Rituparno

Another artiste left for the heavenly world. Another gifted man finally rested in peace with Mother Nature. Rituparno Ghosh was a contemporary, and a filmmaker who started possibly around the same time whenI started my professional life.


And as I write this, he is no more while I continue to figure out a way to conclude.

If you ask me the best four or five films of Rituparno, I would rather go back to the first eight or ten films of his. The way he started was fabulous, the way he interpreted each of his stories was a treat to watch. His style of making a cinematic statement reminded us of the Bengal trinity – (Satyajit) Ray, (Ritwik) Ghatak and (Mrinal) Sen.

When you see a film, you are usually reminded to view the story the way it is told. There is the formation of the visual, the innovations from actors and the composition that gives the basic statement. Rituparno delved with brilliance in each of these – from Unishe April (19 April) to Shubho Mahurat (a version of the Agatha Christie’s The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side).

His study of the form was prolific, so was his treatment of the story. He was a director who had this habit of being very close to the female characters of his film. They were superbly handled, and each had the opportunity to provide the best characterization of his screenplay.

I can understand that his female actors were definitely at ease with him during the making of a film. The way they interpreted the narrative, there was a subtle hint that each of them came very close to being the character they played on screen. Rituparno’s sheer handling of the feminine psyche gave these films a sheer sense of extraordinary piece of art. His area of expertise was to find the dilemma in the story with the female – and they were never confined to women of a specific age. The stories of the teenager in Titli to that of the grandmother in Dahan are in no way insignificant to each other. That gives the feeling that Rituparno was able to interpret the psychological nuances of women of all ages.

With time, I was hoping to see more such brilliant works of his. However, much to my surprise, he stayed close to the subject of a female mind too often. His stories never made grand varieties, and mostly were close to the study of a woman character – being exploited by the society around. This seemed a bit of monotony, as many filmmakers had already found a lot of comfort dealing with many such examples already.

Rituparno could not spread a variety of subjects for his films. And that is a reason why I do not want to touch on his later films.

His brush with effeminacy, supporting the cause of the differently-gendered persona and continuous exposure of thoughts and action to support their cause was a sort of a setback. Agreed that we need to support these marginal sections of our society, but then Rituparno could have been larger than this life.

These thoughts took him to a path where he could think only along these imaginations, and there was definitely a sense of variety lacking from his works.

A filmmaker who was so versatile when he started, possibly a very learned individual who read and re-read the works put in screen, Rituparno could have been much more than what he ended up with. In the last few years, we see repetitions – something he must have tried hard to defeat as an artist.

His encouragement to young filmmakers, his inspiration to the literary world notwithstanding, Rituparno slowly tended to fade away from the minds of the super-thrilled film watchers and movie buffs. The National awards probably came with almost whatever he made, but the variety was definitely missing.

I wish him a long life after death … something that his followers and admirers must have always wished. His works need to be archived and re-visited with dignity and respect. As a student of cinema, I will always cherish the superb titles, close-ups and casting that he helped his films with.

Artists like Rituparno tend to live long in the hearts and minds of the social mass. The soul of any art-loving person will always tend to view one of those early works of his, which refreshes the mind … that creates a hangover of the glorious world of cinema of the 50s and 60s.

Goodbye Rituparno, may we meet again!

Some new ideas

There are a few ideas that are crowding my idle brain. A crowd is definitely chaotic, and more often not controlled.

My idle ideas have been known to many, but the attempt to blog them for my friends was one such idea that became a big success once upon a time. Not sure why, this idea of communication was perhaps the best during those days. So were the ideas to blog, and one among many that came and went.

Mostly, there have been such instances when the crowded brain has successfully manouvered itself to creating something meaningful. This blog was one such instance, when the urge to write something was doing the rounds.

What happens when ideas come? when does an idea get reflected in action? I do not remember all that came to me as ideas, but the idea to blabber something remained one of the most successful ideas that I have nurtured.

Men dream science, arts or some technology. I dream exchanges, communication and ideas. That's roughly the difference I have with many fellow men. Whatever that is, the difference has been very typical, and difficult.

So, some more ideas have come. And I can bet that there won't be many to see those. Only a handful of those ideas get to see the life the way I lead.

I may also need to reach out. To all those who came, waited for my writing and then left disappointed. My apologies, the writing on the blog was getting a bit difficult for me to practice.

This much for now ... the ideas will stay for some time. I may use one of those ideas in these blog pages, or may be I will not. Also, I will need you to be part of the idle ideas that remain my forte.

Still, the dilemma remains ... and as one would have it, the very basic confrontation that I always have to make an idea a reality.

Hang on there, idle! let the readers talk.

If Cricket was Life

This last week was a fantasy re-lived.

I was in the final years of my school when the Cup last came to India. The Devils of Kapil were on a rampage ... mowing down opposition with absolute finesse. The same has happened again. This time Dhoni and his brigade made that happen ... and we are all ecstatic again. The Cup is ours!!

Almost three decades of an endless wait suddenly got over. Sitting at my colleague's house in front of the gigantic screen (yeah, we played the matches from Quarter finals in a giant screen), history seemed to haunt me. Last time, my dad and me were glued to the radio commentary as India made history. Television was definitely in, but not so popular. Not anymore, now radio is history and Cricket Live is the most happening thing.

Next best to being inside the park!

Don't know the technology that will be prevalent when India wins again. May be the hi-definition, tablet ... iMotion ... I keep thinking of so many possibilities. Let us see it on 3D the next time we play the finals ... it will be another milestone in technology. Celebrations are natural when such a momentous occasion arrives in the history of a sport.

I am not an avid fan of cricket anymore, just happen to enjoy these moments. There was a time when I breathed cricket ... it is now a wonderful memory. The sport has definitely improved, but with the emergence of a strong Team India, I have almost reclined to some complacency.

Loved those times when India struggled to make it big. There was nothing, no academy, no sponsors ... nothing. Yet we came from behind to lift the Cup. I still cherish those moments of cricket history. Most of it was unexpected, and we were definitely not even underdogs.

In this land for 121 crores (latest from the Census), such an event will last in the memories of those who strive for the battle of the bat and the ball. The state heads give a reception, the board presents a bounty and the city mayors hand over replicas are so grand in their recognition of the honour our team brings to the nation.

Now cricket is an euphoria, and the lives of so many hapless Indians energized by this game. Standing in front of the giant screen, I kept thinking of the strides that we made in technology and sports that makes us feel proud. We have moved on ... and with dignity.

Cricket is now diplomacy, cricket innovates technology ... cricket is life. We have started to announce cricket as the next best thing that can happen in life. The entire nation stands still to watch a match which changes history. Cricket brings them the cup of joy!

How I wish if Cricket can share. With cricket being so popular, it can help us in encouraging philanthropy, in development of infrastructure and in the realms of education where we still struggle to unite. Cricketing bodies can organize money-spinning events that can garner enough revenues to help the residents of chawls and slums live with some dignity ... and not just survive.

Schools and colleges of the nation can entertain much more so that entire population grows to be educated. Cricket can share some to encourage the growth of academics, it can also help us develop the system that is so decadent all around.

If there was an Indian Premier League which did not fill the pockets of the few, I would have been very happy. If such an international tournament can be used to earn money for bridges, highways and good living conditions for millions, that would be super. I wish cricket grows big, much bigger than the needs of this nation which wants to develop. The cricket loving population can encourage the administrators to use the riches and the popularity to help India grow bigger and better. With every passing World Cup, I wish to see India grow.

The lovely population that watches cricket with utmost admiration must use this sport to fulfill the aspirations of the countless Indians who still survive amidst abject poverty. As the car company keeps showing in their ads, we must open up cricket to 'new thinking and new possibilities'.

Lemme live the way I want

Welcome to this world! This is the era where we all are running behind the sole purpose of selling ourselves. To live is to sell, to love is to sell … and to die is to sell our being. Selling is everywhere, a ‘USP’ is what we strive to live for.

Selling for money, selling for glory.

A renowned percussionist was talking on a television channel last week. He is a classical musician, but has recently turned into a band activist. He was stressing about singing loud on the stage, making animated gestures to the best possible extent … the intent was to make every pair of eyes in the audience notice you, and only you.

You need to sell yourself, artist! … just that only art never sells.

To sell your own self is to make you always aware of – you only. Just think about yourself, and yourself only. Very recently, a lady came for an interview in our office. While I asked if she was comfortable to stretch beyond normal hours occasionally, pat came her reply – ‘Though I have a 2 months-old kid, but my work is the most important. I can stay back any day as you want’.

Reason – self growth, even if that means demeaning a child that has just been brought to this world. I am getting used to such colleagues.

Man has his goals defined, and he is running after it. Women have their aspirations, and they are pursuing it. After a relentless struggle the entire day, there is not much left to pursue. Interesting still, a newly-wed couple in the neighbourhood has the guy leave at five in the evening, and the wife leaves for work at nine in the morning. Both meet after midnight, when the guy returns home and just hops into the bed.

Marital bliss? I suppose it doesn’t matter, since no notes are exchanged for the entire week! The weekend is for rest, so no possessive demands are recorded.

We just possess ourselves, and the rest is all Maya!!

There is no society, no parents, no siblings … no love and nothing else. The entire world is made of just one individual – ME. I just think about my way of living in this world … my visions and my achievements.

At this point of Mother Earth’s heavenly rotation, we have started to think independently. We think about academic courses, based on the passion that we share. The idea is to get into MY dream job.

Parents and elders are mostly eye-witnesses when the citizen of ‘Youngistan’ is making a choice.

An exception to this is being a primitive citizen.

Setting priorities and accomplishing them is a not a group activity anymore. ‘I know what my priorities are, you take care of yours’ is the normal hype. The funnier part is none bothers to get involved in the decision making faculties of their peers or relatives. ‘To each, their own’ is the mantra.

Newer definitions of life has started. Parents are defined as those individuals who are sponsors of ‘my’ education until ‘I’ find some work. Friends are those who share a common business / academic interest with ‘me’.

The spouse and I live together, she is independent of her and so am I. She is free to live her life, so am I. We don’t demand, neither possess nor share. There are no disclaimers, no strings attached to life’s togetherness.

I have started watching this life with interest. There are so many singleton sets, each filled with just one individual. Their Union is unknown, the Intersection undefined.

Sorry for blabbering mathematics, such are the ways of this world that I fall short in English.

P.S: The heading of this blog is a weak translation of a Bangla film song that is getting popular these days as the ‘song of life’.

To my lovely Valentines

They say that life moves on ... or does it? In these troubled days, life just doesn't move. It may rather take the snail's pace to start ... determined never to reach the milestone. I had confessed that love is all that needs a winter to unite. Come February, and I am already gasping in that splurge of no-nonsense heat.

Don't know how do I write even something about the Valentine's day! A few years back, there were people I would discuss my love for writing ... there were moments when a masterstroke of that passion would hit my words. I would encounter a trance, something that would make me devote all my energy to building a virtual relation.

One never knows when the cupid strikes in writing. Every person who wants to write will confess that this four-letter word was all that was needed to accomplish. Almost always, it never strikes ... and even if it does, it is momentary. Sad that love in writing is never treated as romance.

I just responded to a mail that a virtual friend has sent me yesterday.

There's nothing abnormal about it. Just that the last time I mailed her was 2 years back (in June 2009) ... and she responded to that only yesterday. Wasn't that lovely? and she started by writing that she was alive ... how cruel was man's conception of life.

She was almost lost ... among the humdrum of her work, and some other phases in our standard development of life cycle. But then the word 'hellllooooooo' reminded me of her ... the fresh, vibrant and energetic call from among the millions with whom we live, but never get the chance to connect.

Among many instances of loss and grief, the craving of love for the human life emerges nice and fresh. Such lovely relations in virtual space is what I live for. Those messages on the mobile phone, those small chat blurbs ... who said love was lost!

Valentine's Day may be a concept from the west, but valentines are for real ...

Such angels make distances become meaningless. Expressions are real, the urge is ... or to be precise, that age-old passion to hook up with the other. Love is not always a relation to create ... but every creative relation is lovely.

Let me not sound like a maniac though. Love knows no force, no pressure or no compulsion. It's the natural flow ... a passion to be together, just so that there is a confluence of minds to celebrate life and explore creativity. Love never demands, it's just that we humans demand everything out of love.

To those who still love, mera salaam! To those who do not, start feeling the senses around. It is a sensibility that matters, and every person must have that.

We may not dance around the trees in ecstasy, but there are reasons we may feel fresh by sharing a word or two. There are many reasons to stay alive, but there's only one way to feel the aroma of life.

All these days, the love is what I lost. A quest for love that would be spread across the pages that I have created here, and the love that gets carried to me in numerous messages that I get electronically. There is love among the souls who have visited my page, and there's more love in that they have remembered me.

This post is not to reciprocate, but to express my gratitude to those souls who I have grown up with believing that they understand the message of love.

The Call again!

Never thought I had to stay away for so long.

With the advent of winter, this world seemed to be a tiring place. Friends were leaving me, finding solace in their final resting places up above the world. Nothing seemed normal. I lost a few people who were close to me. At least I was close to them, don't know how they felt about me. Can't ask them now, they have already left for their more "heavenly" abode.

But, I keep arguing, isn't that life?

Lifeless bodies are no good for life. Usually unused, they should be either burnt or buried. It does not make a lot of sense to really crave for their beings now that they do not exist.

But the sun and the moon ... change of seasons ... all seem to be very much there.

Just that little loss ... that pain ... it sort of lingers on. Which makes this planet a boring place to live.

Work kept piling on ... and on. There was not much of a space to breathe creativity. My boss is a young guy, having given birth to his first child only a year back. Lots of energy and youth is still in him. So, he likes to work ... real hard. And he kept me working. Until I seemed to have burnt out ... or what he felt.

Got a nice break during the last week of December. Spent the time among the hills of Matheran. These ghats, and they really made me weak in my knees! The more I see these chain of hills, the more I have this feeling that this life is not so freaking boring as I had felt throughout.

That's exactly where I am. Disconnected though, from my virtual friends. Spending a forlorn life being constantly haunted by deadlines and revenue targets.

Now, I hear the call again. Creativity is a passion, just like making love. The last time I was creating, it was a crazy feeling. Like a person who is getting energy after every bout of venting out. It was a feeling that only few can feel.

She said one needs to be idle to start writing ... and I need an idle mind to pile up my thoughts. I know her, she has been a constant inspiration to my writing.

After all, you need a feminine push to spit the masculine energy. Making love again? don't worry, winters are the best time to unite!!

The Devil Calls

Just thought of dropping by, after the yearly monsoon clouds passed its way through my city.

After my arrival in Pune, my keyboard has been spinning those morbid tales at work. Some metrics, some dashboards and so much more ... I can’t even remember all. The more it takes a toll on my creative life, the more I get fluttered at the thought that I will have to write again.

Coupled with that some of my friends have stopped writing too ... how I wish they kept creating those subtle images of life. Today, I visited those friends who continue to write ... the creative ones ... who have continued to spin their words on web.

I don’t make promises, since I can’t break them. A day may come when I get the material to start writing again. But then such a day seems distant.

Don’t lose heart, and why would you lose it? An idle mind has stopped blabbering is no big deal. Good for the world as a whole, a devil’s workshop is better off being closed.

But the devil in me refuses to die ... may be some darkness will beckon again.

Say No to Irritating Advertisers

Advertisers from the world … disunite!

Guess advertising is going from one height to the other. They can kill you for your lack of patience, but they will never make the advertisers impatient. Good or bad, we need advertising, or how else you know about a product (or concept)?

Man likes to brag about something that he makes or owns, and other men fall for it. Sheer jealousy, or being trapped under the act of hard selling.

One would never know.

I understand the way advertisers work overnight to do a promo, and then come out with the target consumer segment to work on their thought process. This is a artistically carved out scientific process (enough to get someone mad!). A noted bank recently targeted the senior citizen customer segment, and in the process, made them look a lot younger.

Looked like they lost the point. Good for people like us, who are on the verge of getting senior soon!

But then, I still don’t understand whether there’s enough data with advertisers for us to really fall for. Having seen the advertising styles from the days of black and white billboards and ad prints, to the chic and glaze of today’s ads, I have hardly been encouraged by this ‘professional bragging’.

A recent case has been a few advertisers who are actively trying to promote some medical products as comments to my blog posts. I deleted a few last week, but they come back.

Let me honestly tell these advertisers: No use pal, please look out for some other place, I am not a great consumer of medicines, neither will I encourage people to use medication.

For me, a great health is the one which stays fit naturally.

The question still remains. Why are we so annoyed at the callers, the TV ad slots and the occasional ad ‘outburst’ that we see on the web pages?

Even though we like to fall for these traps, we also detest them since they always end up being over-hyped, and sometime even feel stupid. Competition in market place is fine, but this random use of selling skills to hype up the product (or concept) is definitely not fool-proof. They just seem to be man’s stupid sense at work, and sometimes we get irritated at the way they are carried out.

Negative publicity is also good, they will still argue.

One would never know, but then there was a time when consumption was definitely not guided by advertisements. The only ‘advertisement’ could be roadside sellers hawking for their goods. Think a few centuries back, business was wholesome. And the cost to advertising was never added as part of the costing for the product (or concept).

Goods could be cheap, in case we spend less on selling them on the internet, media or on roadsides. Our irritation at ads will be on a lesser curve.

Mr. Finance Minister, in this times of extreme price rise, will you just spend a few minutes going through this post of mine?

Some cost can be effectively reduced. I am scared of over-publicity, and so in case there are quite a few men and women like me, we can collectively voice our apprehensions over those who promote hard selling.

This will reduce costs, and can effectively bring down prices, even if marginally.

Need to think hard … or hardly think

When subtleties of life are overpowered, it usually leaves a feeling of dejection.

At no point of time a writer’s voice is less challenged than the time when the mind is in introspection. A deep thinking may be, or be with an urge to come out with a dialogue between the soul and the self, deep within.

Usually the time frame is not something I worry about. There’s no deadline of thoughts, in deep thinking, if ever it was the prerogative of an idle mind. It can be months, years or even decades of soul-searching looking for that conscious reason to explore.

Is there an end to exploring the niceties of nature? Is there some conclusion in exploring the human mind?

There is this need to continue, and the sense of continuity brings forth a feeling of exploration … a sense of continuum. I am no writer, but my thoughts still flow in that direction.

A nice breeze sometimes forces itself into my living room. The curtains get ruffled, and the freshness of purity seeps in for a trivial moment.

My soul feels blessed, by nature, at least. For some tormented minds, blessing has a literal meaning … naturally, I feel it. To that end, the soothing breeze breathes continuity into my thoughts … albeit with some freshness.

I see compatriots get into print, some ideas half-cooked, others craving for attention. Writing nowadays has become a ‘profession’, I hated that word when it compelled me to a workplace with defined dictum of decency and scrutiny. A profession can’t always be the sanctity of work, these days the lure of the penny makes it attractive.

Only day before yesterday, I was breathing through some pages in one corner of the Crossword store. I fathomed through the ordeals of Anne Frank, some moments in Gandhi’s colossal work in My Experiments with Truth. They still seemed so real, the content so ideally merged with the continuum of thought.

Writers are not born, they are gifted with the art of expressing through written words.

May be.

On another aisle, contemporary creations desperately asking for a ‘peep out’. Mostly bloggers, some are not even a year or two old, writing their stories. The tantalizing, salacious, transparent real life stories of our times.

Over these years, I have developed a sense not to criticize any writing. All writing is normal, I feel, while some are productive.

If a Crossword can have the twain meet, why does the society deprive to think? I speak to myself … where has the soul in writing gone? Or is it very much there, hidden for people like me to find out. They play hide and seek, like those immortal pages from the holocaust days … straight from the pens of Anne Frank.

Two Bengali Women and the Volcano

Clouds were getting ominous from the Eyjafjallajokul volcano in Iceland.

I was watching the breaking news of a leading television channel. No wonder my mind was somewhere else. Unknown to many, two of my friends were caught unaware traveling from two opposite sides of this planet. European airspace was closed, and all flights traveling were cancelled.

Both were professional women, traveling alone … and coincidentally both originate from Bengal.

While Gopa was preparing to go to France for her project, Sreemati was coming back to India from Germany. She had spent a great time with her husband who has been stationed near Berlin for some time now. Sreemati is from my team, and had to join work. Gopa is a friend I have known for some years now, mostly through my literary pursuits.

What was unknown, however, was the fate of their immediate travel.

Interestingly, these beautiful souls were grounded for the same reason. I kept thinking … Intriguing yet such a queer coincidence, isn’t it?

Gopa’s project was getting painful at Kolkata with every passing day making her spend late nights at work. Her Project Manager in Bangalore was helpless, unable to control the increasing workload put on her. The client wanted her in France, at the earliest possible. Even the flight tickets were booked in advance so that she could escape this drudgery in her homeland.

She wanted peace of mind … working at onsite with her friendly clients.

Sreemati’s case was different. She was bored staying alone in Pune without her husband for six months. This happens naturally, having been married for just about a year. The longing took her to a trip of Germany, Greece and Spain … with her beloved. Fun times, romantic times … and finally, the need to come back home.

Little needs of life, the work … the longing to keep the so-called ‘flow of income’.

But a volcano came from nowhere to cancel their travel plans.

An upset Gopa called the travel desk frantically on the evening of Saturday. No response. An alternative was to take the number for the vendor company’s emergency desk that arranged foreign travel. These calls are exorbitantly charged, yet Gopa wanted to inform them about her cancelled flight and a further request to re-schedule the trip.

I knew Gopa was a brave woman, but facing the volcano, she appeared vulnerable.
She called me the next day, and was in no mood to understand that the actual travel can happen only after the airspace was cleared. After some talk, she appeared given up, unable to understand why it was only her that had to bear this. Her superiors in work were also silent, unable to really challenge the nature. A date for the trip appeared so difficult.

Next Wednesday Sreemati was to be in office. A mail from her lay in my mailbox on Thursday morning. She had her flights cancelled too … and that there was little that she can avail to come back. May be the next weekend, or even longer, she mentioned half-heartedly.

Meanwhile, Sreemati had booked a bus from Greece on her way to Serbia with the hope of getting some airline to take her home. The anxious husband wanted to accompany her, but she thought it could cost him undue leave at the client location. She took it alone. The bus trip was hectic, and the region unknown. What was being challenged was Sreemati’s determination to be back in India and join work, as early as possible.

When the Serbian police started to interrogate her, she was still hopeful. But those men were sure about the need to satisfy immigration laws. Sreemati wasn’t shy to face immigration, but she was restless to get aboard the airplane. The Serbian authorities denied her entry to their land, and promptly asked her to return to Germany.

As soon as the bus entered Berlin, she could feel a wet droplet near her eyes. It had come out, unknowingly, out of the whole chaos this volcano had created. She comforted herself as her husband hugged her as soon as she got off the bus, and promised to take her to the nearest flight reservation office in the afternoon.

Good luck appeared soon. The airlines industry started to face the wrath of depleted revenues. Already a week had passed, and there was almost zero traffic on air.

Partial airspace was opened up. There were some tickets available with major carriers, but with a hefty price tag. There was no way Sreemati could wait. She managed to get a flight to Mumbai.

Gopa also got a ticket. At least happy at last, even thanking for the little encouragement that I tried to give.

I wished Gopa ‘Bon Voyage’ … may be I could always say that to her. But this trip was vital.

The next Monday, I was surprised to see Sreemati beaming at me from her desk. On asking how could she finally manage to come back, her reply was

‘That’s a long story … will tell you some other day’.

She never told me the trauma that she went through, but I felt it in every little sentence that she spoke about her travel back to her homeland.

Solitude or Love Intoxicating

My house was slowly getting set. The sofa-set had finally arrived, so did a new dining table shining with a glass top. The bedroom was complete with a bed and the cupboard. Well, that was almost … what more could be a requirement for the decent living? Still the house felt empty, may be it wanted a few living soul to live in or it was just for her.

She had wanted to come but got stuck with work.

Poor me! I sometimes feel that way. She could have had work some other day, why did this have to happen to my dear weekend?

The setup for a new house couldn’t do a trick. How could they be the constant companion for a lonely man on a dry weekend? There was a shower the last evening, after around two months or more. Roads were wet. I had gone for an office outing the day before … to a resort on NH4, a day filled with fun, activities and so much more.

She had come too, how couldn’t she? And that’s where she promised to visit me during the weekend. She wanted to talk …

But she did not turn up. Though she called a few times from work, appearing disappointed for not being able to turn up. Still I have this habit of not trusting feminine assurances, they appear too decorative, a bit fashionable at times.

During the afternoon my folks called me at Parihar Chowk. A session with drinks and dinner was indeed inviting. I decided to take the invite.

Smell of vodka came back to me after months, haunting amidst the smell of the wet sand on the chowk. Water from the rains hadn’t seeped too much into the sand. The session appeared entertaining, yet the discussions were mostly on friends, family and frugal matters of life. These days even guys have become smart, they don’t open their minds up with drinks.

I had to finally take a bus back to my home. They wanted to drop me at home, I refused. This mind wanted some time to relax on my way back.

When I reached Hadapsar, the time by my watch was around fifteen minutes past midnight. I could have also taken a rickshaw. One such rickshaw was parked just opposite to this pub at Parihar Chowk. In this city, an auto-rickshaw is less an ‘auto’ more a rickshaw.

Reminded me of a German colleague my father met who wanted to buy a cycle rickshaw for his family back in Berlin … just so that he could have an entire family with less pollution.

I never saw a reason for this German thought! Guess China had rickshaws even before independent India had them. Why couldn’t he buy these pedal-wheeled vehicles from China? My reasoning had critical political overtones from the early seventies. Cold war across the borders, Berlin was more than a companion to the Soviets, so were the Chinese.

This bus had another drunken person as a passenger. He spoke his language, I spoke mine. The conductor asked for the ticket. A ticket is so universal, so is the money. Where does the language come in between? I got one without a hitch, but the other passenger kept questioning the fare. The conductor appeared to give up after a while, he had to appear sober.

Forty five minutes past midnight, the medical college of the armed forces was the only building that had lights on. The classes may have concluded hours back. I kept looking for my stop … for now there were only two more people inside the bus - the driver and the conductor.

The drunken passenger had got down somewhere, I wasn’t attentive then.

My stop came, and the conductor indicated me to get down. Not that I would have preferred staying back, but he thought it was his duty to help a man who seemed indifferent.

From the stop to my apartment, it’s a walk of seven minutes. May be the vodka had started the trick! I tried to keep a count on my watch. There were a few people on the road. A lady sped with her face covered riding a scooty, the mini version of the scooter. It looked as if her deadline to be at home had passed. In India, women must be on time … it’s the prerogative of men to stay away for long. She did notice me, I was briskly walking though. May be her scooty got a feeling of the Indian woman rushing back.

Are scootys in this part of the world feminine too? Even she rode one. May be she was back at home by now. I decided to call her, talking the walk back from the bus stop.

‘lemme know when u r bck’ was the small message appearing on the screen of my cell phone. She may have typed it a while back. It was I who missed it at the pub. Now I should let her know. She may have already retired to bed, after a tired day at work.

Interestingly, the call lasted an hour or even more. We talked, just like two children who are lost in their worlds but can’t get to play with themselves. This fanatic world of work, where we honour our ‘professional obligations’ by the clock, or may be these odd ‘commitments’ to be with the team for the occasional session or two by the bottle. A work life gets so boring at times.

She had known by that time that I was drunk. My words were incoherent. The vodka had finally played the trick. I wanted to speak less, but she understood.

‘You know’ she said, ‘if I could be with you tonight, it would be even more intoxicating’. I was thrilled for a moment, may be, since the very thought of her with me was so filled with love.

And love is indeed intoxicating, more than the vodka.

Stranger

In that quiet corner of the park, he had made this bench permanent as his seat. Not sure where he came from, but he would make it a point to sit on the bench, one afternoon after the other. Right from the time the sun would tilt into the western horizon, till the time it would finally set … almost covering the entire afternoon into the evening. He remained seated there … watching the proceedings around. All alone, all by himself.

The town wasn’t his, neither anyone could recollect having seen him or met him in distant past. But the way he would sit on the bench, one would assume that he has made this town a home.

Was he alone? None would ever know.

Clad in his signature costume – a faded pair of denims and a khaki half-shirt – he would be seen visiting the park everyday, and slowly everyone would have considered him a valid resident of the town.

But was he a permanent resident? Who would ever know?

From the point he entered the park, till the time he left his seat, one could see him looking tirelessly around. The children, the youth and the elderly whoever visited the park never missed his sight. Yet none exactly knew where he lived. And when he left his seat, he would simply vanish outside the park … until the next afternoon when he would be back at the park again.

Where would he leave for? Guess none would ever know.

Stranger would be a nicer qualification for him. But then he was a stranger who was a regular, so much so that the visitors to the park could vouch for him that he would come and sit on that bench, his permanent seat, around the stipulated time.

There were days when he would keep looking upwards, towards the sky. May be, he lost someone who he felt was up there. He kept looking up as if that person would peep out among the clouds any time for one last look at him. But as it often happens, the look never resulted in anything significant … he got a bit dissatisfied looking upwards.

What would he be looking for? None would ever know the answer.

Most of the remaining time, he would be looking around … or stare constantly at a group, whether it was a bunch of children or a group of young people didn’t matter.

He would smile, or sometimes frown at the happenings around. But he would never talk … nor even attempt to even start a conversation with anyone around. Those in the park were used to his presence, and behaved as if he was known. In short, he had slowly started to become a known stranger!

One day, a group of young girls were having a joyful time enjoying an animated conversation. The stranger heard and was curiously amused. He seemed interested and wanted to get into it. So he tried to call some in the group. He waved his hands at the group and tried to call any one of them, but remained silent as he wasn’t sure of their names. His hesitancy was evident, but he just wanted to relate to their talks.

At first the girls didn’t see him wave at him … but were soon apprehensive of his gesture.

Most of them got scared seeing his hand pointing at them. There were faces that were afraid to even speak out. Having seen him regularly wasn’t all that difficult, but to see him make this gesture frightened them. They would sense something was suspicious, and seeing him look at them made them a wee bit uncomfortable too.

The initial hesitation over, most girls in the group were of the opinion to leave that place. This would mean that the stranger would no longer be able to even spot them or even try to follow them. To move out of the park meant a safer way to avoid an interaction with an unknown person.

Soon they left the place, and the park slowly started to become normal again. The stranger, with a disappointed face, kept looking at the way the girls took to exit the place. His face expressed the hidden frustration.

May be he had something to ask them, but none would ever know what it was for.

A stranger that he was, he remained a stranger even though he had become so known as the person sitting on his permanent seat.

At Pune with the process of Settlement

The day I landed in Pune, I had a bad start. We found at the Kolkata airport that I had forgotten my suitcase keys at home. Never done that before, guess tensions were running high in me. A dash back home was inevitable, missing the flight ... and finally catching the next available flight. Such was the start of my urgent trip to me.

We boast ourselves of being techies, no wonder we move with the speed of bytes. Our plans and programs are next only to the Almighty's. Actions are not something we wait for ... we are on the rush to extremes ... always!!

In Kalyani Nagar, a chirpy evening was nearing as the sun was on the western horizon when I rang the door bell of the guest house where I was supposed to stay. The caretakers, Balwant and Heera, were there to greet me. In my short stay at Kalyani Nagar, of around two weeks, these two never ceased to make me feel at home.

Be the poha, the parathas they cooked for me in breakfast ... or the anxious wait for me when I suddenly decided to catch a late night show of the 3-D extravaganza 'Avatar' at Gold Adlabs. They never knew that an idle mind has finally made his way to Pune!

Nights are definitely late here, and it never feels midnight on the streets. As I slowly grow to be a 'Puneich Mulga', these are definite takeaways from this warm and vibrant city.

Now I operate from Magarpatta City, from one of the cyber city towers that make for Pune's skyline. Inside these towers, computers keep processing, earning a few million dollars every day and night. My teams are bigger, hopefully better ... as I keep myself busy with a learning process that one has to get into in a new geographical location with a promising team.

But a new working team has to put up with this man with an idle mind!!

People do settle down, but there's so less to settle for. This is the same country that is also lazy, takes time to even move a file from one desk to the other. There are corporate policies, and business processes that take a toll of a person's newfound zeal to settle for more ... be it in person or at work.

Pune is definitely India too ... as was Kolkata. To that effect, the spirit of India remains intact. Plans get postponed, things get delayed to make people slog in an endless wait. A chance talk with legendary InkTank happened, he asked me to give some time even to the process of school admission for kids.

We are used to this, be it Kolkata or Pune, and Indian processes are nightmares. Time is not yet translated to revenues, and that asking people to wait is the pride of one's job.

So this settlement process is going to take some extra time. I am an Indian, so I bear it. I may be waiting, but I'm also trying to make myself establish a tent as soon as possible.

If the caravan has moved, how long can the tent wait to be put up?

I dedicate this to the youth of India, who are a fascinating lot in this city. They are intelligent, and are eager to reach out for the pinnacle of their careers. Students and young working hands, they are the ones I will probably fall for ... until I get a growing company.

Possibly I will meet InkTank in one of those legendary restaurants, coffee shops or someplace else. Aundh, Kothrud, Baner, Kalyani Nagar or Magarpatta ... the place does not matter. The time and date is not decided, but the eagerness to meet is baffling.

With this, I conclude a mere status update, though you may not be necessarily feeling my absence yet.

I will write regularly as I promised a few years back ... since this is just the fourth year of the promise!

Idle on the move

This trip was almost due. Ten years of continuous stay, this life of a techie needed a move. Constraints will be there, priorities need to come at some point … if not at the onset.

Packing will be troublesome, so will be the journey. From a house that was marked ‘owned’ to be someone’s tenant, it won’t be easy. A new location, new culture, may be newer adventures … lots of them in store for us.

Dad’s not moving … may be he won’t. His social life, fondness for familiar fellows will keep him hooked to hometown

But I need to move. This city looks saturated, or may be the recession, as jobs don’t come easy. There are political disturbances. Opportunities, they are not what my city is now known for.

A new setup to start from scratch, that makes my body go numb. A new beginning is what is so allergic, changes are tricky. May be I waited too long to move … may be I should have moved earlier. Deeper roots don’t detach easily.

Bangalore or Pune? Time will tell …

For this time, I am getting myself prepared. To me, the sole focus is my work. They say one needs to stay employed and keep growing. I am no stranger to problems, and they will need to be looked into.

Trying to look forward now. The time has come for me to relocate. Lots of soul-searching, numerous discussions … and may be, some more.

Need to move now … or otherwise, it may be too late for me.

A Messenger on the Sleigh

I lay still … eyes closed enjoying the morning chill. The new mattress on my queen-sized bed appears so cozy that I feel like never waking up. Soft effect of the foam, the plush sheet that covers it and the cute warmth of the comforter … all merges into the dawn of the thirty first.

From the window glasses, I could see smaller flakes … falling as they softly do, from the heavens. This is the dream of the white New Year’s Eve … as I draw the comforter close to my face.

Every winter, during the dawn of the thirty-first of December, I feel there’s a happy dream. A lovely hangover like it has never felt before.

Guess he comes in my dreams … riding his deer-sleigh!

Some romanticism is forever, and it doesn’t always require two to tango … the dream of the old man in red, riding the sleigh, remains visible. With a misty morning waiting me and a hot cup, bells from the reindeer’s neck remain jingling for long.

The mind just doesn’t get up. The body remains wrapped in the warmth of the comforter. And this idle mind keeps romancing the snow capped route with the sleigh!

Flakes fall softly on the window glass, turning into tiny globules of water and drips down. Nothing seems softer than this, not even the quietest fall of leaves. Tiny traces of white shine amidst the green of the small garden around my house.

My mood, there’s none to disturb. Wrapping the comforter around, I walk outside. Just to take that look. The small lane that leads to the neighbourhood winds away a lonelier soul. A chance look towards the letter box reveals it’s half open.

With carefully covered hands, I reach out for the depths of the letter box. A colourful envelope comes out.

In these days of electronic mail, the coloured envelope is a gift indeed. I open it, neatly tearing the border as I walk back inside.

Oh my! She has sent me a New Year’s wish. The warmth of the wrap and the delight of the lines that she has scribbled, my heart warms up. My lonely soul gets the spirit wrapped with those coloured images from the wishes.

Long time no see. Guess she looks at me like this every year. And the old man, the messenger, heeds her request … each year … every year.

Happy New Year … a happy new year indeed!

Gossips sweet and sour

Winters are bit chillier these days… but many residents from my city are too cautious. The December chill makes them move in neck-high pullovers or warm mufflers wrapped around their much-hyped vocal areas. Or as a fashion statement, may be – the pink cardigan or the puffy sweater from areas like Kashmir or Ludhiana.

From bus stops to coffee shops, most prefer a huddled conversation. More likely is a man-woman combination, often engrossed in the choicest discussion to keep their minds and bodies warm.

Men and women are all covered.

During my stay in US, there was a colleague who had this ‘manly’ habit of drooling on pretty faces and petite female bodies. He was in the billing department. He said he loved ‘working with figures’. But, come winter, he went morose. He cribbed about bodies getting covered from head to toe … fur replacing skin, and woolens covering more of the ‘attractive areas’.

This rarely pleases a hot-bodied man!

Substitute that with a cozy talk, winter seems welcome. Sitting inside the Barista or a CCD, one can work wonders speculating about fellow humans. Personal, sensational and intimate details of lives fall easy prey to speculation and make for some spicy stuff to go with the cup.

No sweat, no exhaustion of summers. Guess gossip time is around the corner.

I am a bad gossipmonger, not because it’s ‘unfair’. I fail to cook stories about others, may be it is not my cup of tea. But, I love to hear tales. Juicy, frivolous and naughty ones that attempts to tear apart a guarded individual it is directed at.

Breaking free from the afternoon naps, I recall aunts and cousins rejoice in winter discussing spicier tit-bits about celebrities, modern (and progressive) relatives or about cases of free-minded neighbours. Most may be predictive, yet the pleasure of dissecting private lives and deriving an enchanting gratification in chatting could be worthy of a chilly afternoon.

Back seats of buses seem no different. Young and old, crossing all barriers would be blabbering mouthfuls of peppery details. The listener can be immediately identified. Their eyes wide open amidst the chill … and all ears to the story despite the cacophony of sound in a frenzied milieu of noisy activities.

One of the latest I overheard the other day was between two co-passengers sitting cozy inside the bus. The subject is a married guy at work who’s ‘handsome’. And there is a lady, the one who wants to make it big. This pair seems to be working late too often. The lady in the bus, covered head-to-waist with her shawl, confides to her male friend (with a muffler around his head) of something going between these two co-workers. She has heard people say that they leave work pretty late. Some are even pointing at a fling developing with all ingredients of an adulterous flow of passion.

I am all ears, but they don’t notice me eavesdropping on their conversation. With due respect to the actors from the conversation, I also find the couple in the bus cooking up a spicy chemistry in their curious tones.

We don’t always need champion golfers. There are enough tigers in our woods catching prey day in and out!

Misty forests of life, chilly days are definitely godsend for some among us.

Trapped

I feel the only time a man can’t fake his identity is when he’s trapped. Not sure if it is true for all beings on earth. Let research prove it.

Almost five minutes have passed. The elevator hasn’t moved an inch. It had shaken and stopped on its way up … halfway through the eleven floors to get to my office.

We got caught … yes, just the two of us. Of all people, there’s only this girl with me from the call center on the tenth floor. She’s busy listening to her iPod. Aaaaargh … so annoying.

This god-damn elevator doesn’t move. And a co-passenger merrily spending time with earphones tucked to her ears. Plain problem-unconscious!

She looks relaxed. Modern lady … not afraid of unknown men, may be. I feel sick, sweating at the very thought of being with a stranger woman, also getting late for work. Pure frustration!

‘Hello, do you hear me?’, I call up the attendant on ground using the phone.

‘Remain calm, sir’, he advises ‘we are on our way’.

I feel restless. What a mess! For a moment, even the lady seems a sure distraction. She seems so comfortable, that’s irritating. Need to teach her a lesson … do I grope her?

At least, she will get a freaking lesson in life – not to trust strangers!

Her blouse top is cut ridiculously low, exposing a bit of what every man wants to see … but never gets to. Shut up, I need to think sober. I look up to see the light bulbs.

Shall I break them now?

A molestation saga can be a simple routine thereafter. Ah, my damned thoughts again.

The elevator vibrates a little. The lady smiles at me … says ‘looks like they’re working’.

No comments. This is stupidity at its worst. I should have never been in this mess. Guess she feels safe to be with me. I don’t understand the reason.

May be, women prefer to spend time with caring men!

The elevator shakes again, rather a big one. Unable to balance, the lady trips and falls on me. Well, almost. She should have felt sorry. But she’s normal. It’s me who feels uncomfortable.

Feminist world, I grumble. My day won’t be any better.

Hold on, now I’m scratching my head. Did it prove something? Or disprove? A man trapped is definitely a cause of despair. May be I was a bit unfair to this woman.

Ok, let me reconstruct this case, say, with an elder man this time. And let the elevator again get stuck on its way up.

The only person with me on the elevator is this old executive from the tenth floor. This gentleman may be in his late fifties, takes a deep breath every time he hops into the elevator. Yes, he literally jumps into it.

His chauffeur carries his briefcase using the service elevator. Typical babu he is.

There’s an ‘executive’ arrogance, as he looks at me. Silently still, he prefers me to call the ground staff through the phone. I meekly oblige. Senior pro, I feel, elderly person … he should get a preference. My gentle being gives up.

The next thing I hear is, ‘Remain calm … we’re coming up’. I feel good. The elderly gentleman looks around, may be looking at other options … to keep me busy.

‘You work in the eleventh floor?’, he asks.

Stupid question. The fact that I pressed the button marked eleven should have been enough. I think he wants a conversation. Clever fellow!

‘Yes, I do’, I firmly answer.

‘How long do they take to come?’, he queries again.

Now, was I angry? My choicest answer would be ‘well, I’ve never tried locking myself up to test their response time’. But politeness gets the better of me.

‘No idea, just stay calm … they should be here anytime’ was all I mumble.

He asks me to check with them again … as if the entire world reports to him as the executive. I follow again, succumbing to the aura of the executive maturity that he has.

Some three or so minutes pass by. I feel restless, but this gentleman is keen to keep me busy. He reminds me to call them again … and this time I refuse, asking him to stay calm.

There’s annoyance written on his face. As if in this stupid held-up, the only thing that bothers him is me not obeying his orders.

Peculiar humans, I must admit! But are they getting any better with gender or age?

Or do I resist being trapped? Let research prove it.

I want to sense Motion

No, I don’t wish to invite the wrath of scientists and technicians who work day in and out around sources of motion. But I must make the truthful confession.

Men have varied addictions. While some smoke, others drink. Another breed is faithful to their wives … and so on. Some men even dare to dash out with their dangling organs to the nearest available prostitute. There can be many more.

Some of them get cured as they resolve to come out of it. But I have this strange addiction – to be physically part of motion and sense it.

And I don’t wish to come out this one.

Decades back, while I was crossing the street, a bicycle came charging towards me. In a fit of fantasy, my ten-year old hand vaguely attempted to stop it … but failed. A bruise on top of the palm, few visits to doctor later, I was hooked to this.

When I see something in motion, I feel to sense it. That’s the charm, in short.

Strange, isn’t it? Yet whatever little I’ve tried to control keeps surfacing back. Few years after the bicycle incident, I was riding pillion on the rickshaw that took us to school. My eyes fell on its revolving wheels. Weeks after observing those wheels, I craved to touch it.

The day came and my left foot was inside while the rickshaw was in motion. I was rushed back home. A tensed mom got my toe stitched by the physician, tetanus injection administered … and warned me to be less of a nuisance for her.

More than the agony, I was completely satisfied!

Another day, I was in the mood to test gravity and the free fall. Getting on top of the school playground jhoola, I started to look downwards. The height could be around ten feet. My mind wanted to sense the gravity.

Instantly, I jumped to ground and fell straight on my face.

The entire central incisor (tooth) from the root came out and the upper lip got badly torn. I bled profusely till the time I was rushed to the doc. The handkerchief held to my mouth started dripping blood. Stitches again … but I remained cool.

Our school principal admired my patience … little did he know that this boy's inner peace was the sense of accomplishment. There was more to come.

During my graduation, one day I was sitting with my (the then) girlfriend on the stairs of my university building. It was early evening. Needless to say, she was an intelligent company, perhaps one of the most intelligent of ladies that I met in this life. The conversation, naturally, kept going … until I looked at my wrist watch.

It was eight thirty … almost an hour after the main gate to the building is closed!

She had to be rescued out. I rushed to the first floor corridor. It was a frantic attempt to get her out of the building to try and avoid a terrific ordeal of scores of scandalous remarks from our surroundings.

And then I decided. I would jump from the balcony, land on the road in front and then rush to the security folks. Pleading them will help, since they will believe me that (only) a lady is trapped inside and they’ll open the gates.

I touched her hands … and within seconds took the plunge. A few minutes later, she was out of the building to my relief. And then she wanted to look at my palms on whose support I landed on the road below. I opened them to her.

With a sudden reflex, she moved her face away from me … palms were all smeared with blood.

It’s hard to contain. Even today, my brains tickle me when the pedestal fan starts to revolve in top speed. Or when the train whizzes past me or the aircraft rushes to fly on the runway, I crave for the motion … and wish to feel it first hand.

For one last time, may be!

The Unholy part of truth

Of all the wonderful aspects of life that I have fallen in love with, the fascination for truth is one. From my younger days, I have been a fanatic trying to uncover mysteries surrounding a man’s quest for truth.

During my younger days in school, teachers advocated to speak the truth. It was more than the mere Gandhian call to honesty. My mom, being a lady full of ideals pushed me hard to shun lies of all forms. And here I was, as the devil incarnate, willing to sacrifice everything for truth … and nothing but the truth!

It’s another matter that the truth I followed mostly turned against me.

I had this habit of stealing food from kitchen or refrigerator. Whenever I got this opportunity, a swift act to steal a few spoons of custard kept in the fridge or sugar from the kitchen container was my habit.

When my mom found it out (I consumed in wholesome quantities), the only admission I made was that I did it. The entire purpose of stealing being lost, a strong admonition from my sister added to the stringent punishment from mom.

We siblings were partners in that ‘horrendous crime’.

My mother disliked her son to be growing like a thief, but then her son was different. The obsession to be truthful never failed … and mostly there were punishments in store that sealed her aspirations to make me a decent man.

Back then, during our school days, sexual explorations were mostly myth. But they happened in secrecy. This incident was from my high school days. A girl was proposed by a guy from our class, and they decided to make love in our chemistry lab.

I was a class monitor. The girl came to me with this proposal. She wanted to bribe me so as to help her carry the act. The idea was to have me follow the love-making act with her after she’s done with this guy. But then, I had to lie and support them in case the administration found them out.

The bribe was titillating, but then I was a fanatic for truth. I refused to lie in case required. Not that I was against this ‘unholy’ act, but was scared in case my teacher made a mountain out of a molehill from my statement.

There could be a backlash. None knew the punishment for a misadventure in such sexual acts. The alleged rumour was that boys were suspended, and their private parts unceremoniously ‘scrutinized’.

Sanjay Gandhi’s drive for sterilization was doing the rounds those days!!

Though the adventure stopped, the idea that a darker world lies beneath the truth did expose. I call them unpleasant or the ‘unholy’ truth. And in all my life, I have enjoyed a secret pleasure trying to relish the darker side of the truth.

A distant relative died of cancer, and her husband eloped with the housemaid within the next few days. When the news came to our family, they were shocked. None could explore it further or expose.

For me, it was bonus news. It was a fact that he fled, but this 'truth' wasn't relished. It remained submerged forever in privacy.

Cut to the online world, there were many such instances when I was made party to a truth that could never come out. Strangely though, such facts were damn interesting. Just that they couldn’t be exposed for fear of the backlash!.

Societal norms or fear of retaliation, they even deny the fundamentals of truth!

Every time I think of them, I feel these truths should be documented and shared. And most of these times I feel bad for those who acted in them. Even on those that I had a part, I feel bad for the person who was involved with me for the fact. And so the necessary truth remains undisclosed.

Otherwise, there could be rounds of misdemeanour, love proposals, dates … adultery and so much more that stays within the confines of my own freaking brains.

I fear a backlash. Still reminds me of those days of the nasbandi drive!

Some Friendly Calls

These are pressing times, and indeed, some times are pressing enough to make one feel pressed hard to work … and writing takes a step back. So are these times now as I make my way through important areas of life at work.

‘abey saala, where are you?’, inquired the friend on my phone … he was just about looking enraged as I remained lost for him for quite some time.

‘nothing yaar’, I remarked, ‘just tight with work … bus’ was my reply.

But his voice made me feel a bit of comfort, even if it started with some profanity. And markedly enough, such are the ways friendly guys often get to address each other. Boys seem to be so used to it that these have become powerful as friendly salutations.

During our times, we never dared to use obscenities in front of women … not even from the same class in school. But then, this ‘saala’ remained a great favourite among us. No wonder we tried to make some girls comfortable with this one word, no matter how difficult it was to do in our times!

Life has come full circle … and now girls seem to have allowed the entry of such words. Well, may be some of them. Friendly calls, well, few have been pretty obnoxious to even wonder about.

When we were kids, I remember distinctly a sure way to greet parents of our friends was a discreet ‘namaste uncle’ or a ‘namaste aunty’. Nothing more, and they would sure give us a tight hug, or a sweet kiss used to be planted on our docile cheeks.

Addressing elder humans, I must agree, have been easier. But not friends, as they grow pretty interesting at times.

Some time back, here was a guy, though known to me but writing to me for the first time. His was a business mail which started of rather, well, not the way we were used to reading the first mail.

‘hey, remember me?’, and I was quite taken aback!

Was he calling me from among a crowd? I wondered. My limited knowledge of the English language didn’t help either. I was disappointed, why would I even respond to such a mail?

I was probably wrong. Not knowing really that this salutation would soon become one of the more comfortable ones in the professional world. Though I felt a bit lost at first, gradually the ‘hey’ didn’t remain just a shout … it became a loud call … something I was asked to hear.

In the web world, when I was new, there was quite a bit of confusion when I first read someone comment on my writing as ‘dear, loved your writing …’.

‘Dear?’, I said to myself … ‘why would I be dear to her?’ But that was three years back.

This lady (a big girl now) remains a great friend of mine … and indeed she can be called dear today. She is a dear friend, and remains dear with whatever she stands for in life.

‘Dear friend’ is a salutation that we often use in writing, and so the word ‘dear’ now seems closer to me than it was before. Now I use ‘dear’ freely, without any sense of gender or any discrimination. A harmless address, the ‘dear’ seems a comfortable call for me.

At least, I can put to text some additional affection to my friends who richly deserve it.

I can’t end without this episode from my school life. Here was this very good-looking girl, Priya, who we naturally loved to play with. We were in Class three, and happily enjoying the first seeds of the flirted life!

Priya was a darling … and honestly, we were quite baffled with her baby beauty. Those plump cheeks, all pink … and the wonderful black hair neatly tied with ribbons. That day, I decided to call her and play hide and seek. Oh well, she initially agreed … and then in the midst of play, I dared to seek out those who were hidden.

Among the bushes in the far corner of the school ground was Priya, hidden among the greenery. When I went to seek her, she was caught absolutely unaware. With a sudden jerk, I screamed from behind on seeing her in the bushes. She was shocked … and within seconds, started to cry loudly. Out of fear, I supposed.

Honestly, a not-so-fair guy has never looked decent among the bushes!

She got really angry on that day. Poor me, for no fault of mine, she also started to dislike me afterwards. Those junior primary days, I thought love and hate were just four-letter words. But the wiser disagreed. This friend, a hunk by the name Bharat Bhushan, advised

‘Ulloo ke patthey, why do you always indulge with snob girls?’, he retorted, ‘they are not fit for you, you understand? … just remain with those who are good sport’.

The offensive word translates to ‘son of the owl’. Still on that occasion, when I was totally confused as to why Priya had started to hate me, even the ‘Ulloo ke Patthey’ gave a lot of encouragement!

To this day, I abide by those words of wisdom.