We Deserve More...

Well, let’s admit that education is (not) the manifestation, as it’s touted to be, of the perfection already in man. I mean all through these years, perhaps some 17 odd years, one thing that never quite manifested itself was the perfection. And in perfection I mean the conventional, educational perfection. On the contrary, all that this education process has done to me is turn me into a dispassionate, and importantly, all the more, an imperfect state. Yes Sir, I have strong points to validate my opinions.

Let’s go back in time. I attended my nursery for three consecutive years. Aghast ? No, it was not an overly enthusiastic bid to get my education right from the basics, and the foundation of which had to be laid thrice. Call it the unfortunate turn of events, my first stint was in the local school, when out of enthusiasm, though at the right age, I decided to join my sister, elder to me, to her school. I ran into some trouble with the class teacher, then the principal regarding something which I don’t remember, and was thrown out. Yeah, my parents had to get me out of the school. And it was there I developed strong negative images of the word MADAM. Moving on, I was admitted to perhaps one of the better schools, better only in the sense that they were more organized in their process of throwing out children from lower kinder gartens. After one full year of my hard work, regardless of humiliations I had to undergo while there, I worked hard for my exams. I took  my exams and the result…you never know those “bitches”…the ones clad in white gowns, calling themselves the all the pious names they could think of, and in the end only managing to fuck up (pardon my language) a little boy’s future. I did not go to the class to receive the result, may be because I was absent due to something I can’t recollect, again, and then they refused to give my performance card, and you can’t go any further without the performance cards. To sort out this issue, my mom and my brother, dressed up handsomely in a coat in a bid to pose as my father, went to see the “bitch”, and to pronounce the names that I have attributed to her even louder, she not only decides against giving my result card, but also denies them an audience. What the fuck…How pitiful her state would be, when she comes to that she missed the chance to boast about being the principal of the school to which the district topper belongs. Any how that “bitch” deserved it.

Mt. Assisi was perhaps the only one that would embrace one of those it had shunned in history. Did I mention about my second stint. Not completely, I think. So, I went to the Assisi for the admission, and they showed me a battery and asked me what it was. I replied NIPPO. They said, OK son you know a little too much to be in the nursery, and rejected me. I still don’t know how my being able to read NIPPO could pose such a threat to them. Perhaps, I should simply have said a battery. The second qstn was something I don’t remember, again (I know it kind of bugs you to read the things “again” and “again”), about building bridges with some blocks of wood. I made the Eiffel tower, literally, and still I was rejected. What more did they need? Perhaps a dumbo, who they could teach, peacefully. My uncle and my father decided to talk to the principal, once “again’ a classic example of the “sister”-and-“mother” fucking fathers and brothers (even if you take their positional titles and transliterate, it remains the same) of the “maternity”, and present my impressive CV. The petition, “sir his sister and brother are also in the same school, and so it is unjust you reject him. Plus, he has the first hand experience of such and such schools.” Pat comes the reply, and to the truest of his natures, “You can take them out as well”. Phew….and long day at the office, it had been for me.

Midnight.

The midnight, moonlit sky, regardless of all its virginity, white, and velvet imaginations, stares through the sparkle of many a stars, that have listlessly been carved out of a hapless bosom, into the madness of the stubborn, blazing loneliness sieving through its shrouded carcass. The dilemma is whether it should mourn the ugly solitude, or exult at the fact that its this fire of lonesomeness that lends it some attention; for when the fire dies down, all that is left is the midnight blue, and a forgotten existence.

The cold moonlight, resting passively upon the tallest woods, is suddenly shaken by the hustle in the ever so docile wind, and falls off the trembling leaves into the naked ground with a silent thud. Not a chance did the earth have to cover its breast, and the only at it could now savor grace was if something covered it. The surrounding flora shamelessly kept staring at it as if enjoying every bit of the sight, while the remorseless moonlight stayed put. An April sky could not have been more expressive.

Rumor was it that there had risen a mutiny in the ranks of the clouds, and the inexorable flow of the ruthless mutineers was building stronger by the passing moment. Many of its stars were killed in defending the never ending territory of the sky, and many had let their guards down. Every now and then, at far away places, the thunder of the dying fire could be heard and even seen, as a struggling adder that wriggles in the sandy terrain. The whistling of the wind was growing louder, in a frantic attempt to warn its fellows of the impending death. Not a moving soul dared to witness this unforgiving hatred, this implacable sadism. The infinite space had shut its eyes at this rape.

****************************************************

This was something that the space could not parse. Was it rendered blind? Or had its eyes been shut permanently? No. The eyes were split wide open but there was not a vision to be seen, not a sound to beat on the eardrums; the fire of the sky, the grandest woods, the whistling wind, the cold, velvet mesh of the moonlight, all were gone and for good. Where was the earth? The heavy atmosphere signalled doom. And where had the trees gone? Where had the Moon vanished? How come there was no sky?

The earth was heavy with the load of all the wood, the breast had been covered by the corpse of all those who shamelessly stared at it while it cried for cover, the Moon was swallowed by the sinister clouds, the fire of the sky was doused by the relentless tears of a weeping earth, the stars were murdered in the rampage, the leaves which conspired against the earth when the shook off the moonlight, were beaten down to their graves, the wind that played the informer had to run away for its life, and the velvet moonlight was raped into roughness. The earth had the last laugh.

The attention seeking sky, was forced into its state of forgotten existence. What was the dilemma now? To mourn the forgotten existence, with no more illumination to share its presence with things earthly, or to exult at the fact that this state was not 'alone' his? That the lost sight of the world and the lost attention came with the oblivion of its existence?

****************************************************

With all this, I am successfully able to get my nephew to sleep, after three hours of useless appeasing. My dilemma is that should I rejoice at the fact that I told such a wonderful, chilling lullabye to get him to sleep, or that it was such a worthless exercise to even listen to it unintentionally, that he thought it was better to sleep?

Awareness B(c)log

"Tell me something in the field of general knowledge, some area that you think you know a lot about." After 25 mins. of shameless show of stupidity in the interview room, the delegates, if I dare call them such glitzy names, scaled another summit of blasphemy.

(Now, don't post comments regarding the usage of "blasphemy". I know I use it more than often, seldom preserving the gravity ;)). Coming back to this incidence, we had the interview sessions of perhaps one of the largest earners of foreign exchange in India. The level of awareness about the company in the campus was miserable. They thought that the firm was a cigarette manufacturing one and many of them had not even heard its name. Those company guys, the head of the Munger factory, some new recruits and some so-called HR persons...they had decided to use the services of a few of us in the interests of their company. The habits and ways of people definitely change after they get to see the shine of their pockets, and those newly recruited chaps were pillars of this truth. The factory man, perhaps hardened by the ways of the bihari workers in his factory, presented a silver streak on his head, and the crunchy white shirt reflected him as someone presumably wise. The one with lesser crop on his head, the HR guy, donned a maroon shirt, the perfect reflection of his present state, I thought. The three new recruits, a lady from KGP , one fron GHY and the other from no man's land, all tried their level best to sport executive looks, faring none better than salespersons.

So we got this mail from the authorities regarding the company's intentions. No. of applications touched the hundred mark, despite the lull due to the impending exams. No crop was left standing, every sown seed was reaped...some borrowed their CV's and some fools like me tried to be overtly buoyant; some became conveners of never-to-be things, some won medals, some got inducted into an XYZ hall of fame and much more blah...the remaining fools like me were too much absorbed in their world of make-belief that they forgot that the form was not something for the avocational courses. Some over-enthusiasts from the junior batch seemed too eager to secure a job and ecstatically, cashed in on this "opportunity".

All said and done, the penultimate day dawns and we get the mail regarding those new-recruits' desire to have some informal chat sessions with us. Of course these "tips" in such informal sessions find a few takers. With hardly 2 hrs left for the day, I was one of those (only) 20 who gathered under the moon-y sky. The sermon was short, and basically focused on stressing that their company was not the place for good-for-nothing people, and all I did was to smile, wryly. They said they wanted people with healthy GPA's, if not studies, they should be conveners and if not conveners, they should be sports persons...all doors closed for me. They never said said a word about budding musicians or authors...the only points in my resume. Nonetheless, the awareness motion was passed and we set to discuss on the group discussion aptitude. Barring those guests, the people told they found the only speaker of the night in me. I was satisfied...with the false hope of making it through the cut off criterion.

With all the mice in my stomach having eaten all my lunch, I arrived at the presentation place the next day. They had already shortlisted those they thought fit for the GD and here they were, wasting the precious moments of about 150 other non-deserving students. An hour long presentation ensues and we are left in awe of the remuneration he mentions at the end of his speech, that Munger guy. Wait ends, the names are put up...my dreamy eyes are taken aback. I am not here...I am deemed unfit...holy mother, I am not shortlisted. Amidst the clamor, I find a familiar voice calling my name, proclaiming its selection. What else could I do than congratulate him on his success...but wait...his form was the same, if not identical to mine...alas! he had a better GPA, a million times better than mine. Reality spat on my face..."You fool, go and study...writing blogs or playing a guitar or planning to author books is of no use. You are an engineer...do something that fits you...huh...guitarist, blogger, author...if not study at least start playing...All music/blogs/literature and no study/play makes Vivek an unfit boy". Realization dawns. I am unfit. Wearing a smile that expressed more of agony than satisfaction, I went up to him and gave him some valuable "tips" regarding the GD he was to partake. Dejected, despondent, i came back to the hostel. The only humor for the day was the faces of those who went to the presentation in their formals, hoping a call.

Then came the point on which this account is being written. One of my friends who was shortlisted and had cleared the interview, came screaming injustice. Honestly, I was not unhappy to say the least. OK, so he comes with a pack of cigarettes, and a soft drink, sweating and fuming over the interviewers. The whole point of the interview was unworthily try and prove the non-mechanical and non-chemical unworthy for the company.

The interview starts with a a question on the favorite subject. He says maths...out-rightly rejected. Physics...called a non-subject. Bio-engineering...unfit......they don't need bio. people. My friend swears silently...they ask him to pick a subject of which they can sniff the proceedings. He chooses thermodynamics.
The first question is shot with a victorious smile..."What do you think led to Gibbs thinking about the dynamics of his equation? what could have been the motivation behind this equation?"
"Fuck...how do I know?"
He was silent. Second question...what is "certain thing" in thermodynamics?
...still, silence follows.
"It seems you don't know too much about this subject."
He argues that he a Biotech student and need not know so much of thermodynamics. His words fall on deaf ears.

"OK, tell me something in the field of general knowledge, some area that you think you know a lot about."
"Cuban missile crisis..."pat comes the reply.
"No...this is not relevant for us...give me another option"
Silently... "Fucker...how do i know what suits you?" With a grim look, he says "World war II"
"Nope...chose something else...", the interviewer says, uninterested in his proposition.
"Indira Gandhi assassination..." is that ok you fool...
"OK chhodo, I will ask you on my own. Tell me why do you think the Chandrayaan failed?"
Surprised, he said all the heat resistance...and height above the surface theory.
"Not satisfactory...why did it fail? which coating melted? what stuff was it made of?"
Silence.
"Sir how do i know...I mean I am not supposed to know the chemicals and the materials"
"Nope...you are an engineer, and so you are supposed to know. OK, then tell me, what was the reason for the failure of the Pokhran tests...you might be hearing a lot these days...?"
Silence.
"Sir, I dont know."
The same engineer thing follows. No words other than the worst abuses he could think of.

And rightly so...what else are we supposed to be aware of as engineers, and Indians and more so, humans? The prospective vaccines of HIV infections, the reason for the spread of the swine flu and the chemicals in its vaccines, the principals behind the launching of satellites, the compositions of satellites, the principal behind the latest nano-technology, the research of the Nobel prize winners, or latest the software developed by some blue chip company?

What else are we supposed to know as Indians? the Chinese incursions, the Pakistani ISI plans, or the motivations behind such activities, the current chief ministers and governors of all the 28 states, the latest foreign policy or rather the motivations behind those, the financial deficit and inflation and their primary reasons, or may be the development activities...

What else are we supposed to know, or be aware of as humans...the declining moral values, the increasing global warming, the melting glaciers, the threatening nuke developments in other countries, the global meltdown and its causes and solutions, the difference between slowdown recession and depression, or the no of cities going green, the latest update on the terrorist attacks, the biography of the US presidents or the gobal personalities mentioned in the list of most powerful persons?

Certainly not. We are not supposed to any of these as what we are. Does it not suffice to know what we want to and not what we are "supposed" to? Does it indicate, that by limiting my options to something that i am not interested in, and then clogging my brain on that issue and proclaiming my ignorance, is something that shoots up the respect for interviewers?

Hell no. I am satisfied with my guitar, with my literary bend and with my desire to author a book rather than go for something I am uninterested in.

Memory is a strange phenomenon, a relative to truth but not its twin. And mind you memory is limited. So why choke myself with too much of undesired alertness? Why clog the brain, even with benign tumors of awareness?

Arbit (insightful, though)

Twenty five hours is a long time indeed.

It was some three days ago that I earned lavish praise from my cousin and friends. The fuss was about something I happened to write on my blog. Now, I ventured into this blog-o-sphere some fifteen months ago and it is only after 43 posts that I have realized the beauty of a writing experience. The average writing duration nears three posts a month, and sadly, this is the weighted average of all the writings over all this time. And to be very honest, the average marks I give myself in all these posts is somewhere around 65 on the scale of. Surprising, right, that someone like me, a branded narcissist, awards himself such laurels. OK, narcissism, but the decision is to enter the real world, to step out of the world of make-belief, and to see for myself, what weight do my words actually carry. Its time to realize that if people say I write well, I respect their good-will and respond to the same in an honorable and respectable way. Fifteen months is a long time and over the internet space, I have been successful in grafting someone unknown to me into my friend list through this blog. What is good about this experience is my realization that if I own a gift, I need to be special enough, and more than that, worthy enough to contain that gift; if I possess some quality I should have the perseverance and the character to expose the same. This is nothing negative, but a stark cognizance, after the experience of something I feel robbed of.

The whole point of this drama cools down to the fact that Rome was not built in a day (deviation, actually). I will put forth a question: You have been living with a certain quality all these days. You are not unaware of your possession. In fact this is one thing you pride in. But mind you there are limitations on this. You have done nothing to promote this skill, you have done nothing to develop it and you do nothing to polish it. It comes just as it came the first time. Now, the condition is that the ability you possess is basically something in the positive domains of an adjective. I mean, that this quality of yours is not comparative. If you are good at something of this kind, it simply means that you are good in the trade. There may well be many who are better than you, there may even be many who are considered to the best in the trade. My argument is that if you are good at drawing or may be sketching, it definitely means you are good. There may be obvious space for improvement but that does not spoil your party. Over the time, people have relished in your skill, and you have basked in the glory of the same. Now comes my point. You do not have to prove yourself in your own backyard that this is your space; you need not crib about that fact that the neighbor own a bigger space than yours or a better maintained one. Neither can you let it go and allow it to turn into a closet. Possession of something brings delight and the loss of a cherished brings an equal amount and even more of sorrow. Now, You push for it too hard, failing to realize that the skill is unlimited quality wise,and not quantity wise. I mean, you can't see the boundary and cross it. One day, you realize that it was not very enjoyable. People think may be it was not your day. But then you sustain this feeling and before long, you realize may be your backyard is turning into your closet, may be you are losing the skill. How do you feel? Don't post comments saying you feel bad.

Coming back to my blog and my writing, I first wrote something on my own in third standard when I was unable to memorize the essay the tutor had gave us. Since then, and at the encouragement of the teacher, i started writing things on my own. My first account was "Being alone one night" in fourth standard. It was appreciated beyond my expectations. My memory then jumps to eighth standard, when I was chosen to represent my house in the essay writing competition. All before that was inconsequential because I thought the system behind awarding prizes was a flawed one, since the ones who won were the ones who always won (pun intended). I failed at that level and I can't find a reason why. Then came standard ninth, and with it the three pillars of English literature : prose, poetry and drama; then came Sister Lincy and all the principals and the best teachers. All that time was quite a success, both literature and language wise. I happen to come across this workbook and then the first piece of grandiloquent literature at a stretch. I am overawed. I begin resorting to this book for my answers and for my heightened status as the "one who uses bombastic words". I developed a penchant for words and started working on my vocabulary. I started noting news words I used to encounter in the print. I started to search for meanings of words I recollected anywhere and anytime of the day. This was a big boost to my image and confidence as well. I began thinking I could write well. But, come exams and I realized that a writing is not just about weaving a cobweb of words around the reader, but basically about content. I began searching for tips to improve my writing skills. I next get a book with some good tips and certain examples, and I begin using them frequently. I still remember those expressions. Another landmark was my farewell speech as the head boy of the school. I was supposed to deliver a speech and it was expected to the best one by my teachers and friends alike. The eve of the farewell day, I wrote the first lines and my cousin and my sister blasted it off like anything. I was devastated. I could see nothing ahead, I could think of no refuge, i couldn't recollect any book to resort to for help. My wits failed me. Then they came to my rescue. The idea was that they would be dictating the contents and I would be beautifying it with my vocab. The speech, indeed, turned out to be the best, said all.

Kota was not much of a sport, except that it helped me secure a rank in the coveted JEE. The lone incident I remember was the first day when we were asked to write on our ambitions and the only sentence I had written was enough to keep me popular for those two years (not because of the content but the language). The next stage was the October of 2007 when I was asked to write something the hostel magazine that was supposed to be published. I wrote something very different, I wrote on love. I questioned the popular beliefs about love and supported my writing with many quotations. It was again praised. One low of this writing was my sister's comment on the content's originality. Anyway, people said I had matured as a writer. Then, comes a friend of mine into picture who projects his blog. I feel some "spardha" and try to compete for praise. This becomes the start of this blog and then its 43 posts now. Most of them have come in very short intervals, one after the other. Some took me half a month to write, some were forced within periods of 2 hours. Some earned me much applause, a few were debated over. The name has been a subject of curiosity for all the first timers. I don't know if I have been successful, but the idea was to write something that was esoteric and something that required a Promethean daring and effort to be written. I invited many friends to be the co-authors, but disheartened at their lack of interest, i set out alone. I questioned love, writing both my views and the popular beliefs, I questioned blind faith in GOD and the identity of Lucifer. I wrote sonnets about the prevalent paradigms. I tried not to write the very vulgar (read common) ideas like desperation and stuff. I wrote happy things.

But monotony threatened my blog. I got stuck in the love thing. Every other stuff was the same kind. I was getting lost in the desire of earning praise. I was pushing myself too hard for praise, I was churning out articles at a very high frequency, and to add to my woes, they were all forced when some acquaintance wrote something. A false sense of insecurity had crept into my heart, and all I thought was extracting praise. My readers started losing interest due to the increasing monotony and the deteriorating content. I started losing satisfaction. They said that I used too much of mindless decoration of my language, they said everything I wrote smelt the same, they said their friends did not want to read my blog, my friends said the same. I resorted to music and learned to play a guitar. What more, I thought i cud write music and tried my hand at writing lyrics for my songs. The effort clearly did not pay. I was forcing myself into something I was not. I was disheartened to the extent that I thought I would stop writing. I did so. I deleted my blog for a while.

Then came the realization of the aforementioned. I started understanding things and the relevance of literature. I became conscious of the role of literature. I tried to stop myself from forcing anything. I transformed, from trying to being esoteric, I wanted to be as reachable and accessible as I could. I wrote about everyday stuff. I wrote simplicity, I wrote about simplicity. I wrote about my dreams, my feelings, my thoughts of idleness and my experiences. I was no longer concerned about others' opinions. I had realized my true potential. But man can't always remain free from vice. The praise demon still haunts me. My appetite for laurels seems to be insatiable as I forced my thoughts into my cousin's and proposed a combined effort at writing an imaginary love story. The idea garnered praise, I was relieved. We have written seven of those episodes and all have been received with increasing acclaim. The one weak link was again mine, when I tried to force something out of my domains and the result was termed "grotesque".

Its been 25 hrs since I last heard anything about my writing skill or my blog and I am turning impatient. I badly want compliments. Three days since I posted something new and more than twenty-five hours since my blog has been talked of. I am desperate to write something just for the sake of posting it, just for the buzz around it. I was, yet again, forced into forcing myself into writing the eighth episode but I stopped. I have weathered enough to be aware of the guiles of this vice. I am trying to make a virtue out of it. I am trying to develop the character needed for the possession and the containing of something called "LITERARY PROWESS".

But then, literature rolls on and so rolls on the legend of the ESOTERICPROMETHEAN.

Their Story: Episode 6

Two pearls of maidenly grace, after that moment of a brief struggle was all that Karuna had in store for prashant’s apprehensions. The defining act of such anxious times is the precipitous flow of tears and the absence of any precognition for a moment of such a magnitude was too heavy for karuna’s eyelids. Those big, powerful eyes were transformed into sockets of meekness and serenity. Her inability to say anything and the simultaneous need for an answer had been taken care of by those beautiful eyes of hers. The essence of monotony lies in the lack of effort; the departure from normalcy becomes meaningful only if unforced and without a purpose. The smoke in her throat and the mist in her eyes had revolted today. The zenith of this mutiny was her lack of desire to suppress it. Everything was fluorescent. The transcendental tenderness in the atmosphere was very real and tangible.

She was bundled up in her virgin grace, consumed in her efforts to stop the inexorable flow of emotions through her eyes. He was staring at the glistening dots left by her tear drops on her shoes, as she tried to arrange the pleats of her skirt. He had asked a question, the reply was pending. What was she thinking all the while? It was definitely not sadness, it wasn’t joy either. The afternoon sun was hidden somewhere behind the mango tree at the backyard, peering its way past the windows. The pink of her lips had turned to red, and her cheeks into a red apple (only figuratively though). What was he doing all the time? He was nothing thinking anything, just staring at her shoes. Often had he put himself into this condition, the difference being this time he was not alone and the imagination had gone beserk in the form of reality. Who could have thought the girl of his liking would have a propensity of crying at the very first hints of romance? He was unlucky, I thought. My medical friend “burst” laughing at this reaction, may god rest her soul.

More than fear, her reaction generated affection in prashant. All he could think was to comfort her at that point of time. Well, he could not have caressed her; neither could he have jumped straightaway to saying “I LOVE YOU”. Trying times needs tough people. He sat there silently beside her baggage, packing his bundle for the day. She did not move. He was finished with his stuff, and then quietly, without a fuss, compiled her things. What next, he thought. You bet, he didn’t say anything. Walking away was the last thing he could have done. Poor guy, caught in a catch 22 situation. Karuna was not shedding tears anymore and he thought, “Done with your crying, girl? Now make the next move.” This was not some diktat or impatience for arriving at a conclusion, but a clueless, sinless urge. First love is a little foolishness and a lot of curiosity. Prashant was foolish, none would doubt this. Curiosity was absent. Since the day he had understood the chemistry between the sexes he had waited to talk to a girl to win her. He did not want to see her jumping to conclusions, he did not want to force her to jump to conclusions, he did not want to lose her either. An ingenuous admission of naiveté. Karuna was baffled at the terseness in the statements expressing his love by a rather laconic person. Beautiful was an adjective that quite had maintained distance from her, when all the time chirpy and bubbly (partly, due to her shape, I thought) and yeah, peach (or was it something else?) had been attributed to her.

“May it’s time we leave. I can sense the sweeper’s propinquity.” Silence.

“You are not hurt, right. I mean this was an innocent expression of what I felt about you, and it’s been time enough since I have been trying to let this out. Yeah, the happy thing about this “epiphany” is that you are the luckiest to have known it first. Yeah, I have not told anyone else and I do not intend to do so in the near future, you understand….please tell something…see this was not supposed to happen the way it has and I do not want you to give any second thought to what I said….you see, this guilt of watching you differently all the time was too heavy for me and I thought in what better way could I atone for this than by telling you first….you sense how helpless I am in these matters…..you know how seldom I talk to girls of the class and when I decided to, this is what comes out….but I hope you understand that I am not someone bad at heart who wants to trap into this love (shit, did I say something), I mean, infatuation thing. See I am not forcing you to come to any decision, positive or negative, on this matter. In fact I said I do not want you to give any further time to this silly blabber of mine….wont you say anything….yeah, I know I should not have told you this but it was not righteous to carry on with my feelings for you keeping you in black about all this…..I am a bad person….at least tell me this, you won’t say this to anyone else, right?.....why don’t you gather your belongings….umm we can talk on our way back home….it is already time we left…..”

He hadn’t finished on this, and had started packing her things when she got up. Her rose too like an obedient disciple. She wiped her cheeks clean of her tears, with trembling hands, collected her stuff and deposited them in her bag. Before she could say something, prashant had started talking again. “see I did not want to put you into a disarray….you can relax and forget about what I said to you…..yeah just think that I said I don’t find you beautiful (shit, again. Saying something of this kind backfires in critical times as these)…why create a fuss over these inconsequential matters…..”

“Stop, prashant! May be we should get going. I sense the sweeper’s propinquity.” Karuna was blank. The tears had gone but she was still wearing that confounded look. No, this was not the time for her to think about a reply. What, is this guy too early into the realization of his adulthood or have I been too late in realizing things? Ok this attraction is normal but why me….I mean is he really into me…. (Disbelief) yeah that’s what I heard. God, he does not want a reply, happily. Idiot, stop this prattle….I am going madder at this than at what you said about beautiful and stuff…...

Prashant helps her with her bag; a smile ensues on both their faces. “you are alright with the past half an hour, right…..you see…..”. She nods her head shying. He ends on an abrupt stammer, as he watches her hop past him, and just stares at her hair….

“I am gonna buy you a comb this Christmas, Della…”

Follow Ups

Dear Readers (I know there are not many in the first place, and not many who may find this (blog) amusing),

This is an honest expression from the creators of this series about the concern they have for your feelings and emotions. Through this soap opera of ours, we have tried to bring to your notice, a very general love story. There is nothing specific about the characters involved; there is no indication of any relation to any real life happening. This story is not meant to publicize any particular instance of infatuation that any of the writers' friends may have experienced. This is just what we, as writers, feel happens to someone who takes the first step towards love. Prashant may as well be me, Karuna may as well be you; the names of the characters involves and their semblance to any real world person is purely co-incidental; the references to the authors imaginary "medical friend who happens to be a girl" are just the children of his imagination. We do not intend to relate any of the incidents to any personal relations you may be sharing, neither do we want to upset your emotions by any expression of ours. Every sentence is aimed at tickling your funny bone, and we know people have become sophisticated enough to be finding some of our stuff objectionable. With a genuine consideration for your feelings, this is some form of an acceptance of our shortcomings and "offenses", and for anything that does not go down well with you, in the desired spirit of the blog. We will definitely strive for an improved quality and better reader satisfaction.

Happy Reading!!!

Their Story: Episode 5

Well, yeah, ogling is just like masturbating; there is nothing wrong in it, and yet there is this social stigma attached with it, which makes it a taboo. Of course, you have eyes and hence, every right to ogle at the lady passing by, but then you put at stake the only thing based on which you are labeled as a decent guy by the “pados waali chaachiji”. Prashant was branded the most decent guy amongst his friends, by their mothers, and he was too concerned to let this image be soiled. His photo chromic glasses were an effective shield against all those ogling allegations, while he got his share of the pie. Now to bring to your notice, this is not just a boy-talk, and I have a reliable source’s (remember, my medical friend, who happens to be a girl) opinion on this matter as well, which definitely finds no fault in this activity. Guys don’t complain (as they find no fault in it), though, and it’s the ‘lecher’ (the male one) who bears the brunt of the irksome and fussy ladies. I will have to ask Karuna about her opinion on this matter. Mind you, the butterflies (read moths) in Prashant’s stomach are too dull to let him talk to her.

The class magazine congregation was largely a group of buffer guests that Amandeep had arranged for Prashant’s party. All tried to be too busy with their apprenticeship, making Prashant appear the boss and the only one with some gray matter in that bunch. Karuna was strikingly sharp in her ability to be fooled by such antics and never had a whiff of the actual situation. Admitted she was a decent painter, but the magazine needed someone who could sketch well, and Amandeep’s volatile temper had to pass a test tougher than the one (his thoughts) he had been preparing for those two years. You don’t want to take mauling at the hands of some furious “Romeo”, and so you don’t want to hurt his “Juliet to be”, under his watchful scrutiny. Sometimes the core group tried not to focus on her scribbles, but they had only one able Hindi editor in themselves and they did not want to lose him. The result was a compromise with every third sketch being Karuna’s. Amarjeet, the one with the dirtiest of glass slabs as his eyes, or as Karuna called it, an old, broken paperweight, was quick to see the outcome, and had cleverly proposed a reduced number of sketches for the whole magazine. Prashant had no qualms about any of their ploys, as long as he got to see Karuna.

That day, referred to as the present day in the previous episode, was apparently, a nice one for Karuna. She had no Biology lecture and A.J had caught some kind of flu. It transformed into some kind of a vacation, the urban dictionary might as well call it a flucation, both in the school and the tuitions. She was excited about going out with her family to the newly arranged amusement park in the city, and strictly for children, for some bit of “shopping” and wanted an early leave from the magazine work. Amandeep was fractured and “Glass Slab” had far too many things to look after. The stand-in chief, Prashant was more than ready to oblige her with a break, and so she was allowed to leave early that day. “Glass Slab”, uncanny as he is, was quick to smell the mutiny cooking up in the ranks of his sepoys, and wrapped up everything early.

Was she that special for him, they wondered, when she does not even know his surname? Was she worth all the attention he showered on her? Or was it that usual gimmick to make her aware of his feelings for her? I would definitely go for the third one, and I bet I am making the right choice, having spent 16 years with him. They thought it was a genuine liking on his part; he thought she was all he could have desired in the woman of his dreams.

When Karuna was coming towards him, he felt restrained from kissing her cheeks. Oh, what cheeks! He was trying not to lay his gaze on her and was trying to act “man-ly”. In fact, he was counting her steps, as she was approaching. You need something to focus your attention on, when you try not be noticed by her, all the while “ogling” at a girl, given you are a decent person. Prashant was rank decent; he had never passed any lecherous comment on any girl passing by, something he prided in the company of his friends. He had an impeccable record with the girls who knew him, and recently had garnered some popular support with his filled-with-courtship poetry. Karuna was his latest admirer, and no doubt, this phase of his writing career was the best one. Only a few know that he never actually wrote anything after that. The class magazine was a testimony to his skills, since a majority of articles in found their source in him, and only few thought it was his stand-in position that bore such fruits for him. Sour grapes, is my view.

At the count of thirty, and his head lost somewhere in the middle of those colours, he heard her voice. Whenever you ask him about that moment, a special one for him since he said something to her for the first time, he steps into his ugly, foul smelling Shakespearean shoes, and mind you it is not love that does it to him, but the zillion Hindi romantic movies he saw after that Karuna thing, which lends this hoarseness and pleonasm into his language. Ehh...ugly thing to do, for a decent guy like Prashant, and that too, for some girl like Karuna...I wouldn’t agree in seven lives. Whatever, she chirped in with a goodbye. Yeah, one would have reciprocated with the same; Karuna now-a-days prefers “wishes” instead of “goodbyes”. But the “man” that he is, Prashant stares at her, allows every syllable in her voice to settle nicely to the bottom of his “tympanum” (courtesy my medical friend), and then just when she turns back, amused at the blank black paint (read Prashant’s face), bumbles something about pleasure and duty, that same vapid dose of his Shakespearean quinine. Oh, Karuna, girl, you will be a woman soon! How could you not know, that he was nuts for you! Yeah, they said he is not your kind, but...

Down the aisle she walks, with the best of roses in her hand, and there waits her knight in shining armour (the only thing that shines in his otherwise, dry face is his teeth), and then follows that steaming kiss...yes, you are right my friends, this was the dream he was busy with, while she walked through the array of desks. And just when she had exited the room, a caps lock voice called out her name. Prashant was finally a man now!

“Karuna...”

Their Story: Episode 3

It’s definitely great to see people connecting themselves to this work of “pure” fiction, but the gentle reminder from the creators of this soap opera is, “Whatever emotions we arouse in your tryst with this work, we do not want you to relate to them personally. It is just fiction and please do not belittle and destroy the creativity of the authors by relating it to you. Good and “original” works deserve credit for their originality and not just an ‘I can relate to it’ understatement. Thank you.”
********************************
The seventeenth hour of the day was very important in Prashant’s well chalked-out schedule.

A school going boy, hardly 18, and the kind who has stayed back, bravely, in an attempt to get through some kind of considered-to-be-the-toughest test in the country, a schedule and its importance was an absolute necessity. He stayed in the conscious state for roughly 7 hours, the remaining 17 were moments of sleep and somnambulating (semi comatose, the term I learnt from my “medical” friend). Either ways, he was thinking of his girl in the blue, the color he wanted to see her in, and accidentally the color of the sea surrounding that island and the lighthouse in it. Of course, that “his” association needs a revised scrutiny. The day started with a nagging father, and his ever so annoying ways, to get his children out of the bed. It was his 14th year straight into this kind of a start and yet he was so pissed of every morning that he took a pee straightaway (please do not attack this statement). Nature calls, brushing and bathing and then a freshly prepared breakfast by a sleepy mother…you wouldn’t call that cool when all this happens at 5 in the morning. School had now achieved that added value in Prashant’s scheme of things, which I still crave for. The paucity of the percentage of the things that actually mattered amongst the ones acquired from the school was a growing concern for Prashant. All that he thought he gained from the school was Karuna. He did not go to the school to learn A.J’s clause structure, he did not go to school to see the spit hanging out of some ugly, badly groomed professor, and he did not go to the school for the not-so-good looking girls. Yeah, some subjects were of some interest to him and it was not just Karuna as the reason for him to spend 6 important hrs of his conscious period. It was not just Karuna.

His was not mad about Karuna, but something definitely kept him in a constant pursuit of her thoughts, in the pursuit of happiness. One of the best parts of school time was the banter with his friends, the eternal and the very fresh, how so ever customary, “bhabhiji” talk. You can never hate these talks, and you cannot prevent yourself from avoiding them. Prashant liked it. In fact, he boasted of this respect. Prashant was an introvert but you cannot help displaying certain emotions and Prashant was vulnerable when it came to Karuna. Not only him, but a bunch of crack heads too, were nuts about her, and there was this “possessive” feeling which was expressed in a few moments of outburst. No one likes to hear anything against “his” girl. But other than that, school was fine, yeah, with the principal turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to the “affair” hearsays. The only problem he had was her tough-to-pronounce name. Nevertheless, it was different and I like it still.

The rest of the schedule included the daily brawl with the jug head, Amol, the game of cricket with his cousin Vyom, and some melodramatic and adrenaline injecting soaps. Sleep time in our town means the 21st hour sharp, and he had toiled hard, and had succeeded to some extent, in changing the definition. He has some interest in literature and is considered the best in the trade unanimously by our families, a fact that often does not go down well with me, though (no wonder I find it hard to parse his comments). The time after dinner belonged to his studies and his personal space. The last hour of the day meant bedtime.

Karuna lived in the far end of the city. A family of 4 is the best I can think of, and so did her parents. The dressing sense, the accent, and the bodily features of her family members typified an Oriya family. She was one of the 23 girls that our school had imported from the only girls’ school in our town, a feat that our school consistently achieved and boasted of. That breed of students is no better than a pack of parlor girls with an accent, and the inability to think in English, the language they consider their L1. Karuna was, Prashant says, not one of those, and I have to other option but to agree. I remember some teacher’s statements about math not the girls’ cup of tea, and further it by saying that they find refuge in Biology. Karuna is no different this time. However, she was concerned about her parlor girl image, and no wonder she took private tuitions from A.J. yeah, this is all I can tell you about Prashant’s ladylove, I am not supposed to know more than this and neither are the readers, says Prashant.

The seventeenth hour of the day was when he could just wait and wait for his ladylove. He enjoyed the sightseeing in the meanwhile : a female pig and her teeny-weenies around her, the barking mongrels, the malnutrition affected cow spilling her watery shit all over the street, the gang of “dhakad chhoras” on their dirty bikes, flashing their tobacco stained teeth at every passing girl, the hooligans fighting for a 50p kite, the nearby vendor bargaining for every penny with some lousy “pados waali chaachi” and some infants exchanging some (blue) c.d.’s for a few marbles. Prashant was no macho man to teach the tobacco guys a lesson, nor was he a social reformer to prevent the infants from viewing the pornographic contents, he could not complain about the kite group, he knew Amol would be busy in the same “kifayati” doings, the pigs and dogs and cows…the municipality was more than enough for their state. All he had to worry about was the time when the “expelled faculty of a highly advertised coaching place’s brother” wrapped up the tuitions.

“Hey Prasssshhhhhhhh…you not gone yet?” (Prashant is not actually a trendy name, and he does full justice to the feel of his name)

“No, I thought I would wait for Karuna. You know, she did not come to the school today and I ended up fighting with Pankaj over a silly joke of his. You see, all this time I have been thinking of her and (the island)…Man I seriously needed to see her and I thought she would be here…”

“Hihihi…boy you are darned. She did not come here as well. You better pack your dreams and take the long walk back. Huh…waiting for his Juliet ehh…”

Utkarsh, the only boy in the Biology stream had his uncannily wiry body thrown out of the cave from where Prashant expected his apsara as well, and jeered at Prashant. After a tiring day at the school, this was the least he could have wished for.

“Shut up, you ugly idiot, and just pass me on her number. I need to talk to her. May be, I shall tell her all about my feelings for her. At least, I would not have to stalk her then.”

“2300974. There you go. That is her number, and if you do not connect to it, try 2451043, her neighbours’. And don’t you forget to tell me that you didn’t say anything…oh sorry, couldn’t say anything, just like all the time you have been doing in person…haha…I will talk to her…stop that shit man, you know you are not going to.”

Prashant did not say anything. By the time Utkarsh had finished saying his words, Prashant was half way down the street.

Their Story: Episode 2

What episode one, http://randomthrows.blogspot.com/2009/05/their-story-episode-1.html, missed upon is that this narration is purely fictional and any co-relation to any real life incident is purely co-incidental. The characters’ names and their pen-picture are just those figments of imagination, and hereby, any semblance to a real life analog is disclaimed.

********************************

He never thought he would find something this beautiful, of course until he saw something that was greater in its beauty than the one he thought to be the most beautiful; and how often did he realize that whenever he took is stare off the girl he thought to be the “most beautiful” he had seen until then, would his ever-so-gleaming eyes find another feisty assembly of the softest of the flesh and bones, was the commonest issue within his friend circle. Agreed, Prashant was not that kind that is often described as a mongrel, but his friends thought no better of him. Yeah, what set him apart was the childlike (not childish) notoriety in his smile, and the unforgettably shiny and perfectly shaped teeth behind that partition of black flesh. The listless stare which he threw upon the passersby and girls was the kind that could instill in you, a sense of pique, for being so heartlessly ignored. But only he knew who was ignored, actually. Karuna was not, definitely.

The idea of successfully obtaining knowledge and the dreams of a successful academic career had hardly that factor which could propel his motion towards that creepy tuition place. The usual banter with his granny was more important to him than his mathematics tuitions. That ‘jug head’ was the perfect source of entertainment you could find in a family of six, and still Prashant chose the long walk to his mundane tuition point, the SHIKSHA NIKETAN. The manor was just an underground garage sort of a place, with the perfectly counted flight of 17, and built by the school side. The ugly teacher and his ugly beard were a home to millions of mites, so Prashant thought: he had had the first hand experience. The blokes around were not the best in that trade, and given his mental ability in solving mathematics, Prashant fared considerably well. SHIKSHA NIKETAN was founded by an expelled faculty of a highly advertised coaching place; this was the kind of introduction they had received on their first day of instruction.

Karuna was not a mathematics student but the regular effeminate BIOLOGY girl. Prashant had always fancied a girlfriend, someone from the medical profession. The reason he cited was something I don’t remember, but I have my reasons. Of course, they are the girls with the best of skin textures in the town, the fairest of complexions, the silkiest of hair and the juiciest of lips. Yeah, they do not have the ideal 24-36-24, but there lies the x-factor. That extra bit of supple flesh here and there, those extra pounds are the ‘properties’ which make them all the more desirable. I wish I had someone from the medical world…oh! I love biology.

********************************

The time of the day was reason enough for Prashant to long for Karuna. The math’s tuitions were over; the biology students were not yet available. Karuna was enrolled in the biology classes adjacent to Prashant’s cavern, and the instructor was none other than the “expelled faculty of a highly advertised coaching place’s” brother. There is this legacy thing in our place which dictates the careers of many students who feel confident enough to stay back in the town and aim for the highest of glories. If you are a mathematics teacher, your son is supposed to be a chemistry or physics or any god-damn subject you feel like fit for him teacher, and if a student needs the services of a particular faculty, he has to obtain the services of his family members, mandatorily. Karuna needed biology and English tuitions. She was not well versed in clauses and all that A.J. stuff, and so she took private tuitions from A.J.

Autumn meant the school calendar listed the pooja-vacations and the only time of the day he could see Karuna was during the interval between her tuitions. Prashant had his tuitions from 3:00pm-5:00pm, Karuna’s first one commenced on 4:00pm in the day and the next on 5:30pm. That half an hour was the reason Prashant used to take the long walk to SHIKSHA NIKETAN. The tenderness in her gait, the soft of her air, the blush in her cheeks (remember, the extra bit of supple flesh)…all were the best things in the world for Prashant. Karuna was not the most beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm, just like Prashant (citations: Gone with the Wind). She was the most beautiful phenomenon he had ever seen, not because it actually was, but because his eyes could not move forward from her visage, to find anything that could compare with the __________________ (put in some clichéd expressions) of her eyes. He never saw beyond her eyes. They were serene, and this is one quality that cannot enter the comparative domains of description. Yes, her eyes were her best feature. (Personally, I thought her lips, though.)

The chill in the day, (goof ups: the first episode mentioned “…was amazed at his audacity to sleep in this heat” after mentioning the autumn), could not deter him from waiting for her, all alone. He knew it would be difficult, those minutes before he could catch her frame.

The story is not in a stage wherein the emotions have been shared. Prashant was still waiting, and his wait ends in the much awaited episode 3. Continue reading and posting comments, friends.