each other, even go to bed together. But, where I grew up readily and steadily and entered adolescence and adulthood with relative ease, my teeth were a bit redundant. So when my friends and peers would show up cheerfully with missing-teeth-smiles, I would rush to the bathroom and try to pull and push and shake and coerce my teeth to grow up and get uprooted.

Stubborn as they were, they would shake from their slumber, but refuse to get out of bed. So each time one of my milk teeth showed signs of falling, I'd get excited and wonder what to wish from the tooth fairy. So you can just imagine my annoyance at the regular visits to the dentist to get each and every obstinate milk tooth pulled out. Each and every time! Ice creams galore but no tooth fairy! My mom began to rue the fact that I was a milk-magnet as a baby. Anyway, that was a long time ago or so it seemed. For the second part of my epic struggle with my teeth was yet to begin.

contd...

Genetic Habits

2008-07-05T04:30:00.000-07:00

Clumsiness and absent-mindedness, as I have earlier mentioned, are traits I have inherited from the maternal side of my family. I have 3 cousins and a grandparent and maybe an aunt who have preceded me as the yellow peas in this Mendelian family tree.

I also have this habit of rubbing my fingers against each other (much like Abhishek Bachhan in Sarkar) and an even older habit of rubbing my nose when I am in deep contemplation. The nose habit - is more like trying to remove the grease from my oily skin.... My friend Amol was the first to notice this peculiar habit and make me aware of it. Since then, whenever he catches me doing that, I know the sidey nickname of 'doggy' will not be far behind.

Curiously, I discovered that this habit is also hereditary and comes my maternal side again. This time from my grandma's family. She was here with us during the hot summer months to escape the cruel sweltering heat of Madras (Chennai I know is politically correct - but correctness be damned!).

So it one of those lazy May afternoons spent studying and figuring out how metabolic acidosis drives hyperkalemia as if I were trying to unearth one of the great mysteries of the world. Like I said, my fingers were subconsciously drawn to my nose (maybe I smelt a clue). I don't know for how long it was, but when I looked up, my patti was staring at me, wide-eyed with her hand on her cheek and head tilted in admiration.

Turns out that I reminded her of her brother (whom we affectionately call BM) and her father, my great-grandfather. Apparently, her father would sit in the same way when he was neck deep in work and in deep concentration. Tears welled in her eyes as I brought back memories of her beloved dad, leaving me a lil awkward.

Life works mysteriously. We think that death takes away our loved ones and all their reminders away. But that's not true. A part of our dead lives on with us and lives on with our children and theirs too. Mendel's laws are unshakeable. They work - All the time.

Back to the Grind

2008-07-02T23:31:00.000-07:00

I took a nice vacation away from my fat books. I just realized that I haven't had a real vacation in 9 years! Even the holidays between the after-final-year-exams and before-start-of-internship were ruined by incessant worry over whether I would manage to scrape through the Surgery exam.

I've been enjoying this holiday for nearly 4 months now - free of worry and illness. I had planned to take the Step 2 CK of the USMLE this July-August, but I think my body simply revolted against this idea. Now I am actually beginning to admit to myself that maybe, maybe my body and mind craved for this break. I always compare my life in the last 9 years to an F1 racing car that was running at top speed beyond the control of any gear or speed break - it was destined to crash against a wall the moment I slumped. And so it did.

In the beginning, it was sheer torture. I thought I was being penalized for some unknown reason. The only holiday I was used to was the weekend Sunday (not even Saturday) and that was fruitfully spent in sleeping. But how much could I sleep? My cousin kept teasing me about how I had forgotten how to enjoy a holiday. And I think she was right. Somewhere down the line, I was in such a hurry, that I had forgotten to enjoy life. I had forgotten how to enjoy life poetically - to stop in my track and enjoy the beauty around me!

So, I am glad I took this break. I am feeling so rejuvenated now. The fact that I am able to come with something to write almost everyday is evidence of my rest and relaxation. Fresh, renewed vigor, re-energized, that's me now.

I know I am ready to face my own world again. A world that is punctuated with tests and exams at every opportunity. But that's the way I like it - I am so used to it now, I find it difficult to sit in a place without having a hundred to-d0 tasks running in the back of my mind. I am all set now. To re-enter the world I left a few months ago. To get back to the grind.

But what will be different this time - I will recognize when I need to take a break and chill out. And more importantly, I will actually take the time to do just that - do nothing.

Birthday bumps

2008-07-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

It's nearly the same everytime - atleast has been for the last twenty years.

So this is how it goes - I try my best to stay away till the midnight bell strikes and brings in the 1st of July. I really try and sometimes have been successful at staying awake to receive the first of the calls at 11:45 pm Jun 30th so that this friend can continue talking to me for the next 16 minutes, promptly wish me at 12 am and then hang up rather abruptly at 12:01!

The morning of the b'day, my parents enter my room singing the b'day song just as the colors of the dawn pass through the curtains into my room. I wake up from my slumber later to find a gigantic b'day card - with love from Mom and Dad, the Great.

Usually, I am besieged by phone calls from 8 am to 10 pm on my b'day - makes me incredibly popular. Mom usually makes my favorite sweet - Pal Paayasam for me and the menu is more or less centered around what I like. Even if I have already made lunch plans with friends.

There is of course the new dress! Or dresses.

On reaching school / college, I'll be hugged and patted. Smiles everywhere. A huge one plastered on my face. Feels good to be born and live here, I tell myself. B'day cards and flowers come my way. There is the cake and then the gifts. s).(I am a real pain when it comes to buying gifts for me - cos I am horrible when it comes to accepting gift

Acquaintances sending me good wishes. Threats of the birthday bumps. Friends demanding that I loosen my purse. Some daredevils snatching away my wallet and treating themselves with the money in it!

Back home, dad will be waiting for me to return so I can cut the cake he secretly went out to get.
It's almost always a Black Forest from Monginis with the biscuit base. There would be the standard family dinner and I'll be back home, a happy girl!

As a kid, this would actually be different. I would share chocolates with all my classmates - after they sang aloud wishing me a Happy Budday - and then escape from the boredom of classes under the garb of sharing sweets with all the other teachers. Interestingly there was a lot of politics involved here. I was allowed to take another girl to accompany me in the adventure and you can just imagine how nearly everyone in class queued up to be my 'friend' for that day. In the end, loyalty won hands down and I'd take my best friend with me and we'd disappear for the next two classes.

In the evening, after my afternoon nap, I'd wake up to find my home decorated with balloons and other confetti and a large cake. I especially remember my seventh birthday with a cake baked to resemble a swimming pool - i still remember the aquamarine icing. It's quite amusing how most of the kids who would attend my b'day parties (complete with cake, wafers, samosa, sauce, chocolates, juice and return gifts) have all grown up and gone their own ways! I was of course the centre of attention and attraction - and my, did I love it?

It was different this year. Very different. The first sliver of silver in my life. A silver jubilee of birthdays...

Happy B'day Haru!

2008-07-01T09:58:00.000-07:00

Yay! Another birthday. Another day of celebrating my existence. Another day of re-iteration of how many friends surround me. Another day of my family closing-in around me with warm hugs and kisses.

This year was slightly different. I couldn't stay awake till 12 - but my sis woke my up anyway. Mom and dad let me sleep for as long as I wanted to. I cooked - dahiwale aloo and theplas. There was no college. Only very few of my friends are here in the same city and even they're busy working hard. So there were the phone calls, but I missed the reverie! No flowers this year, but there were e-cards and a lovely chocolate cake sent by my close friends Namrata and Anita in connivance. (They're still arguing as to whose idea it was originally). I bought my dress on my b'day - okay, admittedly I bought a couple of them. And we closed the day with the traditional family dinner.

I miss the cacophony of being with friends on my b'day. But at 25, I guess, we're no longer kids anymore. Everyone's gone their separate ways. And b'days are going to be low-key from now on.
I am 25. I have most likely completed a quarter of my life. Wow! I wish I could believe it...

Happy Birthday to Me.

Why I think I set out to become a doctor.

2008-06-30T04:52:00.000-07:00

What is it about the study of medicine (and for the puritans - surgery too) that keeps drawing me to it? I keep asking myself this question and dwell upon it for hours. Yes I have that much time in hand right now to spend pondering over THE question of my 25-year old life. (or rather 24 yrs and 365 day old life - it's a leap year this time ;) )

While I nurtured the childish dream of being a doctor and 'saving lives' through my school and high school years, I never had second thoughts about pursuing any other profession. (Yeah, the advertising bit was a flirtatious idea). It was never parental pressure contrary to what my sister and brother-in-law believe. Not even subtle or subconscious. My dad wanted me to dream of going to one of the IITs and mom was okay with me doing anything as long as I did it well.

So what was it that pushed me in this direction? I was very good in Mathematics and Humanities too. I wasn't actually doing well in Biology - wrong strokes in my pictorial depiction of the human anatomy earned me just about enough marks to satisfy my expectations. But that didn't deter my interest and fascination with the anatomy and the physiology of the human body.

I remember carrying this image of all the doctors we visited - the doctor sitting on the other side of the table and listening to the ill patient. Listening. Nodding. Listening. Asking leading questions. Listening. Smiling encouragingly. Pacifying the patient. Assuaging the patient's doubts. Listening. Touching the patient. Soothing the patient. Listening.

It's oft mentioned how half the illness is cured by just sitting in front of our physician in his room. I think I was drawn to this seemingly magical power that the demigod doctor seemed to possess. The power to bring a smile to a patient writhing in suffering. The power to assure another that his / her ills have a cure. The power of bringing hope to the patient. The power of listening and the change that it could bring about.

It might sound super-sentimental and crappy. But I truly think that's what led me to this profession. It wasn't about curing and taking credit for it. It wasn't about cutting and removing the tumor. It wasn't about changing a diagnosis and prognosis. It was just about being able to bring hope and a smile.

So why am I confused about my decision? I got disillusioned with the workplace and the environment I was a part of. There was a lot of passing the buck, a lot of insincerity around. I think, somewhere I became lax in my guard and got lazy too. I began to pass up the opportunity to be able to be proactive in a patient's treatment so that I could get those few extra minutes of sleep.

I succumbed to the hypocritic oath when I was supposed to remember the Hippocratic Oath.

I am not being harsh on myself. I am being honest with myself. And I can rest in peace only when I admit the truth to myself that I didn't turn out the doctor I meant to be.

What I will do from now on and how will I do it, what specialty I will take up, I don't know. But what I know is I am not going to let the fear of harming a patient by a procedure (when I can actually save him / her by being brave and using my hands and eyes) overcome me. I am not going to be lazy with an illness even if it has only a 1% chance of mortality. For, like Conrad Fischer put it so well - 1% mortality doesn't matter as long as you are not the person dying.

Tomorrow is Doctor's Day. And my 25th Birthday. I hope it spells a new beginning for the next 25, 50 or even 75 years of my life. I am hoping to start being the doctor I set out to be.

Sibling stories

2008-06-29T07:51:00.000-07:00

I am reading 'My Sister's Keeper' by Jodi Picoult and this is the second book I'm reading that has been authored by her; I finished reading the first one last week.

From what I've seen, there is a recurrent theme underlying her writing that juxtaposes legal and medical ramifications of the issue at hand. So we get to see a lot of courtroom and hospital drama, lot of lawyers' banter and doctor-patient interactions.

My Sister's Keeper is about the protagonist taking her parents to court for misusing her body to keep their elder daughter alive. The older sibling suffers from Acute Promyelocytic Leukemia and requires frequent blood transfusion and bone marrow transplants to help her tide over acute calamitous illnesses and keep imminent death at bay. The protagonist daughter was apparently procreated by artificial insemination methods - that combined her parents' chromosomes to achieve the best genetic combination that would serve her sister well - so that the younger one could be an allogeneic donor.

I remember reading about a real family like this in the Readers' Digest years ago. The sisters shared a sixteen year age difference and if I remember well, the title of that article went something like "they live because of each other". The siblings in the real story seemed happy and content; the older sister went into remission and then achieved permanent recovery at the end of the article, unlike the story I am reading now.

I share an eight year difference with my sister and sometimes I've even asked my mother if I was a conception arising from a second thought - to give my sister the sibling she craved for. Of course, my sister played mischief with me throughout my childhood convincing me that I was an adopted kid - an infant lying in a garbage bin who aroused her compassion enough to convince our parents that I should be brought home and into the family! I've long outgrown this conviction, but I think somewhere it touched me so much that I have become a firm believer in adoption.

Apparently, it's commonplace among siblings - the elder one torturing the younger one with spooky adoption stories. I'll be comforted by the thought that I wasn't the only one to have been bluffed.

So coming back to the book, I am really enthu to read about what happens of the plot, the courtroom drama that ensues and the final judgment.

Her last book, 'Plain Truth' gave me a detailed narrative of the life of the Amish tribe. I'm looking forward to learning something new from Jodi Picoult again.

Aap ki Kashish - Carnaticized

2008-06-27T10:24:00.000-07:00

I have a song I associate with every person I am close to. Usually it has been playing in the background during memorable time we've shared - either loudly or just in my mind or my memory.

I never imagined that I would be inspired by Himmesh Reshammiya.... never! But I think my close friend Meera and I were in an outrageously humorous mood on that day. We were laughing all day and all the way from college to the station.

And that's when we struck on the idea - and broke into peals of laughter again at the very suggestion. We must have really looked like fools or some manic patients escaped from Ward 19 of KEM Hospital.

For we were showing off our training in Carnatic music. Verbally, vocally. We realized that Himmesh had basically aped our Carnatic musical legacy while crroooooooonnnnnninnnng Aap ki Kashish.

Think about it, hum it... actually sing along with us -

A-aa-p / k-i-ii / ka-a-shi-sh

Sa-ar-fa-ro-oo-sh / ha-i

A-aa-p / ka-aa / na-sha-aa-aa

Yu-un / ma-ad-dh-ho-sh / ha-i-i

Ky-a-a / ka-he-in / tum-m-se / ja-aa-aa-ne-ja-aa-aa

Gu-m / hu-a / ho-o-o-o-sh / ha-i-i

Ho-o-o-o-sh / ha-i-i-i-i-i

Gu-m / hu-a / ho-o-o-o-sh / ha-i-i

My second crush

2008-06-27T09:15:00.000-07:00

I was 8 yrs old when I first saw him. He didn't notice me, not even a glance thrown my way. He would've been 29 then. Married? I don't know. Frankly my dear, I didn't give a damn either.

He rocked - literally and figuratively speaking. His wiry callused fingers moved effortlessly over those sharp wires as if they were cerebrally equipped by themselves. His hair blowing away as a mane (he really had long hair then) by his edgy jumpy movement bamboozled me - was I really enthralled by this wild guy? His rebelliousness in his unkempt self - the hair, the singular silver ear ring, the ganji-like tees, the torn jeans, the crazy belts with the large head attracted the self-righteous girl I was.

But it was his ability to hold an entire crowd mesmerised in that din that he and his friends created on stage that caught my attention. He was livewire. He really was. Especially when he crooned

"I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses
All night I'll sleep on a bed of nails
I wanna be, just as close as, the Holy Ghost is
To lay you down..... on a bed of roses"

Jon Bon Jovi. Lead singer of Bon Jovi, good-looker, rock star, crooner, heart-stealer... my second crush.

I think I would have even entertained the idea of dating him, had circumstances been more favorable. (atleast us being in the same residential vicinity, to say the least). I think what I find most attractive about him is his hair - wonderfully smooth and silky (I imagine) and blonde - brown depending on when he dyed it. Added perk - he's a devoted, dedicated family man. Looks, good voice, stability, what more could a girl want? (I am considering he's smart cos he got so far and I am sure he has a good sense of humor).

He was my introduction to Western music, rock, etc. He was my guide to the world my sister lived in (or by her account, tried her best to revolt against Tambram rules and regulations to live). He was the route I could take to be as cool as my older teenage sister was.

But that doesn't take away from the fact that despite all these credentials, Bon Jovi happen to be one of my favorite rock bands of all time. I guess, they are in general considered very good too. Not for me the noise of Def Leppard or Iron Maiden (the latter I try when I'm in an exceptionally low mood). But Bon Jovi were more musical - I would call most of their songs rock-love-ballads. So their music seems just right on a rainy day when Im in bed with a book in hand and enjoying the wetness of the weather. Always. :)

So, often when I am in a nostalgic mood or missing my sister and the good ol' times we shared as kids, I play Bed of Roses and sing aloud. And make a silent prayer as if asking JBJ to teleport me back to that world when and where beds were indeed made of roses.

Something in Nothing

2008-06-25T06:54:00.001-07:00

There is a meaning even in nothingness

If we would stop by and examine its test

While it seems like a vacuum out there

Sometimes nothing is our answer best

Nothingness is a space that can be filled

It is a challenge to our creativity and imagination

For all we know this world might be virtual

But we know it needs purification

But if the earth needs to be purified

The very essence of life needs to be rectified

Cos with man came misery

And in his shadows, other lives were crushed

Nothingness is not an empty space now

That there is a word that describes it

Is tangible evidence that it is something finite

And there is no better word to fit

Can anything be nothing?

Can everything be nothing?

Yes it can because as someone once said

We love giving words and defining

We are not money-making machines

We are meaning-making machines

Cos even money without a meaning would be useless

But the definition makes it coveted nonetheless

So why are we discussing nothingness

When it is nothing but an empty space

We do it to stop and remember

That we can paint colors of life on the plain canvas called nothingness.

As daft as they can get...

2008-06-24T21:18:00.000-07:00

I couldn't stop laughing at Charlie Black's heroics-gone-wrong. A John McCain aide, he certainly thought he would say something to boost the Republican Presidential candidate's claim to the top post in the world (higher than the UN Secretary General or the English Throne)...

This is what he said, "a terror attack on the US again would prove a 'big advantage'" to McCain's campaign.

Haha.... and I was actually disappointed that the era of Bush-isms had ended.

Btw, Black happens to be McCain's top adviser! :D

My favorite advertisements

2008-06-24T02:41:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I secretly desired to enter the field of creative marketing and advertising. I thought I had it in me to become a copyrighter and churn out witty dialogues.... Well I just channeled this energy during the spoof-scripting sessions while at college and they were really funny.

So while I sometimes wonder what would have been had I majored in Literature and gone to MICA or probably even gone to FTII and learnt script writing, maybe life would've been different! It would surely have been a lot of fun! Yeah yeah, I know behind the fun is a lot of hard work - but I would have loved it.

I don't know if I have the courage to switch careers now, I love my current profession equally. My only grouse is that it leaves me drained at the end of the day - emotionally more than physically. But the challenge is to be able to wake up next morning and be ready to be surrounded yet again by blood, urine, shit and vomit! :)

So anyway, I was just lamenting at the lack of good advertisements in the recent past... Youngistan didn't go down well with me. Akshay Kumar's Thums Up ads have become passe. Have these advertising honchos lost their gift - why have they reduced their creative gimmicks to a tit-for-tat in the Pepsi v/s Coca-cola v/s Thums Up war? Where's yaaron da tashan? Yeh dil maange more.

I can never forget the horror of Vivek Oberoi going 'wakao' or the utterly distasteful 'toyenge' ad for some brand of men's briefs that's currently on air. Give me Lalitaji anyday!

I think among my favorite ads would be in no particular order:

The Ericsson mobile phone ad : The "One Black Coffee Please"

Dhara oil : "Jalebi"

Cadbury's: "The girlfriend dancing and prancing away to glory on the cricket field after her love makes a century"

Titan: Almost all their ads... in fact the last one with Aamir Khan and Meera Vasudevan was damn cute.

Pepsi: The one with Aamir Khan, Aishwarya Rai and Mahima...err Ritu Chowdhury

All the Johnsons' baby oils... or just about any advt to do with babies (my maternal instincts spring alive!)

The Airtel ad: The B/W ad with confessions, expressions.... etc ..... "Express Yourself". We hijacked this theme for the introduction of our convocation skit. :)

ALL FEVICOL ADS!

This Camlin marker ad that I've only seen on Youtube: About the rudaalis not being able to take a widow's sindoor off bcos it was marked with a Camlin marker.... and so her husband suddenly gets a fresh breath of life! Hilarious.

And the Maggi Hot & Sweet Chilly Sauce, it's different ads!

These are all I think of now. I am sure there are others that captured my imagination but for some reason are not on the top of my mind now.

In one of my earlier posts, I said that the late nineties were not a good time for Western music. But I think Indian Advertising flourished during this period. Of course we were witnessing the 'free market invasion' in our otherwise socialist territory... But it was a good period. Some of the best creative minds came together and created 20 second livewire art.

I am looking forward to another brilliant advertisement ... I hope it comes soon.

Happy B'day Aryika

2008-06-23T04:27:00.000-07:00

She'd have turned 26 today and would have been a very contented girl doing her much-desired residency in Internal Medicine at Jaslok Hospital today, probably running around filling forms, following-up on the reports of various investigations, writing down orders, consulting her seniors, appeasing the relatives of her patients, trying to strike a rapport with the nurses (I doubt it would have taken her this long though), answering calls given by residents from other faculties and finally if she were lucky, taking a moment to breathe and then maybe eat.

If she were lucky, she would have grown to be one of the most loved doctors the hospital would've ever seen. Eveready to take on extra work, relieve a tired fellow doctor, fill-in for someone who wanted an off, she was everybody's friend. Everyone loved her. Even those who barely knew her for a couple of days.

Hard-working to the core - she stayed on for a year to study rigorously so that she could make it to an Int. Med. residency. Her fellow interns could never stop praising her or sometimes ridiculing her or even scolding her for being so stupidly sincere. For a junior like I, she would take time off from her schedule just to sit with me on a rough day and let me know that things weren't as bad as they seemed. That I knew my stuff, I would be a good doctor just as she would be, if she were lucky.

Even after these days, I still remember the postcardish sight of the three girls - Aryika, Prerna and Gene sitting outside the basketball court sipping coffee and laughing uncontrollably. I felt most uncomfortable thinking of Prerna crying uncontrollably outside the ICU of Breach Candy Hospital in the last week of February. Aryika was sinking in her battle against the deadly tuberculosis that had caused meningitis and her brain to swell with fluid. She underwent a shunt surgery that tried to remove the excess fluid but went into a coma. She stayed in the coma for over 2 weeks and never returned.

My brave friend, my lovable friend and guide, Dr. Aryika Malaviya - here's my salute to your kind spirit, your illuminating smile and your jovial nature. Our sick have lost in your passing away, a doctor who would have healed them not only with her medicines but with her compassion and genuine concern.

On your birthday, I miss being able to call you and wish you. For as long as I remember, it always rained on your day. Today, the sky is clear, the earth is parched.

I only hope that you are happy wherever you are, cheering the angels. Happy Birthday!

Love,
Harini.

Remembering Boyzone and Backstreet Boys

2008-06-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

My sister just uploaded her blog with a nice piece on her adolescent idol, object of her affection and the music sensation of the eighties - George Michael. I was around 5-6 yrs when I remember discovering the poster of this rugged, stubble-cheeked wiry guy with cool sunglasses and a leather jacket standing with a knee flexed against a wall and driving my sister and her bunch of equally 'crush'ed girlfriends crazy. I still remember the poster on our wall - it was a still photograph from his "Faith" video.

My sister is super-super-excited about having gotten tickets to GM's last ever concert that is going to be held in London. So, I know for sure she's going to be holed up in the Queen's country until after August 24th. She's got three tickets - just incase they don't manage to find a kindred soul to baby-sit my lil niece - in which case, my adorable niece will get to see GM live!

Reading her article, I sat back trying to recollect who my teenage music idols were. I'll always cringe in regret that we belonged to the late nineties - a time for the pubescent boybands and girl-bands. Spice Girls took the world by a storm and to this day, one of my friends is so crazy about them that he waited 3 nights in a row in front of the Mumbai airport to catch a glimpse of them when they'd come to India - he ended up with an autographed picture with 'Baby Spice'.

And then there was this gang of girls singing "C'est la vie" and frankly that's the only byte of French I know. Britney's with her eyebrow-raising "Hit me baby" was a sensation of course. But the late nineties belonged to two boybands - Boyzone and Backstreet Boys.

Boyzone was this Irish band with cute looking guys (especially the leads Ronan Keating and Stephen Gately, the latter who later did a GMish coming out of the closet gig). They had a decent collection but mostly love balladish. Love me for a Reason was probably the one that brought them fame. A Different beat and Isn't it a Wonder, if I remember correctly, were more in the vein of 'save the world' pleas. My personal favorites were Baby, Can I hold you tonite - I really liked the video with each guy and his girl on either side of a glass pane and All That I Need.

Any piece on Boyzone would be incomplete without a mention of their biggest hit, the love ballad "Words". Haha. Infact back in our all-girls school, a couple of girls were thrilled to receive love letter that had typed out the words of the song. Aah, if only falling in love and staying in love were that easy :)

Ronan of course went onto give another hit in "When you say nothing at all" that was part of the OST for the Julia Roberts- Hugh Grant romantic comedy Notting Hill. But most of all, much to our chagrin, it remains my friend Amol's favorite song - and he dedicates it to every other girl he falls in love with!

But the Backstreet Boys were the showstealers! AJ, Howie, Nick, Brian and Kevin were fought for keenly by the girls in my class and we had our fiercely loyal groups for AJ, Nick and Brian. I strongly believe now that the video for Backstreet's Back was responsible for the sudden interest in the band. The ghosts and vampires were attractive and the final group dance was impressive! And I think, BB had a better range of songs than Boyzone. The beats were catchy, the lyrics easy on the tongue and the music... was well-above-decent compared to the fare that was otherwise doled out to us. There was this one song that went like "... you're the one for me, you are my ecstasy" - this one was my BFF's ultimate favorite and she'd get up suddenly in the break between classed and gyrate to the song on the secretly kept walkman in her locker. The last I saw of BB was "I want it that way" and that was the end of our relationship.

I was never really a fan of either boybands and I think this disappointment in Western music kept me away from it for a long time until I rediscovered it a couple of years ago. I will single handedly credit those nerve-grating annoying songs ' Barbie Girl' and "we're going to Ibiza" for ruining my association. Moreover, MTV and Channel [V] were increasingly turning to desi stuff and that was really disappointing.

I wiki-ed these boybands after I finished writing the above and it seems like they're pretty much dead and buried by all. I don't think I miss them one bit and I can doubtlessly claim that I will never be enthused to go for any of their comeback concerts.

Give me Pink Floyd anyday and I'll be Comfortably Numb to the rest.

Templates

2008-06-21T21:51:00.001-07:00

Is there any way to use a different template other than the ones offered by this blogspot? My sister is really keen on having hers changed and neither of us has a clue of how to go about it.

Abinav - since I know you visit this blog regularly and since you have some neat templates yourself, you can presume that this query is directed to you. :P

Circus coming to town.

2008-06-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

So are we or are we not going to push for the N-deal? Either way, looks like Mahesh Rangarajan, Dorab Sopariwala and Yogendra Yadav will soon be hitting our screens with their political analysis while we sit as the audience and watch candidates trapezeeing from one party to the party.

Let the jamboree begin!

Confessions of two clumsy feet / knees - Part II

2008-06-20T05:44:00.001-07:00

I think my mother really lost her patience with me when my clumsiness actually landed me in an orthopedic facility. The story goes this way - inspired by a particularly foot stomping episode of Nach Baliye the previous night, I decided to try a few steps with my two left feet in the privacy of a wet bathroom. In my excitement, I forgot that it was the day of my last viva- Obstetrics and Gynecology in my preliminary examination in the Final Year.

The first few steps felt really good and injected a vigor for more. But in 2 minutes I found myself somersaulting and crash landing on the marble feet. If I'd cracked my skull, I think I might have been spared the ire mom had saved up for later. I yelped in pain and somehow managed to get dressed. I could neither flex my knee nor extend it once flexed. I had already swallowed a couple of painkillers to douse the excruciating agony and travelled to college by car. And then started the drama!

I could barely walk. I was obviously creating a spectacle even that early in the morning but was stupidly proud to admit that I needed help. Somehow, Anita took charge and insisted that I walk with her support. (Someday, when you head a big organization, I'll brag about your how I saw your leadership skills early on!) Bhubu, as sweetly as ever, accompanied me to the ob-gy ward and with their help I managed to climb up to the first floor ward.

News indeed spreads like wildfire - especially when Bhubu happens to be in the know of it. Quite frankly, I had begun genuinely sympathizing with the poor patients who face the brunt of a group of enthusiastic medical students eager to ask them incessant questions, touch and poke them in places they honestly wouldn't want to display. Everyone demanded to see my knee - which by now looked obviously swollen even through the thick denim material. (which I politely refused as I was horrified about my unwaxed legs).

Given my luck that day, I had been assigned the case of a woman who was at the end of the ward diagonally opposite to the where I was sitting. So I trudged along the hypotenuse of the room, maneuvering myself around beds and handled adeptly by Ravi and Sumedh (who along with Anita were gladly my knights in shining labcoats for that day). I had become quite the center of attention in the ward - of nurses, doctors, students and pregnant women alike.

I wondered how I would make it to the tables where they had kept the surgical instruments for one our vivas. And the whole ward started laughing when the registrar walked across the room, armed with the Deaver's retractor and a dilator, and came to my bed. I couldn't really believe that sometimes when the horse couldn't come to the water, the water could come to the horse in a pot. :)

Soon enough, the orthopedic registrar on-call came to attend to me; by now, my knee had swollen enormously and the registrar said that I would absolutely need an X-Ray. Drawing curtains around my patient's bed, the budding orthopedician did a cursory palpation on me and suggested effusion, more likely hemarthroses (blood in my knee cavity).

Once done with the exam, (after failed attempts of sitting on a wheelchair) I found myself hauled onto a white trolley (used to transfer patients from the operating theaters to the ward) and with four young doctors pushing my trolley, I was definitely laughing stock - with the real hospital patients and the crowd of relatives excitedly pointing to a doctor on the trolley! Anita was excitedly screaming "baaju hato, hato" and the hilarity of the situation didn't escape any of us.

Finally Ravi and Sumedh literally lifted me from the trolley and carried me into my car (no mean feat :P). The story ends with the smiling orthopedician aspirating 100cc of blood (he anticipated around 50cc) and the MRI showing fracture of the infero-medial part of my patella, retinacular tear, medial collateral ligament sprain and a miniscule part of my medial meniscus chipped off. I landed on the operating table for an arthroscopic surgery to remove the floating patellar chip - one that Namrata got to see while I was knocked out by the effect of anaesthesia. Apparently, the inside of my knee is a beautiful ivory white, Namrata vouches :)

3 yrs now, after intense physiotherapy, I can walk fine and climb stairs with minimal difficulty. Running still remains a goal to be achieved. But the clumsy tripping still continues - undauntedly.

Confessions of two clumsy feet - Part I

2008-06-20T03:58:00.000-07:00

I didn't really have a subject to write about today. So I thought of writing about me. The first thing that came to my mind was my clumsiness. And so be it.

I seem to have an uncanny knack of attracting clumsy situations. Everyday, when I walk on the road, be it an uneven tar road or the smoothest of asphalt cemented concrete roads, I end up tripping atleast once. For as long as I have been walking, there hasn't been a day without a tripping event. Cobblestoned-like paths in Mumbai have only made my life more difficult - they're often not laid properly and come off easily; I don't really need a reason to fall, do I?

While I was in SIES, my junior college in Sion, my large group of friends and I were walking towards the station when suddenly a cow came running to me. For all my vanity about not showing my fear, I just stood there for a minute trying to be brave and then yelled aloud and ran for dear life - later, I was told, I was standing on the grass that the cow was waiting hungrily for. Few years later, on a hike to the Rajgad fort as we were returning to base, my gang of girls broke away from most of the class and were walking by ourselves. We came to a really narrow path flanked by trees that didn't allow us much space to walk together and so we divided ourselves into two. My friends were walking ahead of me when we came to this slope while I was distracted by my attention to the fauna of the forest.

My shoe laces had come undone (as usual) and as I bent down to tie them, I was suddenly faced with the prospect of a charging bull bellowing his challenge to flatten me in less than a minute. My ears can never forget the rage in the bull's mooing (?) and my heart still thumps aloud everytime I think of it. I honestly thought that I was going to face a similar fate as one of those unlucky matadors who got themselves killed in that ghastly activity that they call sport! I closed my eyes and began praying aloud and it definitely wasn't raw courage when I screamed 'Help' in all the languages I knew. Lord Shiva definitely heard my now-desperate prayers and came to my rescue in the form of an old lady and calmed his Nandi incarnate. The old lady (I'll never forget her face) could barely stifle a chuckle and broke into rural Marathi dialect claiming how we city-bred were incapable of sterner stuff.

I think I've definitely had enough of cows and bulls for the rest of my life.

I've fallen down all the staircases I've used regularly - in my building, at school, at SIES (it was an everyday story, with Apu actually waiting for me to trip), at Agrawals, at GS even at Johns Hopkins. Everywhere. Infact, the Agrawals kissa was actually really funny. For the uninitiated Agrawal Classes are 'world-famous' coaching classes in Mumbai as the flower attracting the SSC high-scoring bees for excellent tutoring for the HSC examinations. While I didn't particularly enjoy the stifling and suffocating claustrophobia of the air-conditioned room with crowded benches for 8 hrs everyday, being with friends for that long is one of my favorite memories. So I belonged to the afternoon batch and we had a break at around 5 pm for about half hour. Aarti, Jinal and I decided to hit Damodars (a snack outlet) below the the classes and soon we were caught up in some entertaining exchange of anecdotes; so much so that we didn't realize when the rest of the crowd had made its way back into the classes. A glance at our watch and we realized we were late and so we ran to enter the classes before the lecturer did.

Now the building that houses Agrawals was really old and the wooden staircases are narrow and steep. Moreover at the end of the first flight of the stairs would sit Ramu, the watchman, peon, clerk, handyman, man-friday for the staff. Ramu was actually a cute moustached, bespectacled old chap with a toothy grin that he flashed sheepishly everytime he caught some coming in without their ID cards. That he would report these trivial mistakes of memory to the higher authority irked many and was responsible for the downfall of his popularity. (Though, according to me, he was and hopefully still is cute). So as on any other day, Ramu was standing up there (grinning widely with his 32 teeth shining brightly hoping to catch his latest prey) and the three of us were running up the stairs. I took the lead and leapt from one stair to the one-above-the-next. Bad idea. For when I reached the last few stairs, my clumsiness got the better of me, and I tripped and with my arms raised above my shoulders circumscribing a 90 degree arc from an erect posture to a flat one. In the next second, I heard Aarti and Jinal squealing with uncontrollable laughter and looked up to find an absolutely stunned Ramu staring at me in disbelief.

As I grappled with my situation, I realized that I was lying before him in prostration (the way Tambram men do) as if seeking his blessings. Never before and never after, I suspect, did anyone actually fall at his feet and elevate him to demi-god status. Since that day for the rest of the year, an embarrassed Ramu avoided me completely - and I was spared of an ID check for the rest of the year.

In my defence / defense, it's definitely a family trait - a dear cousin and a dear grandpa also are known to be klutzy souls. My cousin and I have been known to roam around the city wearing our salwars inside out, I have also risked infamy by doing it with my kurtas and tops. We're obviously blind too. As a warning to my future friends and a thank you note to all my friends this far, I am also scatterbrained and leave my bags and purses absentmindedly to the mercies of my friends. (Thus far, I have been lucky that one of my dear ones has always managed to notice my missing belongings and return them to me). I don't mean to brag about it, no I'm hardly proud of being so foolishly absent-minded. Believe me, I have tried and will keep trying to be more careful of my belongings and my whole self too.

Love in a Torn Land

2008-06-19T00:06:00.001-07:00

I just finished reading a book today - Love in a Torn Land - by Jean Sassoon, an American author who spent twelve years in the Middle-East and chronicles the lives of women there. The first book of hers that I had read was Princess - a biographical account of a woman belonging to the Saudi Arabian royalty, Princess Sultana. The book described the oppressed, suppressed and repressed lives led by the women in the Muslim oil-rig amidst an environment of chauvinism, sexism and plain favoritism towards the male child. It spoke of young girls wedded away to men old enough to be their grandfather, of women who who bore their husbands many children only to find themselves cast way for a younger concubine, of fathers who married girls who were once their daughters' best friends, of brothers' friends who terrorize others with their apparent moral policing authority and then go about raping 11 year old girls just for the thrill of it!

Love in a Torn Land was the story of Joanna and her Kurd (a native tribe in the northern mountainous part of Iraq) family and their travails of being a Kurd in a country ruled by a Kurd-hating-megalomaniac (in)famous to the rest of the world as Saddam Hussein. Born to deaf-mute Arab father and an exceedingly beautiful Kurd mother and living in Baghdad, Joanna was always fond of Kurdistan and longed to be one with her Kurd relatives. She describes how Kurds were looked at with disdain by the rest of Iraq and were even fighting for survival against Saddam's desire to wipe them out completely from the face of the earth. A fiesty girl, unlike her timid sister Muna, she often voiced her desire to fight for Kurdistan freedom. When she was fifteen, she fell madly in love with Sarbast, a Kurd revolutionary and a cousin of her sister Alia's husband Hady. Infact the warm relationship that she shares with Hady is really charming. The book talks about the humiliation that her brother Ra'ad and Hady that to go through during their unwarranted (pun intended) arrest - their only crime being that they were born Kurds.

The story then goes on to Iran's attack on Iraq in the late eighties that led to daily bombing at Baghdad. The Kurds sided with Iran in their fight against Iraq (much like Bose trying to garner German for the Indian freedom cause). It was around this time that Sarbast also fell in love with Joanna and through letters sent her a proposal for marriage. The centrepage of the book consists of photographs of Joanna's family and Sarbast. The rest of the story is about how Joanna joins Sarbast in Kurdistan where they lead a difficult life of a revolutionary (peshmerga), in difficult climates and difficult terrain. The crux of the book is the chemical attack (chemicals released from bombs and canisters by enemy planes)all over Kurdistan (a plan masterminded by the devious Chemical Ali, Saddam's cousin) that leaves Joanna temporarily blinded and her devout Aunt Aisha murdered. Times are dangerous for Kurds and treacherous too - with many Kurds turning informers for the Iraqi Arabs (jahsh). But Joanna shows extreme courage and valour in supporting Sarbast (who drafts propaganda for the Kurdish freedom movement) and his belief and finds herself contributing to the cause in her own way.

But things worsen and the couple have to leave their hut (a transition from the comfortable and relatively luxurious life she led at Baghdad) and are on the run to save their lives. Enroute to Iran, they face continuous bombardments, terror of being caught by jahshs, a miscarriage of their unborn fetus and rocky, unfavorable mountainous climb on the Kandil mountains. But Joanna describes how her love for Sarbast and his affection for her enable her and strengthen her to pull through this trial. Finally, with the help of an old Kurd revolutionary and sitting on his mule, Joanna reached Iran with the love of her life Sarbast and his jovial cousin Kamaran.

In Iran, Joanna delivers their son Kosha (meaning struggle) in a hospital that is hostile to Iraqi refugees - the nurse-midwife tells Joanna rudely that Iran cannot afford anaesthesia for Iraqi refugees and proceeds to suture her torn vagina without local anaesthetics. (Having been a witness to a similar situation in our very own Mumbai, I shuddered to think of the pain that poor Joanna must have endured stoically).

In the epilogue, Sassoon writes about how most Iraqi Kurds including Joanna's family have left the country and are scattered all over Europe. Joanna, Sarbast and Kosha themselves seeked and received political asylum in England.

I was telling one of my friends how I like to read books with geo-socio-political themes. It is not about reading the atrocities that women face in these Muslim nations - gender discrimination, female infanticide, honour killings and dowry deaths are still very much a part of our comparatively progressive Indian society even today. It opens my eyes to different realities across the world. I doubt I would visit any of the Middle-eastern countries for a long stay and these books give me a peek into the lives of the women there.

Here I must say, while The Princess painted a very negative picture of men in Saudi Arabia, Love in a Torn Land does exactly the opposite. It describes men who are extremely sensitive to their women, love their women with all their heart and most of all give respect to their women and treat them with equality (well almost). The book pictorially depicted an Iraq where women were allowed to frolic in frocks and skirts and colorful scarves - only later when they grew up, did the religious and conservative Sa'ad insist on his sisters donning the hijab. Women were allowed to educate themselves, even seek a professional degree in engineering and work alongside men.

Those were the seventies and eighties. Today in 2008, the Times of India carried a small article of a Pakistani Canadian father killing his daughter for not adhering to the conservative dress code. The early 2000s had the Taliban relegating women to the status of an object. (The Kite Runner gave an insightful account of life in Taliban times). Kashmiri girls today are faced with threats for not covering themselves in a burqa. Tamil actress Khushboo has her effigies burnt when she sensibly advices girls to indulge in pre-marital sex only with protection - who is society kidding when it denies that its girls and boys do not succumb to their lust? Hindus hate Muslims who hate Hindus and Sikhs who hate Christians - we say we're secular, but tell me, how many parents would agree to their Hindu daughter marrying a Muslim.

Was society intolerant earlier or are we getting intolerant now? Only time will tell.

Red as red can be

2008-06-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to all victims of abuse irrespective of gender, age, caste, class, religion and country.

Bound by chains of propriety

Of sublime chastity

Of purity

as pristine as the waters of the Gangotri

How could I reveal this blemish on my café skin

That left a mark on my soul as dark as sin

The wrath of the fury incurred

Left me all but shattered

Can you now forgive me

For not opening this cupboard

Of my dark past.

Their fingers still browse my body

Making me feel like some cheap commodity

Up for sale, cheap bargain

Oh, am I really going insane?

I hear the voices whispering and screaming

Telling me they know me inside out

That no one knows every cell in my body as do they

And I should only follow their bidding every way

The white walls here are stark reminders

of how pure childhood innocence used to be

but came those devils with arrogant quivers

to pierce and color me red as red can be.

Do you hear them telling me

The world is not such a good place to be

That mom and dad pretend to love me

Siblings and friends change moods with time

That my love is soon going to be history?

Sarkar Raj

2008-06-18T06:05:00.001-07:00

The last movie I saw before the subject of this post was 'Sex and the City' a frivolous story of four girlfriends, four fashionistas in the fashionable New York City driving crazily through the bylanes of life - love, friendship, ambition and family. Frivolous because of the protagonist's and her pretty assistant's (Jennifer Hudson) obsession with labels heightened by Carrie's gift to Hudson of a pretty Louis Vuitton bag. I shouldn't speak further here, because I also suffer from a fetish for bags (beknownst to all close to me) and I was going green with envy. It was a fun movie, though panned by critics for not being as good as the televised series. I, however, beg to differ. To me, it was a fast paced 2 and a half hour finale to the finale of the last season of the show. The icing on the cake was a Rs 70 ticket, unbelievably priced, for the morning show at PVR Cinemas - a theater with the cushiest seats in lush purple. THAT was Paisa Vasool for me.

Now for Sarkar Raj. For some reason, I didn't go with any expectations. No, it did not stem from RGV's catastrophic RGV ke Aag version of the Sholay or burning his fingers with his other movies. Sarkar was a brilliant movie according to my standards - excellent screenplay that also left most dialogues in to be spoken with intense eye expressions and pregnant silences interspersed regularly throughout the movie. The drums uplifting the chant of 'Govinda Govinda' in the background score especially during Shankar Nagre's escape from an attempted assassination or his supervision of Rashid's cold-blooded murder left me gasping in awe. That was RGV at his best. I haven't seen Shiva (Nagarjuna version) at all and I haven't seen Satya completely. I am told that they are probably the best he has offered the cinema world. Sarkar was close to his best.

So I went today morning for a 11 am show at IMAX Wadala to watch Sarkar Raj with my friend Amol. Having already read the plot (I did not anticipate watching the movie) I was aware of the most important turn the movie would take (or so I thought). Amol threatened to reveal the plot and in turn, I blurted out what I knew already in an effort to thwart his attack - turned out he actually was bluffing and I had ruined the thriller for him. :) No, this is not something I do usually, revealing the plot of the movie to spoil it for others is just not my style. So Mole, this is a very public apology for spoiling half the show for you.

So the movie starts with two bungling buffoonish politicians trying to bump off Shankar Nagre (Abhishek Bachhan) who has now officially taken over the mantle of Sarkar Raj and Sarkar himself (Amitabh Bachhan) is reduced to being a mere spectator of the daily ongoings. Vishnu's widow and son live in Nagpur while Avantika (Tanisha) is happily married to Shankar. The irrepressible Chander and a contrastingly reticent Bala form the close coterie around Shankar. A new Nagre, new cronies and new enemies.

As much as RGV denies it, the obvious reference to the disastrous Enron sponsored Dabhol Power Project headed by Rebecca Mark meets Michael Corleone / Uddhav Thackeray cannot be missed. So Aishwarya Rai Bachhan in the role of the ruthlessly ambitious Anita Rajan comes to Sarkar with a proposal of setting up a Rs 200,000 crore (correct me if I quote the wrong figure) power plant in Maharashtra that in its wake would displace 5 villages and a populace of 40,000 people. I was pleasantly surprised that RGV did not bring in environmentalists and a Medha Patkar mimic into the picture. But as it is, the Chief Minister is a mere puppet whose strings are pulled by Sarkar and thereby, any policy decision must be reviewed and passed by Sarkar before the democratic Government can execute it. I could not help but smirk and attest to a line about Nagre - "neta ke bhes mein goonda hai".

So the film takes us through the rigmarole of how Anita Rajan with the help of Hassan Qazi (Govind Namdeo - brilliant as always) takes Shankar Nagre into confidence and manages to seek Sarkar's approval. But the roadblock here would have to gain clearance by Sarkar's political mentor Raosaheb (Dilip Prabhavalkar - one of our most versatile actors - in the screen space he shared with AB, he held his own confidently) and his hot-blooded grandson Shankar Somji (Rajesh Shringarpure in a garb extremely resemblant of Raj Thackeray).

The rest of the story for most part is about how the Shankar tries to gain the confidence of the villagers and convinces them about the power plant while Somji goes about ruining Nagre's dream. Until, that is, Shankar's pregnant wife is blown up by a car bomb just yards away from he was standing. This leads to Sarkar suffering a heart attack, (or as a medico, should I say acute myocardial infarction), Shankar's severing ties with Chander for failing to look into the breach of security and finally an abduction of Somji. There is again an attack on the "soch" or the ideology that the Nagre family preaches and they're left to defend themselves against mounting accusations.

Abhishek is absent for the last 15 minutes of the movie that focusses entirely on AB and Aishwarya. Sarkar is back in action here avenging the death of his closed ones and closing-in on the one person who killed the ones he loved. He finds his family drawn into a web of lies, betrayal, mistrust, estrangement, unrequited loyalty and most of all raw ruthless ambition. The last 10 minutes is a dialogue (rather more of a monologue) where Sarkar explains the ground reality of the precarious situation to a stunned and visibly shaken Anita Rajan.

So what did I think of the movie? Well for starters, Amitabh Bachhan is the weak link for most part until he comes into his own in the last part of the movie. But he excels even in this role. The vulnerability in his face cannot be missed and the myasthenia gravis affected drooping eyelids convey the suffering of a father missing his dead devious son. What is it about AB that makes him a better actor with every movie of his? I am not an AB Bhakt but I think he really shone in this role.

Abhishek left much to be desired. With an extra buccal pad of fat, he was hardly a patch on the earlier gaunt version of Shankar Nagre. Wooden expressions... he could have digressed from the stern frowning face to convey the seriousness of a Don living in continuous fear of assassination. But most of all, it was obvious that he has miles to go before he can achieve the stature that his father has achieved - he could hardly retain screen presence when sharing the frame with the older AB. Abhishek was far more impressive in the earlier Sarkar although he had a much better author-backed hard-hitting role in this movie.

Aishwarya seems to give her best shot when shooting with her marital family. However the catwalking was a lil difficult to stomach for the role of a cold blooded business tycoon. However the tycoon soon mellows to the ideology of the Sarkar and begins to view life differently after heart-to-heart discussions with Shankar. Her portrayal of the fragile Anita in the latter part of the movie was good especially her breakdown after Shankar gets shot, but I think the end depicting her as the new face of Sarkar didn't go down well with me - I thought it was hideous.

What I liked - the cinematography with muted shades and unique angles for the important scenes in the movie. (But even excess dependence on sepia tones was overdone). What kept me rivetted to the movie was the undercurrent theme of the nexus of geo-socio-politics, deceptive rural ignominy and individual upmanship that proved to be the undoing of all involved. I liked the fact that Sarkar himself was back in his throne dictating orders and discovering the gross betrayal of his trust. I liked the scene of Sarkar's final confrontation with Raosaheb and his anointing of the new successor to Shankar. (The scene preceding this was undoubtedly the most engrossing one in the whole reel)

Unfortunately for me, the film failed to keep me glued to its plot for the entire 2 and a half hours. I was shuffling in my seat (which was really comfortable) and looking around distractedly for most part of the movie until the final climax. The direction and story wavered in speed - where Sarkar was fast paced and racy, Sarkar Raj took too long to establish the roots of its plot. I probably would recommend a DVD viewing or a TV viewing. It's probably going to take a lil longer for RGV to rediscover his lost magic. I hope he finds it before he starts to film the purported third movie in the Sarkar trilogy. I will wait for it.

Footnote: For a more revealing post about the actual plot of the movie, you can read Abinav's post in his blog E-Talk. :)

Dotted bricks

2008-06-17T00:35:00.000-07:00

"The brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out; the brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. The brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough. They are there to stop the other people!" - from The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch, Professor of Computer Science, Human Computer Interaction and Design at Carnegic Mellon University on September 18, 2007.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo

"Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life." - Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple Computer and of Pixar Animation Studios, delivered on June 12, 2005 while addressing graduating students of Stanford University.

"Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." - From Steve Jobs' same speech but originally from Stewart Brand's final issue of The Whole Earth Catalog.

http://dreamtopia.blogspot.com/

Bai

2008-06-16T23:04:00.001-07:00

I don't have a hero. There is no one person in the world who singularly inspires me to reach for greater heights. That probably pretty much rules out my already-remote chances of winning a beauty pageant. I respect Mother Teresa but not convincingly enough for the judges to crown me Miss Beauty with Brains.

I have heroes. Many of them. Some of them famous, some of them averse to fame, some of them just common people. I look for inspiration in those around me and in those who're around those around me. I find inspiration in mundane chores (like I realized about finding the right balance while cooking), polite small talk that sometimes ventures out of the fence of discussing the unpredictability of the weather, in the old woman who until recently came home everyday irrespective of scorching, biting cold or stormy weather for 21 years to keep our house clean, was a second hand to my mom and who I fondly call 'Bai' while looking up to her as my surrogate paternal grandmother.

An extremely capable, and agile multi-tasker, my Bai (her real name is Laxmi) is the epitome of steadfastness or obstinacy depending on the way you look at it. She supports my mother blindly while looking disapprovingly at my father's rebukes of my mom (even if he is justified). It's a running joke in the family as to how she is my father's second mother-in-law when she reports his mischief to my mom and asks for the culprit rhetorically when my dad messes up with the grocery lists. Despite being dependent on her children, she has saved a lot of self-respect for herself - that makes her support her daugher-in-law against her wayward son and that alienates her from her close ones who try to reason out and criticize her for her own good. But I love her for her high self-esteem. Of very diminutive build, she walks with her head held high. Bai pampers me as if I were her own grandchild, she knows what I like and what I dislike more than my dad does - like knowing how much froth I like over my coffee and how I like my lunch plate to be.

Her husband left her for another woman, fathered children with her too and never really returned. But Bai (albeit never forgiving him) single handedly took family matters in her hand and supported her daughters and their families too. (It's a different story that it was usually my family supporting them, but she atleast had the courage and humility to ask for help without ever feeling inferior about it).

That's what she taught me - I realize this after so many years - to take help when you really need it and not feel small about it. I didn't use this lesson when I should have, but henceforth I will.

She has taught me what dignity of labour actually means.

Bai was my mother's right hand. Our house would run like clockwork when she was around and the days she didn't show up, it would be utter pandemonium in the mornings. I know in saying this, I speak for most of our pampered Indian households who're so used to the benefits of gross economic disparity. Looking back, I remember my mother often dreaded the day when Bai would retire. Bai was already a grandmother when she joined our household in 1986. Over the past few years, her own health was failing her. She gave up on many of her other jobs and stuck to our home eventually. But age has its own way of creeping up and enforcing rest. So repeated attacks of arthritides prompted mom to offer bai long-delayed VRS with assured monthly pension and other benefits. She was a great-grandmother when she retired.

We wondered how we would manage without her, though Bai had long arranged for her daughter and grand-daughter to take over; yet, it would never be the same as it was with her and it really isn't. The old has given way to the new.

And what did I learn - No one is indispensable. No one at all.

Kitchen Cuttings

2008-06-16T00:56:00.000-07:00

Since last week, I've resumed my tryst with the culinary arts.

I am, have and will always be a food fanatic. A complete foodie at heart, I love all kinds of cuisines that dish out vegetarian plates and consume all my senses alike. My dad is a connoisseur of food, my mom is an excellent cook and my sister R - a combination of both and therefore my favorite chef. We have a 8 yr difference in our ages and she was pretty much a surrogate mom for me. (scolding me more than my mom ever did... but pampering me just as much :) ) I think R started experimenting in the kitchen after she finished school and entered junior college that gave her ample time to spend mastering the splendid and lifesaving art of cooking. Moreover, it was around this time that we experience a Cable TV invasion into our lives and on Sunday 12:00 noons we succumbed to the charms of the ever-smiling Sanjeev Kapoor. Scribbling notes in her book, my sister would pay close attention to his instructions and revise it with a recap of the recipe.

Undaunted by the levels of difficulty of his recipes, R set about to treat our taste buds to exotic and exotically-prepared simple dishes. Of course, when she decided to venture on her own, I was a ready guinea pig - Always! One of my all time favorites is the Masala Papad that she used to make - I remember being in awe of her just because of that dish which consists of garnishing fried papad with tomatoes, onions, red chilli powder, salt and a whole lot of coriander. Though now I realize that it is so simple to make, yet I relish the memories of her cooking even today.

So my point being, with R and my mom around treating me to yummy food all the time, I never really had to set foot into the kitchen. And to make things worse, medical school hardly gave me time to breathe. So till I was 24, I had never cooked - I don't consider making Maggi, coffee and toasting bread as cooking.

Finally when it was time to leave home, I realized that I couldn't survive without good food. So I donned my kitchen apron and entered the kitchen amidst much fanfare (with my mom and dad excitedly watching over my initial attempts). I think I first learnt to keep rice in the cooker, then make tea, make dal and finally bhindi (okra/lady's fingers) and beans (something that I am not to fond of, but since it was really simple it became one of my favorites). Spurred by the success stories, I decided to attempt more complex procedures like making "sheera" and a yummy rice dish called Baoli Handi.

But things happened over the last one year that broke my momentum in the cooking spree. So now, after exactly a year, I entered the kitchen again - this time with more enthusiasm and energy than before. I started with the seemingly ostentatious but absolutely simple "Baoli Handi". It's a Sanjeev Kapoor recipe that my mom recommended last year - combines rice, moong dal (split green gram), soya chunks and a whole lot of vegetables. It is extremely nutritious (when you cook rice with dal in the same dish - it completes the amino acid profile of the dal), spares the need for preparing a side-dish (can easily have it with simple plain dahi) and most of all makes for a sumptuous meal. Maybe the next time I make it, I'll post the recipe along with a picture of the dish (inspired by my sister).

Needless to say, the dish was a hit with everyone at home! Universal unanimous affirmative praise - including my patti (grandmom) who prefers sattvic food - without potatoes, onion and garlic. This was nearly sattvic - it did have lots of aloo (potato) in it.

Encouraged by this reaction, I decided to don the chef's invisible cap and took over the reins of my mother's kitchen. I've been cooking both meals for the last 4 days now and I can proudly say that I'm lovin it! I think I've discovered a new hobby in cooking. I love to cut and chop vegetables, I love the spluttering and crackling of mustard and jeera (cumin seeds), I love to sprinkle red chilli powder and yellow turmeric to give it rich colour, I love the aroma imparted by the addition of dhania-jeera powder and the tangy taste of aamchur powder and finally I absolutely love the green garnish of a sprig of coriander leaves.

I always resisted kitchen chores, especially the actual task of standing in the sauna-like kitchen and stirring the dal to completion. Subconsciously, I also think, I was scared of not living up to the high standards set my mom and sis. And peeking even deeper into the subconscious, I mistook 'refusing to cook' as a sign of female emancipation! (I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think I have to admit it - at the same time, I also feel that cooking is a science that both men and women should learn for their own good).

Today, I am grateful to myself that I decided to take the ladle and spoon in my hand and learn to create edible magic from a few raw foods. I honestly feel like a magician when I finish cooking and my dad comes with a bear hug and wishes wistfully that he could dress me up in diamonds. (Of course, my dad is known to exaggerate when it especially comes to his younger daughter; I single myself out because my sister is absolutely brilliant when it comes to serving us a meal fit for kings on a steel platter).

Cooking is not just about enabling us to survive. It indulges the senses, teaches us proportions and gives us an important life lesson - to learn to strike the right balance in life so that we can enjoy every morsel and every minute with equal relish.

Let's build our own cave

2008-05-28T01:14:00.001-07:00

Let’s build our own cave

A cozy corner that only you and I can find

Beyond the river

Over the hillside

The sun shining brightly behind us

Our cave dark and nightly, shining by the twilight

A place that can find us

A place that only we can find.

Let’s build our own cave

We can carve our own niche

Do a decision analysis of the economics

Save lives, win our races

Have our tryst with destinies

But at the end of the long wry day

We need to find our way

Back to our little corner shining by the twilight

A place that can find us

A place that only we can find.

Let’s build our own cave

The waters of the river shine silver in the moonlight

I drive past by and wonder what came upon us tonight

That we are so worn out, weary and tired

From this long journey that they call life

Can we not seek refuge from this daily battle?

Can we not spend quiet moments whispering sweet nothings

Can we not retire to our cozy corner, shining in the twilight?

A place that can find us

A place that only we can find

Let’s build our own cave.

Words for my song

2008-05-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

I sat down to write the words
of the song I wrote
I have created a melody
that I think is lilting
from the strains of the soulful iktara
A single stringed instrument
That creates a holy aura
in the air around it.
That has its listeners swaying
and losing themselves in its mystic

I tried to put down words
It's a puzzle of words
that I am trying to put straight
Maybe they are an anagram
From where I'll get the
actual lyrics for the tune that
I've been humming and strumming
and playing in my heart and mind
All day, all night,
For the last one week.

And then, I was possessed by
a thought that grew louder
than the conductor's orchestrated tune
Does my song need words
to truly describe its beauty
to convey its meaning
Sometimes, don't our wordless expressions
speak louder than a collection of alphabets
Sometimes, doesn't the silence at the other end of the phone
convey everything that the voice doesn't?

Do you know how it is
to be possessed by something
so strong and powerful
That rules your daily routine
that is louder than your thoughts
Have you ever had
your own song, loud and clear
in your mind,
that takes up more space than
the incessant rush of your thoughts.

It feels like I will drown in the
high notes of my song
and will be washed away ashore
by the low tides of this melody
The waves of the octave will
take me on the most beautiful
journey ever
Maybe I should stop looking for words
and just float in the pristine beauty of an unworded, shrill
music of my life.

The Vulture and her Angels

2008-05-20T23:55:00.000-07:00

The skies are grey, mist falling from the cloud

People waiting at the bus stop making it a crowd

Atop the fire temple, vultures waited for their prey

And across the city, in a church, the devout came to pray

But who knew that there were vultures waiting at the bus stop

And who were just waiting for their luck to come out on tops

There stood she, silently, misty eyed in the fog

Hoping that the bus ride wouldn’t be people-clogged

They were watching her, and she could feel the heat of their gaze

As hot as it was the scorching sun ablaze

She tried to ignore the stare

And returned it with an icy cold glare

She sat in her seat and one of them sat next to her

The other seated right behind her

The warm glow emanating from their faces

But she was thinking of bigotry of races

The journey seemed long drawn

It seemed like her destination wouldn’t come before dawn

She shuffled in her seat, they remained unmoved

Because they knew he was there, ready to make his move

The girl with the small eyes and jet black hair

Began to feel a bit of scare

Though what she did not realize

That they were her guardian angels, kind and wise

The vulture sat at a distance hoping

The two black men would soon be leaving.

He saw a scornful look staring him in the eye

Telling him that it was time for a goodbye

Their look pierced the vulture

Their warmth made cozy the girl of another culture

That there was hope began to dawn on her

From the clutches she would be free forever

At the last stop she got up

The black men followed her

The vulture was paralyzed

That the men were her angels, he realized

In a trot she began to move

But suddenly she no longer feared fear

Finally the truth dawned on her

But they had disappeared into the thin air.

My first story

2008-05-07T09:25:00.000-07:00

It was in the middle of May, an hour before full noon. The peltophorums in their yellow blossoms shining even more brightly in the gaze of the hot sun. The road was deserted by birds, animals and humans alike. Even plants had abandoned the arid pebbled soil. Life was baked in the heat, the rivers had run their tears dry. But on that sole tree, the yellow buds stood smiling like the eyes of a lone ranger.

The tree was not the only living thing on the dusty road. Standing in the shade of the tree was a man. A man in a checked shirt with half sleeves buttoned upto the neck, khaki pants and strapped 'sandals' and an old steel HMT watch on his wrist. His thick-rimmed spectacles registered a scholastic yet street-smart look on his face - one that had nothing striking about it and would easily merge in the sea of people unobtrusively. The average middle-class Indian male can't really boast of tallness and he was loyal to this background. Neither portly nor thin, neither rich nor poor, neither handsome nor ugly, he was just average - the balance that nature struck against which comparisons could be made. He was waiting for someone. He had nothing in his hand. But the look on his face seemed like he had possessed something invaluable. His patience was wearing out.

The tall man walked hurriedly. A pace in stark contrast to the slow lazy rural life of the small village or a large hamlet, whatever you may call it. He was a tall wiry man who looked like he could boast of aristocratic birth. But aristocrats never passed this way, unless they were driving towards their farmhouses.

The day still belonged to the owner of the kirana and the ration shop. Time was rationed. Work only allowed between 9:00 am - 5:00 pm and banks would close at 12:00 noon. Food was rationed. Telephones, electricity, cars, televisions, passport sized photographs were rationed. Money was rationed. Socialism and capitalism were also rationed in the name of a 'mixed economic policy', a connotation only understood by the connoisseurs who rationed the name. India had just crossed the threshold of a free market. Manmohan Singh had just opened the doors to a new economic future and the buzz was loud and expectant. The new waters however would take a long time to percolate to rural India.

An old woman, disfigured by her hump, walked past them, balancing herself on her stick. A few minutes later, a much younger woman belonging to the tribes that lived in the outskirts of the village passed them. The tall man stared at her for a moment and walked on. He recognized her from her adornments, her tattoos, her worn out garment that wrapped her lower body and sashayed over her breasts onto her left shoulder and finally the raw clay pots hanging on her waist and over her head filled with water drawn from the shallow well outside the village. Her origins disallowed her from entering the village temple, drawing water from the village well, learning at the village school, living in the village, marrying a village local, owning brass pots and distancing her from any liberty that the villager was allowed. She wouldn't be older than sixteen, he surmised. Married with one child, he thought grimly. Drunk husband, listless mother-in-law, aloof parents, malnourished child. Just one look at her bony structure covered by skin and he knew her history, present and fate. He walked on.

The local train had left him on the village platform twenty minutes ago. After walking on the tarred road for five minutes, he took a turn to the right on this path that was but a mere excuse for a road. It would take another ten minutes for him to reach his destination, but he didn't mind. On days that he was lucky, a truck going towards the village to collect grains or the farmer's bullock cart returning from the town market would offer him a ride. Today wasn't one of those days, yet he didn't mind. He had been coming here for two months short of nine years now. A journey he detested initially but one that grew on him since. He was a man on a mission.

A few yards past the turn, he met Manoj Sutar, the shorter unobtrusive man and the owner of the only telephone booth in the village. A carpenter by genetics and geopolitics, Manoj ran away from home after failing his SSC for the third time and came back eight years later from Pune claiming to have made money as a middleman in the farmer's market. With the government issuing licenses for telephones more freely now, he bribed his way and cut through the red tape and brought the village's first telephone home. But times had changed since he came. The tall man had brought with him slow surreptitious but definite winds of change. Manoj instantly understood what the stranger was doing and he decided to become his right hand. The tall man was a leftie.

Ten years ago, Ranjeet was a different man. Born to a family of rich money-lenders who moved from their ancestral village to become richer as successful jewellers in erstwhile Bombay forty years ago, his childhood and adolescence were spent in the innocent ignorance of life outside fortress of his home. Fussed over by servants, pampered by his folks, his life seemed like one that dreams were made of. The joint household chattered in many voices, old and young. The maharaj of the kitchen was kept busy all day long supervising the kitchen staff catering to the minutest likes and dislikes of all the 22 members of the 4 generations of the family. The aromas of food cooked in rich desi ghee from the kitchen wafted at regular intervals throughout the huge checkered-floored hall that often hosted a banquet for family and friends.

Though the mansion was beautiful from the outside, bedecked in white walls with green plaques of window frames, the insides were a gaudy display of the moneyed history of the family. The walls were an off-white that off-set the bright colors on display. From the large fountain mounted on a white marble base in the lawn to the fushcia pink velvet cushions to the leonine large crystal-studded chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling, the interior designer had left no stone unturned in bringing the richest fabrics, the rarest sandalwood sculptures, the long oblong wooden rosewood table and other intricately carved rosewood furniture to pay obeisance to the owner's wealth. In the marbled banquet hall, long maroon velvet curtains tied in pastel knotted straps hung from the tall walls over the french-styled windows that opened itself into the large lush green manicured lawn and let in a cool breeze through the day.

Behind the large banquet hall, was a smaller room furnished with exquisite rugs from Afghanistan and Persia gifted by Arab merchants as a token for the beautiful jewels that pleased their wives on their return after months. The room was triangular and lined by diwans adorned with cushions and it was here that the family members gathered for an idle chat, a discussion, an argument or an announcement. It was in this room that marriages were fixed, business deals were clinched, bureaucrats loosened their red tapes, born babies were named and dead bodies were paid their last respects and taken away for their funeral.

The first floor belonged to the eldest and youngest members. The youngest being Ranjeet, his younger brother and sister and five cousins while the oldest being his great-grandparents who had originally left the village and come to the city forty years ago. In less than fifteen years, Ranjeet's great-grandfather, an astute merchant, had trebled his fortune and moved with his family into this sprawling mansion that was earlier owned by the Maharaj of Chumbhad. In the wake of the amalgamation of the princely states with the nation, the king had decided to retain this humble bungalow along with his palace in Rajasthan. But in a few years, with just a mere modest stately income, in a decision that placed pragmatism over pride, he decided to part with the city home and offered it to Ranjeet's great-grandfather at a price far lower than market expectations. Not one to miss out on a great opportunity, the old man saw profit in this barter and borrowed loans to make up for the full purchase.

When he moved into the two storeyed mansion with his parents, wife, three sons, two daughters, Ranjeet's great-grandfather initially planned on selling the house in ten years and buying plush apartments throughout the city as investments for his children. But as the years went by, the goddess of wealth was pleased with his devotion and ensured a steady flow of currency into the household. Indian women have always been taken up by the shimmer of the yellow metal; but the old man brought in highly skilled workers from the far-off villages and set up a workshop that churned out the most beautifully carved ornaments and accurately cut diamonds and rubies and sapphires and all other gemstones. Soon the entrepreneur set out for foreign lands in search of new buyers and returned each time with new ideas, new designs, new partners, new ventures and of course new customers.

The second floor with 5 bedrooms was meant for each of the entrepreneur's children. The third floor was built as an addition just before Ranjeet's parents were to get married. They shared this floor with Ranjeet's two uncles and their wives. But with both the uncles moving abroad to take care of the family's flourishing overseas business and his parents moving into his great-grandparents' room after their deaths, the top floor was exclusively gifted to Ranjeet.

The car stereos blared Material Girl. The walls set ablaze with posters of semi-nude models torn from stealthily stolen issues of the "phoren" magazines. The bike was a Yamaha waiting to for its godmother to turn it into a Harley. The bedroom was a suite with an in-built gym, a round bed surrounded by sheer lacy veneers, a color television, an air-conditioner, two telephones one of which was an intercom and a refrigerator stacked with non-alcoholic drinks.

He lived a life distinct from that of his family. Where they were the devout religious Hindu businessmen who worshipped Lakshmi in the early hours of the morning before they set out for the day, he would return just a few hours before the morning puja after a night of frenzied clubbing, biking and racing down the Queen's necklace with his adrenaline-fueled friends. His mornings would begun after the dabbawalas would return the lunch tiffin boxes from the jewellery store. Agnostic, he rebelled against the rituals observed by the elder generations and instead would begin his day pumping iron in the gym that he insisted on being built next to his room. He tried unsuccessfully to maintain his macho image by growing his hair - an attempt chopped off by a long tirade by his father accompanied by a threat to disown him. After a quick lunch, and the mandatory fussing over his mother and hello to his grandparents (who obviously shook their heads each time he left), he would race on his Yamaha to meet his friends - a bratpack. College was a place he'd visit on days he couldn't sleep or just to fulfill the formality of taking the necessary exams to pass. He took to the Sciences a sign of rebellion against the family tradition that was steeped in commerce. He shifted to the Arts, inspired by the intellectual freedom they offered, but soon realized that his aptitude lay elsewhere. His only problem was - he couldn't figure where elsewhere was.

The only display of loyalty towards his family traditions was his reluctance to succumb to alcohol and tobacco. He was a teetotaller - a sign of rebellion against his peers. He belonged nowhere. He was isolated even in a crowd. He was a loner.

Ranjeet wasn't exactly oblivious to the disparity that existed in his world. As a child he often wondered why the househelp and the washerwoman's children would busy themselved in cleaning the crevices carved in wood while he would be pushed off to pursue higher learning. His great-grandfather would often narrate stories and anecdotes from his life in the village and it was with this man that Ranjeet forged a very close bond. Sitting on his lap, the child would sternly question his grandfather why he never went back to the village and upgraded the school set under the shade of the banyan tree. Why, when he let his daughters, granddaughters and great-granddaughters study, didn't he wield his power in the village to insist that all girls should go to school as well. (In his playful mind though, Ranjeet thought of it why should only boys be made to go through the torture of attending school). When he could provide luscious aamras squeezed out from the pulpiest of the costly haapus mangoes all through summer for the immediate as well as the extended family, why couldn't he build a second well for the toilet-cleaners and washermen folk? When he donated thousands towards charity, why didn't he scold the temple priest for being partisan towards some and thereby take away his monthly allowance?

Perhaps this dichotomy disillusioned the young lad. It was probably the reason why he shunned what his elders pursued. The hearty consumption of elaborate feasts during parties by his family and friends contrasted starkly against the leftovers left for the kitchen folk. The community's ahimsa module of living and thereby contempt for foods obtained by killing animals was falsified by their ventures into leather goods. He had inherited the old entrepreneur's astute eye for detail and this made him go against his own blood. As he grew older, Ranjeet became more aware of the economic and social stratification of his society, but instead of studying ways of dealing with it, he chose to turn a blind eye and live a life of his own ideals and rules. That is, until he met Shrikant...... and Anjali.

"Allas klaar?" Ranjeet asked Manoj with a smile, his countenance betraying the palpitations his heart tossed rapidly. With a wide grin befitting the urchin who had managed a grab at a wedding feast, Manoj dabbed his eyes and embraced the taller man in a bear-hug, "Saheb, thank you." A yellow bud fell on Ranjeet's crew-cut.

Shrikant was the life of the party. Throughout his life. Jocund, garrulous bordering on irreverent at times, he was the lad the other boys wanted to be or atleast be with, the guy who crushed girls by his demeanor, the object of affection of the blushing lassies around. The handsome boy dressed in khadi kurtas over his blue denims was an ace debater, excelled in extempore was a sportstar and was superb in every effort except his brush with art. But that didn't stop him from spelling out his mind in graffiti, painting the town red with his girlfriend or crafting new ideas for his team.

His father was a doctor, Dr Manohar Kulkarni, a physician who left a budding practice to embrace a new wave of communism - that took him to remote villages. Impassioned by his ideology, he left his wife and two children to the mercy of his in-laws and set off on a journey that would make him a nomad. Two years later, a letter arrived at their doorstep informing them of his death due to delayed treatment for malaria. Six months later, his inconsolable best friend told them he had been lynched by a mob that misunderstood his physical examination of a young woman. Another year later, a fellow communist who now renounced the ideology claimed that he had been killed by the police. Five years later, someone else re-opened old wounds by stating that the doctor was very much alive and was now a Naxal leader. No one knew the truth. No one wanted to know the truth anymore.

Shrikant's mother, Ahilya was a rebel. In a family that got their daughters married when they turned sixteen, she put her foot down and insisted that she be allowed to complete her graduation. Much to her mother's chagrin, Ahilya's father saw sense in her argument and agreed to her demand on the condition that she would get married immediately after her graduation to a boy of their choice. She went to the best college in Indore, studied English Literature and passed with honors. In her final year, during a trip to Bombay, she tripped down a long flight of stairs and landed in the hospital to get her left leg plastered. The intern on-call was the jovial sorts and engaged her in conversation while he distracted the limb and plastered it in a cast. She came to know his name, that he was from Indore, was related to her family's physician and would be starting his practice once he passed. Something tugged at her heart and there was something about the her that made him unable to take his eyes off her. Before long, the family physician played the apparent match-maker and Shrikant was born a year later.

The initial years were sheer bliss. Lust soon was accompanied by a sweet love that seemed like it would sustain a long time of togetherness. But seven years into their wedding, the seven-year itch had bitten their happy marriage. Ahilya was distraught when her husband abandoned her and children. She had pleaded with him to take them along with him or atleast just her, but he refused the company. He begged her to stay back in the city and ensure a good education for the children from the savings he had kept. He was adamant in leaving but was insistent on them staying back. "How am I to take care of the children without you?" He said without a trace of emotion, "Your father didn't educate you for you to ask this question. You aren't illiterate. You aren't a village girl. You have never been poor and if you're sensible and put your talents to use, you won't be poor in future too. Now if you don't stop me, you will be doing yourself and me a great favor."

Ahilya could have never foreseen this day. The ground beneath her feet melted into quicksand and she had a sinking feeling that she would be able to stay afloat only with her efforts. The children were sleeping soundly unaware of the tragedy that had struck their family. In the wee hours of the dawn, Manohar left carrying along a single suitcase filled with a couple of clothes, his stethoscope, torch, hammer and a family photograph taken in happier times. Ahilya sat on the sofa in shock, she didn't hear her children's voices when they woke up and came to senses only two days later in the hospital where she was being treated for acute psychological trauma.

But true to her name, Ahilya turned herself into stone. She resolved not to let the absence of their father affect their children and begun taking up small jobs here and there. It was a chance encounter with an old school teacher that led her back to her alma mater, this time as the English teacher for the higher classes. In no time, she endeared herself to teachers and students alike and ten years later she became the youngest woman to head the school. Rumors of Manohar's appearance and disappearance floated around, but she decided not to believe any of them and consider him alive until proven otherwise. Her love for him had only increased and she longed to catch a glimpse of that charming doctor who stole her heart years ago. Her love for him ensured that the children would always love their missing father who was berated at every chance by both grandmothers. She earned enough to keep her children's dreams alive and keep the family entertained. Manohar's words still stung her, but she could now sense his confidence in his wife that she would manage well. She understood him better now. She was more assured of his love for her now, more than ever.

Manohar's charismatic persona had rubbed on Shrikant. Exuberant by nature, the son was the leader among the children, the arbiter in their childish fights, the brain behind their pranks, the voice behind their protests. No matter how many times he angered the neighbors with his playfulness, his impish grin mouthing white lies would save the day for him. And when that failed to do the trick, his mother's goodness assured the victims that the culprit would be duly punished - of course, to this day, Ahilya has never laid a finger on her children. An ace in everything he took up, Shrikant showed his father's brilliance throughout his schooling and everyone anticipated that he would continue with his father's healing touch. Though he despised his father's decision to leave them, Shrikant did not let that cloud his judgment of the man who was his father and before long, he was doing his internship at the same hospital where twenty four years ago his parents first met.

During the time he studied medicine at the Government Hospital, Shrikant had come across patients from the lowest strata of society, living in far-flung villages that were cut-off from modernization. He began to understand the meaning of abandonment when he met the lepers disfigured by their illness but disheartened by their families. His own pain lessened and he found solace in listening to the histories of the illnesses that struck like calamities in impoverished families. He began to see how everything he read in the books did not translate into reality. He began to read between the lines and see what was written in invisible ink. The tuberculosis bacillus did not just eat into the lungs, but ate into the livelihood of the family. Pot bellied children did not know how to eat because they never had enough to know that. The character of a person's stool revealed a lot about him - if loose, it was probably infection that came from eating the roadside vada pav, and if the stool was hard, it probably was because of gorging on too many buttered foods from high-end hotels.

His internship took him for two months to Sukhegaon, two hours drive north to Bombay on the road to Nashik. These two months were the turning point in his life. They brought him closer to his father than he would have ever been. He began to see his father in a new light. On the very first day of his posting, a woman died because of severe bleeding that refused to stop after her child was born. In the agony of his mother's death, the tiny child cried to his own death. None of the management measures that he had studied came to his rescue. The primary health centre was exhausted of its sterilized gauze even before the child was born. Shrikant kept his fist in the woman's vagina and pushed it into her womb in an effort to stem the continuous gush. There were no catheters that he could fill and insert into her uterus, neither were there any medications he could inject to ebb the flow. Shrikant felt his own eyes burn with tears as he saw life slipping away and taking life away with it too.

The center was headed was a senior doctor who was always busy in some district level health care meeting leaving Shrikant and his fellow Atul to take charge. In the absence of doctors, something that happened alarmingly at regular intervals, it was manned by three nurses who attended the clinic in eight-hourly rotations, a pharmacist and two men who were there as health workers. The young doctors from the city hospital were posted at the village twice a year for two months. However, in most complicated cases, these freshly graduated doctors were inept in handling them and that further resulted in more complications that needed urgent referrals. There was a dilapidated jeep provided to the center to transport patients to the nearest hospital, but countless occasions, the patient lost his gear before the jeep could rev up its engine. The center had gained infamy and a notorious reputation for being a death house and the villagers preferred the vaid's herbs and fakir's incantations to the science of modern medicine.

The nurses were the surrogate doctors, surrogate mid-wives, surrogate counselors and surrogate mothers to the young doctors posted there. The health workers came and went at times as pleased them under the pretext of doing field work. The pharmacist was a pathological specimen by himself. The center received medications thrice a year and after pocketing essential medicines for his family and for those in connivance with him, the stocks would last less than a month. So in the remaining months, the pharmacist would resort to his own tantrums. The doctor, the real or surrogate, would issue a prescription to the patient and the pharmacist would turn a blind eye in defiance and dispense medicine according to what he deemed fit. When questioned by the doctors, he would cheekily reply, "Saheb this will keep a steady inflow of patients into the center. We need to maintain a minimum number in the register for the records."

The senior doctor was a missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle. Although he was supposed to be the guide to the younger doctors and supervise them in the physical examinations of the patients and prescriptions of medicines and procedures, he was a rarity at the center. While he was supposed to stay at the center and be available to the patients at all hours, he preferred the comforts of home that was an hour away by his rusty Bajaj scooter. Two-day meetings with the zonal head medical officer every week to report the cases of infectious diseases, psychiatric illnesses in another week, births and immunizations in the third week and deaths in the fourth week and two more days in each week given to district level meetings kept him away from the center for half the month. A day every week was devoted to supervision of the anganwadi workers and this left Saturdays for the center. But being the dedicated government servant, he would take a half day off work to devote to his home ministry. Sunday obviously meant he was not to be disturbed.

Shrikant began to understand why his father decided to give up a life of luxuries and adopt a new, rustic, rougher but more fulfiling lifestyle. He was beginning to feel motivation stirring in him to venture out and 'do something'. But what this something, he would have to figure out. Soon.

"Saheb, what if someone opposes our plan?" a line of worry crossed Manoj's brow. Ranjeet looked straight ahead, "Anjali has arranged for that to be taken care of".

Journals, Reviews and Stories

I am strong

In a better place

See this

An ode to thee

Under the rubble

through the ages

no moon day

Delayed gratification

skewed love distribution

Budding flower

seasons

Craniocaudoplegia

Photography

TV journalism in India

...

Get Going

no more sap

Untitled

the first journey

Thanks

Come back NOW.

miss you, my dear friend.

vishnu sahasranamam

The touch

miss you, my dear friend.

a plea to the angry river

72 months ago

Six Months

Recommended

Religious power baits.

5 months

mindstats

Lifegiver

Vellai Pookkal

kites

For Anita and Meera

Unsettling

Adventures of the Haripa girls - 1

Accused!

Welcoming a reason to smile!

Dear Daddy

a heavy heart

Kolhapuri chappals... and a quiet Bandra

2 weeks later...

What if ..... by Kate Winslet

Taj

ANSWER

Never alone

Friends

...

Stranger

Blind Vision

Sex and the City: The movie original soundtrack

Change

Impacted Wisdom - II

Unwise wisdom

Genetic Habits

Back to the Grind

Birthday bumps

Happy B'day Haru!

Why I think I set out to become a doctor.

Sibling stories

Aap ki Kashish - Carnaticized

My second crush

Something in Nothing

As daft as they can get...

My favorite advertisements

Happy B'day Aryika

Remembering Boyzone and Backstreet Boys

Templates

Circus coming to town.

Confessions of two clumsy feet / knees - Part II

Confessions of two clumsy feet - Part I

Love in a Torn Land

Red as red can be

Sarkar Raj

Dotted bricks

Bai

Kitchen Cuttings