fragrance

2011-05-06T13:25:00.000-07:00

GLC!

It takes time to sink in that I was part of an institution that is almost half as old as a turtle! Certainly, the carefully preserved dust in the annex library and the fans that hold office at pleasure, compel you to believe that it is much older. It’s age remains a mystery for someone who’s been a student of it while it celebrated its 150 years for three years in a row! But that doesn’t take away the similarity that the Government Law College has with James Bond- both are names taken with reverence by those in the profession! Of course, for the layman, as Chintan discovered one day while he was hiring a cab, it is a “sarkari kaalej”! For us, it has and will remain, GLC, unless someone asks with a puzzled expression, “huh?” and we would unwillingly unmask the trendy name to reveal its association.

GLC is indeed, as all committee correspondences mention, a “distinguished institution with illustrious alumni”. Its non est campus, a fictitious gymkhana and the overflowing second floor notice board are but just a few of its distinguishing traits. Not to forget classrooms the size of a football stadium that are maintained untouched and in their erstwhile pristine condition by students religiously, barring exceptional circumstances like daswani, GP or pitha’s lecture. The form filling days are of course a fundamental change in circumstance when all hell breaks loose! The form enquires about details of your tenth standard even after you’ve got a BLS degree and just when you are reconciling with that fact you realize that the guy behind you has actually, er…notionally, been in your class for the past four years. Until the last academic year, when form filling days meant a 9-6 day, they were designed to instill patience and tactfulness- virtues that are the hallmark of a successful counsel. We now know the secret behind our alumni being so illustrious!

For someone who’d spent all her life pre-GLC in school, GLC was ironically, the college life! In keeping with its trend, it has a remarkably committe(e)d college life, for at least until the second year, and for those who refuse sanity, the whole of their life as a GLCite, one’s status is defined by the number and kind of committees they are a part of! Committees are self-proclaimed foundations of the GLC culture, the mascot that guided the life of most GLCites at least in their pre-law years of boredom. Typically, they are our TV9…seemingly sensational and exclusive until you realize that that’s balderdash! But in an institution that would’ve otherwise seen visiting students, committee’s have commendably done what the institution has, to my mind, utterly failed- to ensure that it has at least an iota of college life!

All said and done, life at GLC would remain incomplete if it were not for the excitement that MU provided. When I walked out after the banking paper, I promptly called my mom and declared that that was the last time I exited GLC as a student and then I quickly added, “hopefully…! One never knows with the MU”. Having been under the MU has had it’s own perils and advantages. For one, there will definitely be rumors of exams getting postponed and being a student, unless you are Nithya, the very thought of any postponement is great to begin with, although you’d wish it were not there once the exams begin. But then you have the ULC in land laws long after it’s been repealed and the redundant case laws in history of courts as part of our portion. The results of course are just that...the result, although ‘m yet to find, of what!

The note would remain inchoate if I don’t mention two things that I‘d always cherish GLC for, the mooting opportunities it offered and its library. I must admit ‘ve been lucky to have done moots with some of the best mooters GLC has and a huge thanks to all of them for having made each moot a memorable experience. The GLC library is perhaps the only place one can perhaps hang out! :P And I for one, have hung in there for quite a long time before exams...thanks to my patient study partner, sagar...whose calmness should be seen to be believed!

Thanks guys...mallika for being a lovely friend; prathamesh for being a nice bro; shreyas and dhvani for the lovely jessup experience; mandar for his il guidance; nithya and khush for the memorble stetson and life at glc and thereafter; mana for her unmistakable diplomacy and some really smart jokes; neo, aman, dhaval,shai, pulkit and adke for having made mag a fun experience, vikram and everybody else who's not been named for having been part of my GLC experience.

2011-03-01T02:42:00.001-08:00

Terms of Association

1. The initial implementation period proposed for the project is six to twelve months. The Cell reserves its rights to terminate the project on an earlier date if there is a violation of the terms contained herein or for any other reason tendered to in writing to _________. It is clarified that the termination shall be effective from the date of tendering it and is not subject to its acceptance by the office of the __________. Upon mutual agreement, the term may be extended and the relation between the Cell and ____shall be governed by the terms recorded herein or as varied by them on such later date.

2. The ____________shall be responsible for convening and/or organizing any workshops or any other citizen interface for resident associations, citizen groups or other entities whether organized or otherwise. The Cell shall be responsible for conducting such workshops or other citizen interface organized by the _________by means of suitable presentations specifically designed to cater to the needs and problems of the group and focus on the practical utility of Right to Information Act for the said group.

3. The __________shall be responsible for providing the ______ a deskspace for a mutually agreed time, at _________________________, the public/____ office of _____________ to facilitate the project. The Cell shall, upon such space being made available at the time as mentioned hereinabove, clarify queries of any member of the public approaching it, pertaining to the Right to Information Act including any personal query pertaining to the filing of an RTI application. The Cell or any of its members shall not be liable for any action/claim that may arise on account of any advise imparted by it.

4. The Cell shall at all events be an independent body with a distinct identity. It shall be represented as a separate entity and shall not, whether orally or in writing or otherwise be represented to be affiliated to ________ except as recorded herein.

5. The association between the Cell and the ______is strictly apolitical. No political affiliation shall be attributed in any manner and on any media to the activity undertaken by the Cell in its association with the ___________. The Cell shall at all events be represented by ____________ as a non-aligned student organization of the College.

6. The Cell shall remain contactable at its email-id, and any emails pertaining to the Right to Information Act queries may be forwarded to the same. The same contact email and details may be presented at the website of the _________ and other willing related entities and on public forum, subject to the same being represented to be that of the Cell in conformity with the terms recorded hereinabove.

7. This Project shall be strictly without prejudice to the all and any other activities of the Cell and any other partnerships and/or projects which the cell undertakes.

2011-03-01T02:31:00.001-08:00

1. Was the last time you graced the RTI cell meeting when the bard called it a day and descended into his grave?

2. Do you often stare at a message that informs you of a RTI cell meeting and go like...duh! not again...i have to waste a buck on replying to this and i have to choose from my numerous excuses...or something to that effect?

3. Do you remember the RTI cell in the first place?...no no it is not the one organizing moots... nope! we don't go mountain climbing and bungee jumping either...not even the one doing plays! sigh! to refresh your memory...for the want of better words- Right to Information Cell that's what it is! Viola! now pls don't get down to asking what Right to Information is...let's say...that is what we are exercising right now!

4. Do you think the RTI cell is a bunch of jokers preparing for the next big circus and circuses do no interest you?

5. Do you earnestly strive towards getting the best non-performing asset award?

6. Do you believe that you have what it takes to be the epitome of laziness and/or shirk work quite callously?

7. Do you reckon that you are smart enough to understand the purport of the mail?

8. Do you think the Cell should shift its activities to more interesting things like screwing around with defaulting members or even better...give them hell?

If your answers to 1-7 are in the affimative singularly or jointly, we believe you know where the door is.
If your answers to 1-7 are in the negative then, we beg to differ because we think your conduct justifies a presumption to the contrary and there is no reason to suggest otherwise from any work done by you.

THIS IS NOT A SHOW CAUSE NOTICE...THIS IS A SHOW THE DOOR NOTICE. YOU CAN CHOOSE TO SHOW CAUSE THOUGH AND IT SHALL BE AT THE SOLE DISCRETION OF THE CONVENOR TO EVEN DECIDE AS TO WHETHER SUCH REPLY SHALL BE TAKEN NOTE OF!

2010-06-16T03:55:00.001-07:00

blog by anjana is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

2009-04-11T12:20:00.000-07:00

Palimpsest

The paradox was palpable. The officious edifice evoked no string of emotion in the thousands that justified its being. They swarmed in thousands in the faint anticipation of the earth skipping the next ten hours of her itinerary; yet, there was a certain fitness in the geometric integrity its shadow commanded-everything crammed to fit itself within the symmetry; the late birds stood gauging the elasticity of the umbrae devouring the colossal principle of even a fleeting glance. The modest surroundings echoed the cacophony of the intercourse between conflicting ideologies of acceleration. She loved the dynamics, in a moment she could translate the chaotic traffic into its components and get lost in one of its most neglected facades.

The office building looked no different from across the street than from within. When she usually walked in, life deserted the place leaving the furniture in disarray and floors mauled with dirt. As she let the liquid flow over yesterday’s reminiscence she felt the power of the creator- the power to invigorate life into the inanimate, the power to restore order and yet remain invisible to the myriad. When all was done, she would let the place breathe the air cooler, conditioned by the trail of the cleansing liquid and walk out with the air of a deft executioner.

She felt no need to change her clothes for the job. ‘Those that did’, she often mused, ‘were the amateurs’. She’d not liked them- the mediocre who’d gossip in hushed tones while she passed by; they thought she was insane. She did not care to differ. She had the job and she paid the cost to the guy who’d managed to give that to her without probing much. He had asked her what her name was, ‘Geeta’, she had said. She was called Geeta, she clarified to herself. She did not know if that was her name, she’d never felt any sense of belonging to it.

**********

The features were blurred- the painted faces of the lipstick clad women who changed costumes every other minute- the colour had faded on her side of the screen but nevertheless, there was colour, it was the same colour of her thatched roof. She did not see the roof again after that night. There was a woman to whom she clung. The woman was telling her a story of some people who needed her home and how they gave another home, some sarkar. She was happy because suddenly she got to eat and see colour she had never seen. There were people all around her with bulging rags that clanked each time they rubbed, they were walking.

The new place was no different, it didn’t have the roof though, she wondered. Others whose faculties co-ordinated better found they had to start life from the scratch on the barren land. The food was over, and the grandeur of the colour had grown faint. They knew it was hoping against hope, but they assured each other that their new found money would buy them some land; they actually did not know what to do with it otherwise. They were again on the move. Few of them did not last the length; the woman to whom she clung did not. She had not liked the woman, her mother, very much. The more hunger stung, the more closer her mother cuddled and looked longingly at her, impressing her barren breasts that had nothing to offer. But she wailed when shoulders changed, though stronger shoulders held her this time, shoulders that did not yet bear the weight of six children.

It was a new group of people whose newness wore out fast acquiring pseudonyms evidencing relations. She was a quick learner- love did not satiate hunger, laps did not keep one warm in winters nor did nomenclature assure privacy. These people were unlike the woman; they scrapped off food and some brought in food while it was still edible. The place she had shifted to was bright and busy, the surface was rough. When the bulk of a body hit her in sleep, she just felt suffocated. But then, she assumed, that was how so many people could sleep together. She was fine, she reassured herself, for three nights. Then she ran.

**********

She was not very concerned what they did with the stuff, she knew it made them feel nice. She did not attach benevolence to her job because it didn’t matter. But she would not herself buy one of it, they acted funny, and their limp bodies flopped over after having it- just as the woman to whom she had clung to. She’d been waiting for quite sometime now. The consignment had to come about an hour earlier and was still nowhere to be seen. Instead she felt something more firm around her wrists- handcuffs.

People in there did not bother with each other’s privacy except for the daily routine and the pesky female. This was no paradise, there was a liquidity crunch- she knew all of that. The female wanted a sob story; she said she was convinced all was just plain goof up- mix up of people. The pest talked a lot about release, dearth of evidence, sentence…- mere words out of rote memory. Geeta would not bargain with apathy, even if it meant her ticket to freedom. She despised philanthropy that stared into the begging bowl reminding each time how indebted it was to them. She was in there because she earned a livelihood; she didn’t care how the pest took that.

When she had first walked in here, she was afraid of being in jail, just because it was called jail. Perhaps her mother would have liked the food and roof the place offered, even if social mores despised it. The inmates acknowledged the power within each other, the power of deception or perhaps of taking a life. There was no fate- they were it. Life there was passionate, in love, laughter, fight or play – there was a wild streak about it. Every one of them felt secure with the other - their windcheater against winter. But no one spoke about the winter that awaited them when they walked out– that was an unwritten dictum. When it came they did not look back at what they had left. Perhaps the winter would not last long and they would be back here shunned by those who’ve remained snug all winter, those who thought people out of jail had no right to live outside it. When she walked out, it was dark; the rain drenched her tears. Although she didn’t know why, she had promised never to come back.

**********
She loved looking at the building from her shanty across the street; it was her way of getting used to her new life. It was sweltering and she was tired that day. A yawn interrupted her thoughts and she gave way to the comfort of slumber.

There was a lot of commotion, quite enough to wake her up. The night had made its presence felt by now. Yellow bulbs glowed from solitary poles and life flew around it. The city had been on usual business, cars zoomed past her abode on the footpath, bikes raced and tired bodies carried themselves homeward. But something was not quite right. Cluttered speech intercepted the smooth rumble of the engine.

Something was different about the building today. She couldn’t at first glance tell what it was. But, for six months that she entered there it had always a deserted demeanour, like someone waiting to confide. The watchman for the first time since she could remember was out at the gate and suddenly the building acquired the import of officiousness that was expected out of it. Her heart almost leapt out of her when they asked for her id “perhaps he’d found out that she was a convict”! This was something else, she guessed, as they checked her id and let her go. For once, she wanted to run to the changing room. Whisper suddenly seemed alien to this place. They were talking- loud and clear. Yesterday evening they found, they said, a bomb in the building- diffused and dead by now except for the trail of terror it left behind. There was intended some sort of a search.
“Obviously, we would be the ones who would be targeted. They think only money can drive people to do these things”, a spontaneous voice remarked.

The voice from the far end of the corridor grew subliminal. The breeze did nothing to stop the sweat that broke out. She felt breathless for a moment, as though the barren breast had fallen over her again, as though the shoulder had been changed again. She saw it all- they would come back into her life, she would be the obvious person- aloof and cold. What would matter the most would perhaps be her reluctance to divulge. She wanted to talk to them, all of them, she wanted to tell them how she hated them, how she loved herself, how she did not know how to like others…..anything that would stop them from pointing to her… that would make them feel that she was a just one of them. But she could only hear herself heaving. She walked- her pace increasing with each step that she took. Her winter had just set in but she was sure it would be long and she was not prepared for it. She was afraid that if she were to stop, she would not have the strength to walk ever again. Darkness crept out into the sky and she gave way to the intruding breeze. She had found her way out- the way to never have the winter. People around were busy to hear the splash that sucked her. All that could be heard that night was the sound of the crashing waves.

2008-12-05T21:23:00.000-08:00

So on 3rd December 2008, people walked like never before, the traffic halted but slogans subdued impatient horns; people peeped out of buses and walked out of their cars. The crowd technically, as I gathered, was meant to gather at the Gateway of India. Mostly, people got stuck at Regal and to make matters worse, network of most mobile operators was pathetic and the gateway to the gateway was jammed with a cross movement of the mob!

The next day, the only slogans that were seemingly remembered were those that called for Justice, Action, Solidarity, Accountability and transparency! Well, I was there from around 5 45 to around 8 pm and the most often heard slogan was -"Pakistan chor hain"! Either I was hallucinating for no reason I can fathom, or people just did not want to mention such stuff to GP on his first lecture!

My idea of going there was never debated before but pondered and badgered later. I just went there because I did not want to see the glorified version of the march on the Television. I was angry at what happened on the 26th but I did not go there, not in the slightest, to express that... I did not think shouting of a few slogans could make a difference. In fact, my primary concern was that such a public gathering could be a soft target, a not so open jalianwallah to be precise, especially with bombs replacing the rifles, the same impact. For reasons I thank, the night was only fuelled by anger.

But anger to imply what? I was reminded of Birbal's fabel where he tries to cook with the pot hanging up above and the burning hearth below. I'd heard Shobha De say in one of television programs that the chief minister should resign, the home minister should resign...we need accountability (they did, of course)! I think that when the defence and security of a country is at stake, resignation should have been a secondary issue -mandamus should have been the first. If you have not done your job well, then here's the show cause, do it...there is no 'if you don't' because we did not elect you for that. Perhaps 03/12 was an attempt at a mandamus but was somewhere lacking in one voice. Yes, we are angry and we want you to do blah blah blah like, may be include compulsory practical disaster/terror management in our curriculam (frankly, i presume casualities increased to such numbers also becuase people really did not know what to do...whether it be CST, Taj or Oberoi), have regional NSG groups; like in times of emergency, have a unified body to take the decision....something like that! But there was not one placard telling us a practical solution to vent our anger.

Well the pak part. I do not think that we have any right to comment about pakistan's credibility when we ourselves do not have a credible governmnet. Secondly, I do not think that Pakistan, if it is, the only haven for terrorists. Thirdly, I quite agree with what the pak foreign min said that those fuckers don't have any religion, any nationality. Thoughts apart, if ISI indeed is conspiring against India then, our job is to ensure we are safe. I think it would be more economical to secure your house rather than have the robber killed!

The fire brigade cannot fight fire with fire.

2008-11-26T11:33:00.000-08:00

....................

My phone invariably rings at 7pm, though amma knows 'd not be anywhere near home, just to hear a familiar voice at the other end. I cannot casually wait for my friend at the turning- suspicious person with suspicious object...why this self-doubt? Well, why not? May be someone passing by has dropped something into my bag, may be, for the perpetrator 'm acting as a sheild, may be....i really don't know! All i know is that i don't know why i shouldn't be afraid?

History records Hitler's reign as one of the most Barbaric. Surely, a senile charismatic wolf was a reason to be afraid of! What's my reason to be afraid of and what exactly am i afraid of? I don't know! They are somewhere out there..somewhere, even those whom we trust to warn us don't know. I may get shot or even blown up the next moment...may be not...may be tomorrow. If self-respect prevails, i can't even commit sucide...what if someone saves me at the nick of the moment? Of course public policy must be upheld immaterial of whether you live in terror or die at its cost at the hands of some rotten fellow.

'Why' is no longer my worry; 'm sure that's neither theirs. Those that print out those "alert" messages expect them to turn up in overalls covering their faces and holding huge boxes over their heads, preferably labelled RDX or that they would be lingering around for a long time so that someone might just get suspicious. I think expecting the obvious is just pretending to be yourself-stupid! Afterall, camouflage is an inherent function, whether it be of opinions or conduct. Frankly, i don't think they give a damn about planning...they'd have as many dead, preferably themselves also killed- end of story.

Surely, this is not the first time that this has happened but this time they did not wham! bam! vanish and brag....they shot..on and on...at who ever they saw...human life in a matter of seconds lay splattered on the tar. For those panic-stricken people trying to get home, trains were hauled up and they silently cried over the phone praying that the line would not go dead or they...those that will come out alive will tread the trail of terror this night has left behind.

I don't understand when people talk about the spirit of Mumbai...to me it's a calculated indifference bred out of a greater motive in life- to eak out a life in the moment you are alive for the next one.

2008-09-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

the most callous response to a gift(assuming even that the gift is the worst possible one given by someone whom you abhor)-

how much did you spend/waste on this?

2007-07-22T12:22:00.000-07:00

December sunrise

The frosted window pane was the only physical partition between the winter out on the turf and the cold lull inside. She gently poured the last of the volatile liquid into the thirsty fiber. Her glance seemed to offer neither solace nor company to the empty glass placed opposite to her own yearning for some moisture. The illuminated wax lay around the room exhausted of drawing warmth from without. She poured the contents down her throat with ease, just as she had done it so many times in the past few days.

The music that filled the air was just another of the silent victim of inattention. She was lost in the familiar tune her heart had got used to. “Coo coo, coo coo”, the call of the bird in the clock was met with a stony stare as though its diligence were at peril. Something caught her glance; the winter wind was blowing through the barren oaks out on the garden. She stood ridiculing the swinging oaks that were synchronizing their motion unaware of why they swayed to the tunes of the fierce wind- disgusting! A smile played on her lips as she thought that… “Ben, it’s so...beautiful...these oaks…Wow! Just look how beautifully they sway to the breeze in unison!”

Winter was not her season. It was Ben who had taught her what it was to walk into the winter without those thick covers and she loved it! She loved it because she learnt that he was everything she wanted. She had no assumptions and no criterion. After all, he was no doll to be fair, tall, handsome, and popular; and, she was no supreme creation to exercise her whims and bend to none of his. It certainly was no love at first sight but his frankness about the way he was made her feel very comfortable and love just happened! Ben and Catherine married after four years. She now saw it through the pages of the fluttering calendar- December 4. The alcohol was not living up to its reputation or perhaps, her memory was getting better by the day. Those four years were not the most conventionally romantic time of their life, he was out there in Delhi and she in Mumbai. They seldom met and more rarely did greetings and gifts exchange but, each moment of those years were etched forever in their lives because they missed the absence of each other’s presence.

******
Multitude of faces walked through the subway every hour, every day. Ben ambled along vacantly gazing at the faces for some solace that gods may have had in reserve. He stepped out of the subway to be greeted by the wind that sliced through his skin, he felt relieved at the recognition of the life left within him. She had dashed past him the very first day that he had stepped into the subway and stared back as though rebuking his snail pace. “Some hurry!” ,he had thought. Perhaps it was the reluctance in her speech or maybe it was just the expression of unspoken words as she tried to balance her handbag with a bite of the sandwich dancing in her mouth….she was a mystery and he was curious to reveal the mystery! He saw the familiar face, the face of mystery having its cruel laugh at yet another crusader.

******
Her friends had told her to not be in a hurry but then, she had thought, it was not they who would decide how Ben was! It was as though her prudence got the better of her. Together life seemed to only get better. Ben seemed the same reticent guy with a smile always playing on his lips; he was the sponge who would absorb every thing while Cathy tried her best to pull his leg. Life indeed seemed to be a bed of roses! The only thing that eluded was the little book Ben filled everyday. “We’ll read it someday together, when we have time for things other than ourselves”. She now wondered if the time had come.

******
Ten years had passed since that cold winter of December 4th and here she was- the answer to queries, anticipations and a long wait of nine months. Her little feet and her curious glance- “another mystery to solve”, he had thought. He had held her close to him and felt the exhilaration of the first and finest achievement. For once Ben felt absolute, for being the first one to kiss her- to embrace purity- his Karen. He now desperately wanted to forget what it was like to feel overwhelmed.

******
Karen was not amongst the best at whatever she did, she did things because she liked them, not to excel but to experience. To her every closed door created new spaces. Karen was always the first to notice things, whether it was a missing pen or missing warmth- she was guided by intuition. She had the gift of gab; it was hence not by chance that she always got away with what she wanted!

Another December 4 had come seven years later, one with lot of promises-promises to be made and fulfilled. So, out in the night the December moon welcomed the birthday cake with lot of warmth. The plan was to reach home before twelve but it was Ben’s idea to celebrate it in the drive…..a symbolic birthday- moving forward. The clock had no sooner struck twelve that Ben’s phone began making familiar sounds “Hello...yeah sure hold on dear…. Ohk so here you go…..you’re birthday’s first caller…” What followed was a clear shriek and then a silence that took many weeks to break….A single mistake, a single call had put an abrupt ending to a lovely beginning.

He had shattered his beautiful dome with his own hands….if only he hadn’t received that call…but then who would have ever imagined that Ben who had an exceptional control over the wheels could lose it all just by a call? His justifications failed his conscience. Cathy neither recognized logic nor herself. Every time they looked into each other’s eyes they had a goal to be accomplish-a goal to seem happy for the other. Silence was the only companion to their tears. Ben stood beside Cathy, resilent and strong. It was an attempt to disguise his guilt- to prove that nothing could change him for, if she loved him for what he was, he did not want to lose Cathy because of what he had become. Away from pretence in the warmth of his book he had scribbled Auden’s lines…

“We would rather be ruined than change;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.”

Days did not now seem enough for healing the wound. Just a few true words would have made all the difference but either of them were so detached in their little compartments that the only thought that preceded each word was that the reality was to be denied and the past recovered. He reiterated every morning the same words that had once made sense to him but now, they were hollow- mere products of pretence. Yet like the well manipulated puppet he spoke them- he was still not ready to accept the wind that he had forced upon himself.

While Ben engrossed himself in work Cathy took to much simpler ways of feeling happy. Both recognized the need for each other’s warmth but what they failed to realise was the need to express their wrath at each other. Cathy had seen Ben write in the little book with affection each night as though the slightest mistake would break the heart of the paper but now, he scribbled in his book frantically as though space for thought meant little anymore! When Nadia had called up the other day she had asked if Karen would have been happy to see Ben loose himself. Non-chalently she said, “No. But if she was the mother, she would have!”. When she saw him as Ben, she wanted to comfort him but, when she saw him as the reason for the absence of Karen, she restrained herself.

It was almost a month and the silence just kept growing. Ben tried to go on as many tours as possible and Cathy almost forgot to amend things- even physically. Ben had returned from one such tour- exhausted and tired, yet he looked happy for some strange reason. Cathy had never seen Ben stare at her like that before. Instinctively, in months, she gently held his glance and enquired if he was fine. Ben was lost in thought, deaf to her words, all he managed to say was, “I killed her….” Cathy looked at Ben, petrified. He was shivering, he was tearing apart. Cathy hugged him as though this was all that she wanted to do. It was a quite night; its silence, the only spectator to this promising December sunrise.

2007-06-19T22:52:00.000-07:00

Penning down emotions

Gone are the days when Chottu could criticise Mottu's petite handwriting that was to be understood as English but looked more so like the the Harappan script, yet to be deciphered.No delay in pasing on love due to Diwali or Sunday,except the fact that the words contain a monotonous script choosen as per ones choice .Speed is a fascination to one and all,young and old.It is this demon in disguise that has reduced the wonderful art of writing to mere examination papers.Instant communication is the call of the hour.

Today it is as simple as the zap of a finger.Just choose the font size and format,add pictures and type with a mind boggling speed.Print the matter on a white paper devoid of any sincerity and draft it within an envelope.Well,it isn't this too writing?Oh!yes this is but where are the emotions?The odd jokes that you could crack on the spelling mistakes and the handwriting that would show you your sincerity?

Well, apart from drafting a printed matter we today seem to have forgotten to pen down a few lines,"Have you gone crazy?here, take my mobile",this is what most of us offer our friend at the latter's proposal of writing a letter.Why waste 30 precious minitues of your life when you can just dial vague numbers,exchange well practiced pleasantaries and get your job done?

It is high time we realise the importance of flowing ink on paper to convey our feelings because,the print ink has no shades but your ink pen can give different shades and who knows, just shade your life better! The art of writing letters is a tradition which calls for preservation and interest from the youth.It is the young hands that have to preseve this wonderful tradition.So,what are you looking for?Stop reading and let the ink of your pen flow into one odd page you had left for typing a letter to your best friend.Hey! Remember,"Pen is mightier than a printer in bonding hearts."

2007-03-21T13:09:00.000-07:00

The frame of artificiality

She was sitting by the window vacantly gazing at the bustling life. Every moment filled her with satisfaction as she watched the happy faces. Faces of strangers who offered her nothing as a favour, no word of comfort, no sob stories and no promises. They were the characters of her dream who let her live life, did not question or feel concerned for her loss.

The news had come as a bolt from the blue. She had spent the next few moments relishing the force of sorrow that had struck her and the moisture of tears rolling down her cheeks kissing her lips. She had seen them when they were mobile; she wasn’t curious to see them sleep blank, without thought, force or action.

‘All the best!’

-with love Nimmi

A card lay beside the two lifeless bodies. The house looked like a public mourning ceremony. She was tired of hushed tones of “how’s she taking it?” and “poor girl”. Frustrated with the silence she had walked into her room and sat listening to music oblivious of the strange atmosphere. She wanted to yell at each of those faces “My parents, my problem; who has given you the right to intrude into my house and feel sorry for me?”

Every normal move of hers was termed as a product of her grief. She did not try to look sad; she wasn’t. They had the right to a new life and so did she; the right to independence of choice. She had enjoyed every moment of her life with them, she had no regrets. Some long back-seen face had said, “Don’t worry Nimmi; we are all there for you.” She returned a puzzled look punctuated with a smile and pointed to a writing that portrayed elegance, intellect and creativity mixed in equal proportions, written with utmost affection on a parchment that looked like a pampered child. It read,

‘Love is not love which alters when alteration finds,
or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no it is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’

Then one day they had left; when, she did not know or care, for, they had come to mourn the death of those whom they never cared for in life. She was thrilled to encapsulate the essence of loneliness and to wrap around the warmth of her house. ‘At last’, she thought, ‘At last’, she said. ‘Welcome home Nimmi’.

At 21 Nimisha was pragmatic individual who was passionate about the things she cared for in life. The rest were insignificant strangers. The rear view screen of the world saw her as a strange loner lost in the alleys of ambition; she was not interested in responding to the world.

Her life revolved around passion. A passion to find a reason to live. When someone had complimented her, she had stared back at the impudence; at the swiftness with which he had stolen away her satisfaction of having lived the moment, having lived it for herself.

She entered her room, the four walls acknowledging her presence. Everything there was handpicked by her- her shelves, books, dolls, paintings- everything. Every time she entered, she smelt the familiar smell- the aroma of passion- of satisfaction. It was not as though she had completely overlooked the photo. Her eyes had graced past them. She stopped and waited for a response. A wry smile was playing on her lips; an amused pretense- expecting life to change in a few days, realizing it hasn’t and celebrating the victory she could proclaim over the frame of artificiality which often took pride in freezing time.

The phone was ringing incessantly. She did not want to pick it up. “Bob! Mama with you?” “Hello Nimi, yes. I’m reaching. Be ready!” “Bob…come on! You really can’t be so sure! Bye” She did not know why she was thinking about something that had no relevance to the moment but then she had never before stopped to think that! For the first time since she could remember, she felt lost for a direction to think. The phone was still screeching…. “so much for the lack of attention!”, she thought. She was not going to answer the call! And then it stopped, the silence resounding through the air.

She had slumped into a squat and she did not care to stop the flowing tears. She knew this was what she wanted to do though, she was not sure why. She just wanted it to happen all the time they were there but then she did not want to share her moment with the anonymous masked faces. It was hers and she wanted it all for herself- the moisture, the warmth and the silent words-carved out of the frame of artificiality.

2007-01-31T11:56:00.000-08:00

Perplexed

I look no more into the mirror,
It reflects me but not the way I am!
The face trampled under the complexities of the world,
Portrays the lines frozen by time

The scribbled pages lay strewn all over
The shut books stare with brusqueness
The burnt out candles reflect no zeal
The oculars of time refute the past.

Vindictive senses fiddle around with memories:
memories soaked in the search for a justification
My logic fails to classify facts into black and white:
they acknowledge the essence yet deny existence!

Is it just the reluctance to let go those tears
Or the compulsion of perception:
the knowledge of the pain stuck in his heart?
Yet, he's calm,his logic functions- I'm perplexed.

I hear myself yearning for no answers
I search myself seeking no treasure
I hear myself speak a strange tongue
A hollow laugh for a string of words because he does.

I am lost in the alley; Alas! we had the exact map,
Lost for words because we were eloquent.
He reaches the end of the tunnel, his lips smile;
i am perplexed- i know not what to give in return.

2006-12-03T20:58:00.000-08:00

Conundrum

It is in our blood or so my mother had said
forget not my child,for this is the voice of the dead;
as though the sand rode over by warriors,
the memory had come flooding shoving barriers.

It was long ago my child,we were for the Estates,
the Noblemen,the Clergy whose pocket had no dates,
Bastille was down,assemblies were made
slowly did the futility of our ancestors fade.

It was a spark that ignited the world
uniting the herd,inspiring the bold
an epoch marking an era of quest
when our worth was realised to be yet lost;

Ages after, a young entity ripened
we were invited and duly honoured
my mother,she had said was taught our duty
as a silver lining in years she had realised her beauty,

For the poor,downtrodden and the discriminated
a shimmer of hope,a lending hand was forwarded
filled with pride,she had shared the moment of glory
as the law passed,she embrassed herself later only to feel sorry

Soon the jigsaw puzzle fell into place,
as she became old,running a manipulated race.
she had warned my mother,to never let pride down
yet even in her death bed she had only reasons to frown.

My mother inherited much more than her,
many more in number,in need and distress
she helped the discriminated become equals,
yet ,her intuition told her,inequality is the sequel.

Years unfolded and so did the truth
but she had lost time,watching the sweet fruit
when the fog had lifted,the day had passed
and she was converted into a vote-filling package.

Cries of agony,of injustice and pain
were heard by the deaf and judged by the insane;
yesterday,when she passed she passed unto eternity
i stood shedding tears afraid to inherit her property.

As was with her,I had much more,
many more but faceless privileged for sure
today, I represent a blatant hierarchy
played around like puppets in the vast dynasty

I plead guilty of having lived so long
for having never reached the real needy all along
I let him twist me as he felt was right,
darkening quality in the name of light.

Many today cry out with me
my withered soul urging me to flee;
I beg them to disown me from my institution
the one they call reservation.

2006-06-18T00:20:00.000-07:00

Ignorance is like darkness ,the more you walk into it the more it surrounds you. It neither lets you see the purpose of its being and renders you purposeless due to its presence.

If life leaves you stranded mid-way,it is just to make you realise that it takes more to live than mere survival.

2005-11-05T08:10:00.000-08:00

A Dream

It was a dream one night that took me by surprise for I envisaged my yesteryears writing a card for some purpose.It was out of sheer enthusiasm and innocence that I was running around to give cards to I don't know whom all.Suddenly the card opened unfolding a writing-

To take the first breath of fresh air the butterfly was struggling to come out of the cocoon while you gently held my hand and led me to enjoy the fragrance of the first rain drops.That was when I realised the existence of god.

To take the first step on the earth correctly the foe was dangling but for me you came by and glided me above the path of thorns.That was when I realised the grace of god.

While the nestling yearned to sing songs and dreamt about the vastness of the sky,you were there to make my dreams a reality.That was when I analysed the brilliance of god.

While the tall trees swayed to the unpleasent tunes of the wind you were there to protect me and keep me stable .That was when I realised the greatness of god.

I woke and thought who was this person who made me live through life so long,whom god had given every bit of his own self.I frantically searched in all corners of my cerebrumfor the identity of this xyz whom god reminded me today of.Someone once dear but today lost in some alley of the oblivious so called busy world.

A flash of light superceeded my thoughtsand god stood there as though a reply to my thoughts.He looked at me with pain in his cornea and spoke,"My child, how forgetful and thoughtless you have become,I made myself in the person whom you once upon a time held close to your heart.Ah,I gifted you a teacher.

2005-10-23T23:36:00.000-07:00

The Lost Fragrance

Kissing his mother he bid her good-bye,
Not knowing if he would live or die!
for all that he did was no more a dream
with bare hands and a silent scream
he marched on to the battleflied.

The warriors there were startling,
which included women and siblings!
some mocked while others pitied him,
but, he fought till the the lights grew dim.
He fought for his survival.

He fought the battle but never won,
but still fought desiring freedom and fun!
he would see others ease their life ,
while tears of silence drop on to his knife.
Tears which folks speak of but seldom know.

This warrior was great in his own right
for, he saw the world every night,
rejoicing the sunset and enjoying the cool
while he wrapped up himself like a fool
he hated the day but had to love it.

A silent death took him off one night
as he lay still among the burnt out lights
he was niether honoured nor remembered,
neither attended to nor favoured,
as he looked over the battlefield;

The flower lost its fragrance,
the rainbow its colour and flavour,
and the bird his melody.
Silently he cried over his lost life
his life of childhood.