Someone Knows the Reason

Sometimes I cannot understand some things. I know you think it is most of the times. But the problem is that those of you who say so are most of the times ignorant of the fact that it is you who are incapable of doing so, as far as my state of mind is concerned. I will cite some examples. Someone said to me yesterday about her liking for some piece of work, that I did not like somehow. I simply remarked that I knew the reason why. And surprisingly I got a NO back. What the heck? How do you know what did I think? If I say I thought you have a decent level of affection within you for the author, what would you say? Or simply, If I say you like anything that you do not understand, would the answer still be a NO? Perhaps, I should have said that you like those because you tend to locate yourself within the plot so to say, or may be you see the author grossly involved in the plot, writing something that he connects, even if remotely, to you. I think I knew why you liked it because it is very apparent from the writing that it is not new, and not very exotic as such. Tell me why do people in Bengal still flock to Mithun flicks, or Sunny Deol flicks grab considerable eyeballs still in Northern India? How can someone justify people still having fantasies with some typical south indian action film? I do not understand.

So, the reply I got was a very weird one. She said that every such tale brought tears in her eyes, and that the writing was so realistic. Oh my God! I had an unintentional smile on my face. There are two kinds of sweet people. Ones who are actually sweet and the others who are stupid enough to be labeled sweet. I myself have been in the second category few times, but I was freed of all doubts regarding the other person. The only difference was that the adjective should not have been sweet but naive. 

The pity with the world is that most of us find comfort only when we see some mishap having direct or indirect forbearance on our lives. And most of us enjoy this. I do. I like people coming up to me and condoling with me in times of distress. And for that matter, I do not want to come out of it, or present myself as someone who is very carefree, regardless of the fact that he is troubled by a lot many other issues. On the contrary, I find pleasure in forming my own issues and drifting around with that grief stricken and that very not-smiling, serious face of mine. Attention grabbing techniques? Certainly one of those. At this point, I ask for some digression, since attention grabbing techniques have been mentioned. The other day when the professor asked the girl about her notes, I was waving mine. The reaction was simpler. "Vivek, are you trying to send some feelers to her, as if you want her to share notes with you". "I wish I could have succeeded, Ma'am". Smiles all around. I have better techniques I guess.

So, I was talking about some things that I do not understand. I was traveling the other day in the train from Delhi to Guwahati. I saw this slum area near the Guwahati station. The train abruptly stopped outside the station. The area was full of trash, I mean both the people and the surroundings. Trash and people you might say is very radical on my part. Yeah, it is, but I doubt you would have had second thoughts had you witnessed what I did. The setting is not one that typically fits the slum area. This was not anything different but it had a strange atmosphere looming large over the roofs of the huts that were built. The sanitation was at level zero, because I could see people actually using the paths they use to walk for toilets, the drains were nothing but a very shallow channel provided to drain away any water that crept into the locality from the nearby drain, and the broken sewer pipe, to the other half of the same drain. It was disgusting. The place was likely to be a dumping ground for the human waste from all around the city, and the huts were built over the mounds of the waste. The "roads" leading into the area and further into the huts were the ones where the pigs bred. I am not writing anything other that what I actually saw.

The broken telephone booth served as a perfect irony in that weird landscape, a piece of happening and touching photography for one of the fellow travelers. I was appalled. Not only at the sight, but also at the attitude of the fellow traveler. All this this while complaining about the locality and its inhuman condition, he was abusing the people as well, calling them all sorts of weird names, Bangladeshis being one of them. What surprised me was that he blamed the inhabitants for all that was there, overlooking the rehabilitation problems they might have been facing when they shifted here. After all no one sleeps on human waste and a mound of rubbish, beside a dog and a couple of pigs, out of choice.

I am no humanitarian or some activist who aims at pointing out the fact that the government has ignored these people, leave alone doing something. I will write just that I saw. And I hope this evokes as much pity and sympathy as some monotonous, banal piece of fiction does,if not more, and gets instrumental in having people shed a tear or two at the plight of the ones who are not fortunate as we are.

Amidst all this jargon, a sudden violent drama unfolds. The train is still halted, waiting for proper signals may be, or perchance the driver needed some recreation and refused to go any further without it. The event might as well have provided him one. The small man, I thought he was a Nepali, comes shouting out of a shack, with a stick in his hand. He was a short fellow, sturdy, but i thought he could have done well with a little more clothes and some more hair on his head. So, he has this stick, log I dare call it, in his raised hand, and following him come out a pair of boys, small,very small. He starts lashing out at them. They are helpless. The neighbors all come together, not for the help of the boys, but as spectators. And as I would have expected them to form a group at the site and do nothing, they did not. After a moment or two, only the man and the boys were in the picture, again. The man still shaking with anger, shouting abuses at both the children and at his shack. The children wailing, swollen after the treatment. I thought he might have been drunken. And that it might have been a routine for him and the children, the boys.

Someone said it was not a routine work. He might have been disturbed by the daily income troubles, and was frustrated. The other person commented on his wife's unfaithfulness, confidently stating that he understood what the man was rumbling all the time. I do not know. I was stuck on the apathy of the people. Apathy in the sense of total ignorance. They all of a sudden became oblivious of their surroundings, what was happening around them, the man, the boys, the exercise, the train, the thundering sound of the clouds...everything. They did not stop at anything. The Nepali went off with his stick somewhere into the trash. The local boys came around with their football, and started playing. The football hit one of the boys who had taken the beating, and he forgot about everything else. He got up to play. Everything had changed in a while. A woman, disheveled hair, dusky complexion rendered dirty somehow, wiping tears, and trying to cover herself uncomfortably in that sari of hers, comes out of that  shack, goes straight to the boys, hits them hard, pulls them by their ears and drags them back into the hut. The game continues, without the feeling of any interruption. The boys begin their crying again.

The passengers find amusement at this.  Someone clicks at, and records, the sight of the woman's naked breast that kept popping out of the insufficient clothing she had. Some other, sophisticated passengers find this place fitting to dump out all the waste they managed to have collected through out the journey. Some football fans simply wonder at the finesse with which the street boys were playing. Amongst the few others, a couple goes out into the hill and begins asking the locals something in the native language. I was simply staring out of the window, cursing the driver to have stopped at a filthy place like this, with filth all around, and filthy people all around.

And now when the person says about the connection she established with the characters in that imaginary writing, I think about the futility of human life. (Errr.....where am I leading towards....). We relate more to things that we fancy we were a part of rather than being able to put ourselves into the positions of reality. Why do we empathize at the tragedies of some imaginary creations when we have all the misery in the world to be a part of, to be a spectator to, and to be a cause of as well.  Why do we find pleasure to imagine ordeals when we have live accounts of such, imprinted on the canvas that we behold every moment? I know not.

This is simply one of the things that I do not understand.

In December Company...

Let's go back in time. Retrogressive...no, not in the exact sense of the word. Simply that I am writing something that happened almost three months ago. And it might as well be news for some. (I wonder why I always write for others, and not for myself). December somehow always gets associated with things rosy, despite the gloom hanging heavy in the atmosphere. The rose in our case is quite a puffed one, and somehow manages to defy the famous Anarkali (yes, the one from Mughl-E-Azam) quote regarding thorns and roses.Such is the association with roses that their physical presence is almost unavoidable. We move through the path strewn with rose petals to the bed of thorns.

So, I went to his place. The Salim, I wouldn't hesitate calling him such fancy names, now that we know about his habits. And did I mention, this Salim happens to be my best friend. He has got this weird habit of laughing whenever he sees me. Half the times the explanation is supposed to be my hair, and the remaining half my shirt. This time it was no different. I had just done my hair, and courtesy that barber, who was so unwilling to cut my hair according to my wish that I had to be satisfied with the goose-flesh kind of hair that was left, and the white shirt I was wearing looked decent enough to fit 3 of my size. Somebody remarked that I was looking no better than an urchin, and only 4 days later did I realize this when I was frisked by the mahila police at the Guwahati station. The possible explanation could only have been molestation, I thought. The sky blue jeans went well with my Bata slippers. He was no fashion icon either. He uncannily looks like a jackal, with that mole somewhere near his nose, and that shabbily done facial hair. The hair on his head comes not even metres close to Salim's but still somehow, with the rosy Anarkali, he would do a perfect Salim.

He was supposed to come to my place before we went to the rose garden, (I hope you get the drift), but Salim, rose and drowsiness go hand in hand. I knocked on his door, and the lady that opened simply kept staring at me. I had never seen his mother, and simply took her to be her. 

"Can I see Salim....?", enquiringly.

"Sorry...we are not mughal gharana", the door shuts with a bang.

"Oh, please wait, (Jodha bai, I whispered under my breath)...I meant Anurag"

"He is sleeping"

"But he is supposed to have woken up by now. Would you mind doing the needful ma'am"

"Let me see...oh! and you can come inside"

Thank you very much, rajputani.

He comes in black boxers, and the hair which should have been undone is perfectly groomed. After a second I realize that it is Salim that I was looking at. The Salim with over 800 wives in his dreams.

He quickly gets ready, and without surprise, he did not need much time. Just a pair of trousers, ugly creamy ones and I found myself travelling at 40 kmph on the elegant Splendor.

"Dude, we are really going...I can't beleive"

"Why don't you concentrate on the road ahead?"

"No, I mean her father is a professor at such and such place, and I am afraid..."

"Shut up chicken shit, and let me do the talking if he pulls up a gun, alright?"

"But...OK"

I was carrying a monkey cap to pose as a credible explanation for my hair. The sudden draught was enough to get me shivering, and that retard thought I was nervous. Anyway, we were greeted with a no-expression-on-my-face look, by someone who I came to know only seconds later was the supposed gardener (if you get the metaphor), and that prevented me from second thoughts. We had come to meet her, but that Salim utters his name, the brother's, and I have to see the unforgiving face of...whatever. My only words were her name and the reaction was a confused look. He more or less understood. We were left in the company of the unflinching father, and four chairs. I was looking around to make myself at home and he was concentrating on the door the brother went through. All of a sudden, i see her peeping from behind the trees, from her terrace, and the only sound I heard was "O! Shit, they actually came"

Yes, she had someday asked me to come to her place. And as it always is with December, the previous day I had a brief sojourn with the other lady with the same name. I do not remember much after that.

Rang De Basanti

When we proceed towards examining the finer details of any form of art, we inadvertently decide upon tracing the background, be it political, be it social or be it an isolated form of existence. As highlighted by many eminent thinkers of the past and modern day, art as such is construed to be followed from and to follow, in itself, a very general form of a thought from which it emanates. The broader meanings of art, pertaining to recreation, somehow dilute these finer details. The ideas upon which the art is built, the process undergone in the interim (from the conception to the tangible execution of that thought), and the effects of the output on the environment surrounding the thought; not solely does this sum up the concept of art, but the overt aspect more or less is contained in these. The essence of this art however, needs an expression for itself, a mode, and not just means, to reach the final target, if at all it is meant to. Ignoring, luxury of which we can afford ourselves with, while discussing the theoretical basis and the desired outcome of the same, I proceed on to discuss the form, though most entertaining, but simultaneously, the broadest, the most diverse and at the same time, a very concerted form of expression, of representation and in terms of the effects, the domination.

I must however, disclaim at this juncture, the inclination towards the absurdity of, and the assumption itself that all art is meant to be interpreted in a way that goes on to conform with the most suitable ends, the contemporary society or the history as such. The point here is to credit the creative genius of the artist through an appreciation, even if positively critical, and not just undermine and belittle the effort citing the possible parallel to an existing culture or even an ideological hegemony. Art is as it should be, and the rights of democracy or the diktat of liberty guarantees every second individual to draw a totally different meaning as it should, but the fact that art is not ephemeral or temporal imparts a lasting soul to that form of art, and the success of that art lies in its ability to speak for itself, and not just be a passive mode of expression. Allowing many an interpretation of an art diminishes the motive behind the creation by a magnitude so great that the original gets lost somewhere in the middle pf these assumes states of mind the artist had been in. The success of art, methinks, is the connection it establishes with the spirit of the medium through which finds expression and the one where it is impressed upon.

Rang De Basanti is a quintessential form of that art, the art that has a soul, the art that is meaningful, all the time being very pertinent to the contemporary mindset of the society, and never forgetting that it is just an nart not a didactic or a doctrine, and hence it has to be vocal, simultaneously, about the plebeian connection as well, for what is art if not vulgar, what is memory if not shared, and what is an idea if not popular (I mean made known to the outside of its conception). The movie, (I think my first usage), aims at the conscience of the audience, it carries with itself, the idea of integrity and truthfulness, the burden of responsibility, the Promethean man, the feeling of a community, the strong undertones of love, the idea of knowledge from the prism of power and the expressions in their manifestations thorough the protagonists. It has a very nuanced hint of the effect of the third eye, the eye of the foreign, the effects of the beholder, the terms of conformity with the third eye and the solidarity and the degree of mutual acceptance of the no-so-own.

 Sue is a Briton, with roots that can be dug up to the imperial, so to say, the colonial master, Britain. The ancestor is shown to have been an important figure of the British presence in on of the most exemplar colonies, India. The light in which the story sees a path is the confession of an outer falsehood by a "seemingly" conscientious British "ruler". He finds it immoral to carry on the duties he has undertaken with the burden of responsibility. He has to execute the barbaric, violent natives, who at the same time, he says, were epitome of patience and persistence. This clearly brings out the paradox. The intimacy between the two parties is reflected through the mutual acknowledgment of qualities which overtly may seen hostile but somewhere there is a resonance of thoughts. And Sue, in her capabilities sets out to uncover this aspect of British thought. We see a dichotomy in the psychology, the exact manifestation of the acceptance of the evil, but framing it as a necessary evil. We can also project that individual evils are not subject to any hegemony. That the source of the knowledge is a very instrumental part in the way that knowledge is assimilated, that the form of that knowledge is itself not dissociated from the source. We see a Brit commoner, personally disturbed, but for the greater purpose assumes a falsehood. We see a seeker of truth, a desire to present the alternative side of knowledge.

The college kids, or boys as I must call them, represent an aspiration, the aspiration of a future that is independent of their present and past. The boys symbolize a feeling of emotional solidarity within a community however small it may be. The boys represent the "let-live" form of thought, when we come to know of their past and the present. The college represents a place of connectivity, a forum to rid oneself of all the individual strains, of backgrounds of families, or of emotions; and indulge in the shared ideas of liberty, of fraternity. There are strong currents anti-social elements, which represent the idea of a moral right of a particular form of aspiration to bring within its fold, the offshoots of the broader society. The hooligans represent the false notion of exclusivity of belonging, to a particular school of thought or definition of community. The introduction of the western immediately projects the incorrect perceptions of the west about the east, and the east of the west. This also presents the ideological hegemony present in both the societies.

The plot introduces the terms of the shared oneness. We can see the reluctance transforming into tolerance and then metamorphosed into acceptance and belief. Through this process, we are shown the re-representation of the Indian underground terrorist movement during the colonial rule; the lackadaisical attitude towards one's nation in the boys, even after having been active instruments of representation through a nationalist view.

The plot takes a turn and assumes a serious nation-towards march when the friend is killed in a crash. The representation again plays its part in the power circuit and through the media, it finds a general acceptance. Behind the scenes we are shown the concerns and the dismissal of these concerns by the power circuits through thr tool of representation. The truth is projected through the tool of virtue and morality, through the concept of linear and empty time, where in the viewer unknowingly fits the trajectory of the strong and then we see the rising of a common sentiment. The peaceful gathering and the tailoring of the opinions to meet the personal ends, is shown very meticulously. The conscience of a nation is shown through the candle scene. The following story constantly projects the mis-representation of the truth as the false, and simultaneous anger about the real-politik in the conscience of a people. The impulsive childish response of the protagonists ends with the slaying of the minister, and yet again this attempt bears no fruit. In this fact and the subsequent story, we are shown the concept of Gandhian time, where the myth is truer and stronger than history. The boys repeat the process of self surrender but are assumed to terrorists, and killed. We know nothing of what becomes of Sue, and the later stages after their killing, but this definitely is the point of view of a nationalist in the makers.

The creators, in short, try to present, if I may, represent the Indian history, through the present. The ideology of art speaking aloud for itself succeeds, as I find myself writing my view about it. Was it meant to be interpreted in the way I did? We never know. What we know is that whatever be the purpose, this art traces the bits of the formative stage of a nation, parallels it with the current state and seeks to make a comparison which even though might not have been intentional, it successfully does.

PINK and the PUNK

I have lately been disturbed a lot. Sometimes due to my own doings, and other times, simply. But the other day, may-hap, did something to alleviate a bit of this pain. I was at the department coffee shop, simply staring at the faces, hungrily gorging themselves with their pastries and sandwiches, when I had nothing to eat. Huh...I think I mentioned about the dearth of money. Yeah, I have been going hungry for nearly 5 days now. I think I should now try and go for a record. The mess here serves no better than cow-dung, though I doubt the purity of the mess food compared to the hype surrounding the benefits of cow-dung. I couldn't ask anyone to feed me with something...I am already in a huge debt...financially, emotionally...whatever. So, with my tongues hanging out, I had to ask one of the professors to help me get a cup of coffee. The professor winces at the stall owner, and I knew he was not very excited. Then something remarkable happened. Chitra came up to me.

No, fools, not to get me something to eat, but for perhaps some class notes. I wonder what made her do so...the charisma surrounding my persona, or the standing hair on my head, and chin alike...All the more, she, I think, is the only one who has never noticed me in the class. I don't carry any stationary (is it -ery?) to the class, and she never noticed this. Cool...So she comes up to me, and asks for the Network Theory notes. I am surprised. Was this something to propel me to committing a suicide? Nothing more disturbing could have occurred to me, ever in my life. Now I know that I like that subject a lot, and that I know a big deal of networking but people don't want to accept that. The professor randomly decides to award me two entwined naughts, the friend of mine mocks at me, yes the Cisco friend, and I have this pretty girl asking some help on networking...My life has been one perfect epitome of paradoxes and ironies. I hate people from IIT Guwahati, and i am dumped into the same institute. I look down upon the seven something pointers and i have been inflicted with this curse of remaining in the seven something bracket forever...and fighting to maintain that, of late. I enjoy Networks the most and I perform the worst in the same. The pretty girl seeks help in the networking course. FUCK.

OK, forget about this...I thought i was writing something about happiness. By the way, my Cisco friend always finds it odd when I am not moaning about my sorrows...hihi...So, when I saw her coming, i tried to fish my pockets for something that could allow me to exchange coffee with the shop owner. And fortunately for me, I get my id card. And before she could utter something I had deposited my id card with the out there, and waved him for a coffee.

"Hey, could you help me with something on networking"

"I am afraid, why don't you ask the topper...I mean he should do a better job to satisfy your needs, of all kinds (a silent chuckle erupts into a broad smile)"

"No, i couldn't understand..."

"Coffee??"

"...the part that you discussed with Bose...regarding CSMA CD...you see..."

"Ek coffee aur de do (signaling at the coffee-wallah with all the pride I could garner)"

"...Oh com'on...I won't have coffee...Bhaiyya mat dena...(turning towards me)...I dont like these coffee they prepare, and by the way, I didn't ask for the coffee...!!!"

"I thought you were..."

"No, first let us talk something about the collision..."

(Of hearts, i would have fancied).

Blah...Blah...Blah.

Yeah, somehow I managed to escape that brutal assault of hers, in any possible sense that could have been. And while on the topic, i noticed the silent pink lips of hers...She was wearing a pink frock...and that accentuated the pink of her cheeks...and the pink smell of her perfume reminded me of...nothing, exactly. The conversation ended with a customary thanks giving.

The rest was all painted in pink, the moment onwards. I thought of something relating to pink, in a way yellow relates to jaundice. After the classes, I thought of asking her out. And you bet I did.

"Hey, Chitra, umm...ok, I am not happy that you refused a coffee with me"

"What?!!!??"

"No, i mean i thought it would have been kind-of nice to share a cup of coffee with you"

"Oh! sweetie, I don't like the coffee here, I told you...please don't feel bad...and don't you dare think I am arrogant...(a chirping laughter)"

"Oh...no...I just...just thought that(a foolish laughter)...but now i know more and better, i think...right!!! (pass on a smile, and you bet she reciprocates). Ok so I guess thats all for the day..."

"I am afraid, Vivek, pretty much"

"OK, so have a nice time...an tastier and healthier cups of coffee"

I turned away with that, calling my friends name, and asking for a lift.

"Are you free...i mean you don't have any prior commitment for the evening do you???"

"No, but i have to go for...yea I am absolutely free...why??"

"No, i thought we don't have labs and I am not doing anything this evening...so why not give you a chance to share a cup of coffee with me...!!!"

"But you don't like this cafeteria, do you?"

"No, dumbo, and thats why i asked if you were free...so that we could go out for the..."

"Are you hinting a date with me...(a sheepish grin)"

"...Shut up...you punk!!!"

Smiles all around.

I'm Dead.

No, I am not. But then, don't people suck at metaphors. For that matter, I don't know if I do. Six and ninety hours it has been since I last smiled. Six and ninety hours since I have been disturbed by fits of  unhappiness, and as many hours since I ate something. I wonder why not-eating goes hand in hand with not being happy. I had a pack of cigarettes though, to calm down my nerves, and some aural exercise with Pink Floyd and Opeth. Contrasting images do I generate, I know, but my life has been tracing pretty much the same course. And while I try to drain out the depression, the Doors do no better than pull me back to their eternal haunting end, the end of everything that has meant or should mean, life for me. Why does the pain need to be exacerbated? I mean, why do I imagine more and more pain for myself, even when I have reasons to be happy? I know, I am not doing any better. I know there is no pain, and nor do I want imagined sympathies.

I can listen to the clamor outside, while I am sitting at my desk and reflecting on possible sadness that is to befall me. They are celebrating the birthday of some lousy bastard, that brat who banged his chick the other day, and now is profusely distributing cases of liquor to celebrate his happiness. I like whiskey, but I am in no mood to have some now. What do I raise the toast to? The two unkind noughts entwined together on my mark-sheet...or the hazy prospect of getting a job...or perhaps even bleaker the possibility of securing for myself a candidature in some management exam? Perhaps it is the unwillingness to go for an internship, or the idea of missing my sister's marriage. I don't know, I am not sure. The cigarette, just like the fading smile on my face, seems to be burning out very fast. Let me smoke my bit...

Yeah, ITC should actually be banned for producing such kickass packs. I am looking forward to switching to cruder forms...Meanwhile, the thought that troubles me at the moment is that I am not getting any help from my neighbor. I don't have any money, my jeans cries for salvation, and I am hanging on to it as the only refuge. Oh! and I just switched to Black. Fuck. Eddie Vedder haunts me to death. Do I have a troubled love life. Ehh....No. What do you expect from me? A screwed up life with nothing to cheer about? I am perhaps the only one to have something to cheer about. Someone told me about appearances that people conjure up, in order to look despondent when they actually have bags full of weed, and the moments of elation that follow...while others simply hanging their tongues out, licking every piece of ass that comes their way, and proclaiming their tryst with happiness, when every night they get fucked by the ideas of reality. What next...of course this is not a bit relieving, but still I am trying to ease myself, with a false hope that this forum saps out the sorrows of my fortune. Weird, right. But does barking at the tree produce any movement? Bark your lungs out, and the tree moves not a whisker. Write loads of accounts when actually they are products of your skewed hindsight. 

Someone knocks at my door, and asks me to join him in their celebrations. I agree to come within moments. I know I am not going. In the meanwhile, I was going to use that stall to drop a deuce, but somebody left it looking like a toilet mummy. Huh...no comfort even in my answers to the nature's call. What the hell !!!

We Deserve More...(II)

I was somehow admitted that year, and with all the experience I had, I was regarded as the bravest and the most mature boy, in the class…yeah, some were two years and some one year younger to me. Those fools had some kind of connection with tears and departing parents, and just could not manage to hold them back, even during the class, and I thought I was the only one who felt some freedom from the homely (dis)comforts and hassles at the school.

Getting back to the point...I used to have a superb calligraphy. But in due course of time, it was all ruined…reasons…the education system. Stop assuming things and read further. So, I had this teacher who was not very fond of me, and one day scolded me, I think unnecessarily. That was it. I only scribbled in my notebooks that day, and on, and now I just can’t seem to get rid of the habit. Second…I used to be a studious student, I used to work hard, and without much of results. What was even more barbaric of the teachers was that they didn’t think I deserved passing in subjects like MORAL SCIENCE and DRAWING. Huh…morons…didn’t, in fact couldn’t, even realize that I was the one with the best hand at drawing INDIA’s political map, with all the states. The worst part of it was that over the years, and following the continuous drawing debacles, I have lost my perfection. Moral science, I think the ones who know me should explain better.

What do I do next? I stop studying and the decision immediately bears fruit. I get the first second rank in my life. A moment of realization of the futility of the education system, or perhaps the fact that I was not in the best of schools. Anyhow, something revealing that I learn, and quite unconsciously, is that you ought to have a good relation with your teachers. Damn you, I don’t mean anything physical. Only that you need to be the apple of the eye, through your active involvement in the rubbish of the class or the academics. The latter of course helps, simply because once you manage to create a reputation, it continues for the rest of your life. At least this is what happened to me. And the only thing it does is that it destroy anything that qualifies as an intellectual or, academic, for that matter, capability in you. It carries with itself, as sense of false security, a false sense of satisfaction and the detrimental effect of blunting your sharpness. Now, what happens is that you score only in the subjects that are not absolute. Yeah, I scored only in History, or Geography (this one was objective), English, Hindi and Moral Science. (I should have hurled my M.Sc marks in the face of the one who detained me, and said, “Now take this, in your face, asshole”). I barely managed to pass in Math, or Physics. I did well, though, in Biology, and Chemistry, and ironically, I am in the career that would not even remotely connect to Biology. (I enjoyed all the subjects I did well in, for the record).

So, after my matriculation, I go to this Kota place, and there too, education disappoints me. It so happens that we are required to take tests on a regular basis, and upgraded or downgraded, depending on our results. Now, the lesser mortals like me can barely manage to pull off some 70 percentile, and hence find ourselves in the bottom of the merit list. Education manifested the imperfection. Here, I should mention an important observation, of one of the toppers…he said that education did its bit in bringing out the perfection, but examination of that bit of education effectively overrules the verdict of education. He would then go on to say, behind my back, that may be some possessed lesser degrees or superlativeness in some areas. Now Mr. Topper, wherever you are, let me get my message to you very straight…this form of education does nothing more than establish fools like you as the kingpins of our society and we all know how the society fares. Or more of an admittance, yes, some of us are not perfect in all ways, and my point of contention is the validity of my opening statement, and in that sense you and your education fail miserably. So does swami Vivekananda, who so ignorantly went to claim this aphorism.

I am now in supposedly one of the best colleges in India, and what is manifested out here in students is no less than shocking. Very unwittingly, most of them discover their potential in terms of booze and cigarettes, or weed so to say, some of them realize they were not meant for studies, and decide to pursue a career in sports, the remaining bastards are good for nothing people who simply waste the government’s money. A few others, who find comfort in music or literature, curse the choice having been forced upon them, and don’t give a damn to whatever happens of the hopes they had managed to raise over the past 17 years. I am not trying t make a commentary on the status of the schools in India, but my point is the social system regarding education and the academic inabilities to cope up with them, leave alone molding them. What educations uncovers in places like here, and not only here, almost everywhere, is that half the people are dumb, the remaining have a share amongst them who should not bother the society much and the choicest few, who manage to surface as the perfect, are the ones who are, generally, the most inappropriate form of perfection.

It is of course a point to be made, about the form of perfection that had been talked about. I mean, how the perfection in music can be manifested without a proper guidance in music. You can’t just mug up some physics formulae about frequency and quality and stuff, and claim to have perfected the knowledge of music. Bull shit. And how can the perfection in sports surface through some, let’s say mechanical theories. You don’t calculate the trajectory before throwing a cricket ball or hitting a football. And they don’t teach you proper literature or that stuff here. So, my basic contention is that the form of education that has been widely accepted, and of course I am totally writing account on the basis of a personal experience, needs to be changed, even if in the idea of the system.

A good example would have been the thoughts of the legendary Gandhi, or the suave Vinoba bhave, who had this concept of taleem, or education from the very roots. Now, we had the British question the highly value based form of education in Indian culture, and even plans of wrecking this value system. My point is that without even the modernity introduced in the education of their period, the Britishers had the fear of the system of education prevalent in India. Yeah, we owe our current system of education to Lord Macaulay, who during Lord William Bentick’s rule made an assessment of the Indian form of education, saying its ancient form of education was its greatest strength and to colonize India, we must first enslave this education. And where do we stand now…the lack of this education, the one for the development in the individual as the primary objective, the one where one takes education out of an interest in the respective field, the one where nothing of the domain of knowledge is commercialized, nothing of the development aspect is compromised, none of this is to found. As the Acharya says that education just for the sake of it, just for the hope that this education is just a means for not the enlightenment of the self, but just that it might one day help you break away from the cruelties of the world economy, and perhaps, the idea that one might not have to be involved with any form of physical labor, is no education at all. I don’t know, if I am correct in judgment, but the Indian economy is now-a-days more of services oriented. Where is the manufacturing sector, where is the investment in education, where is the investment in the basic living amenities, where is the investment in the moral sentiments of the nation?

Our education is particularly dominated by mainly the left brain subjects, like math, science or language (the poor bystander), the right half things like arts, craft music and others are simply ignored, or considered as extracurricular…and the education which deals only a half of the brain, is not only incomplete but also dangerous, so to say. ‘Ek sachchâ shikshak apne shishya kâ bhi shishya bankar rahta hai. Yadi is drishti se apne shishyon ko sikhâne kâ kâm karenge to âp unse bahut kucch pâyenge.’ (Gandhiji). In the modern India, where do we find teachers, with a genuine interest in their teaching? All they have become, a bystander remarks, is t(r)eachers. Education is now becoming result oriented, and cut throat. The cause is not far from known. The society, after colonization, had derived too much from the western form of learning, and that too in a corrupt way. Gandhi said, that the motive of education should have been to develop the head, hands and the heart, whereas in today’s education, the hands have been atrophied, only the half of the head is in the focus, and the soul, the heart have been totally ignored. Where are we heading towards? The English Babu has gone, and we are still burdened with the yoke of the Brown Saheb.

I think I have talked enough to successfully get you away from my blog for once and for all, but let me mention one last point. The idea behind the manifestation of perfection should not just be confined to the left hemisphere, but extended as well towards the development of the overall structure of the knowledge process. Why do we need education after all? Yes, of course the purpose of education was civilizational advancement, and we all know that no technological progress can be ever viable without the proper realization of the purpose of that idea. Never should we tend to confuse the purity of knowledge, by aligning it with ulterior motives, and never should we try to quantify things which are much more valuable to the civilization, in absolute, material ways. The concept of education, I don’t know about elsewhere, but in India needs a paradigm shift, and one man who thought of this has long departed from amongst us. This cannot be achieved without a general introspection of desires, motives and the very purpose of education. It is not just about literacy, or may be about freedom from physical labor or profit, for the record. It’s about learning, the idea of education is not just to absorb things, values and knowledge, but to assimilate it in a way that contributes towards the wholesome advancement of the soul, mind and last and certainly not the least, body. It’s about the choices, the stress on their freedom, at the same time, a concerted effort towards the proper guidance of these choices that promotes the value of education.

Today we are still living in a transitional chapter of the world’s history, but it is already becoming clear that a chapter which had a western beginning will have to have an Indian ending if it is not to end in the self-destruction of the race. At this dangerous moment in human history – the nuclear age – the only way of salvation is the Indian way.

Education should not try to manifest the perfection, in a way that has been misinterpreted by the Brown Sahebs, but strive towards a general harmony between the mind, the body and the soul. Once again, Education should not be dictation, but didactic. Education should not surface the imperfection, but look to find the areas of perfection and further polish them. Education should not a yoke, friends, but a will.

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…”