This funny video sarcastically ridicules social networking websites and
blogging. Features a boy who is hounded by Facebook, MySpace, Twitter
among others. He threatens them by hovering the mouse over the Shut Down button. Chk it out!

This video ridicules the election campaign of Barack Obama. One ROTFL moment is when the democrats are shown lost in the wilderness when they find ‘The DemoCratic Missiah’. One of them hushes others saying, ‘the democratic messiah is about to speak!’. And the democratic messiah says just one word, “Hope!” and the democrats are euphoric and cheer him.

Here’s my tag. This is my first one I think. Or may be 2nd.
I changed one question coz it was boring. It is the 32nd one.
1.Last movie in a theatre
 Body of lies.
Starring Di Caprio, Russel Crowe. Awesome movie, great storyline. Like Syriana and Rendition before it, it talked of the war on terror and its dark under belly where ‘no one is innocent’.

2.What book are you reading?
I am not reading any but I am reading many including The Bourne Ultimatum, Hard Times. I sporadically read Hugo’s Les Miserables, and other books now and then. I switch between them. I also switch between watching movies. I could watch a movie, and write a poem, and read a blog entry, and read BBC online… ad infinitum. Opera helps. (It’s a web browser 2nd best to Firefox.)

3.Favourite Board game
Monopoly and Scrabble

4.Favourite magazine
Outlook, India Today, don’t read many. I read everything online including these and Tehelka, The Hoot, etc.


5.Favourite smells
Smell of rain-drenched earth , wet vegetation, smell of heaps of leaves leaves, smell of books (deeply inhale ‘em before reading), smell of kerosene, sandalwood, incense and camphor, smell right after a ‘yagya’ at home. Smell has spiritual value to me. It gives me memory-flashes.

6.Favourite sounds
The sound of my childhood sweetheart in my dreams saying Kussshhhh… She has a lovely voice. Lata and Rafi’s singing. Sounds in nature mostly. If ever you been to a hill-station or been to the country many sounds and smells embrace you in their fold.

7.Worst feeling in the world
Embarrassment in front of loved ones. Expectations not met. You know…

8.What is the first thing that you think of when you wake up?
Run the finger on the laptop nxt to me and bring it to life. Then chk mail.

9.Favourite fast food place.
Hmmm…may I say Tunde miyan ke kababs in Aminabad, Lucknow? Like Karims in New Delhi these ppl have had a tradition of making kebabs since more than some 100 yrs. They are a family. And the recipe is a family secret guarded till date. Fans of Tunde's kebabs include the movie world, Indra Gandhi, all the way to Britney Spears. The jostling lane in Aminabad that houses the parent-shop also was home to the famed courtesan, Umrao Jaan. (You don’t know how long I have waited to write this on my blog.)


10.Future child’s name
Will have to consult future wife I believe. But I’d name her Lata after the Mangeshkar lady. I’d'nt like a son. I’d break his legs if he were born.

11.If I had lots of money
I’d make more money of it. Education. Jaagruukta. Etc. Would work on these. Would I ?



12.Do you drive fast?
OMG! But of course yes! Wouldn’t it be blasphemous to not drive fast?! I have overtaken buses and trucks from the left; I have driven fast on the Mysore highway circling the valley of Ooty. I have overtaken vehicles on that winding road-bends with the valley at the left and the mountain at the right.


13.Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?
No! I think it’s a crappy feeling.



14.Storms cool or scary?
Storms are cold. And they give an emotional coldness I like. It kinda connects us back to what we are ' humans.

15. What was your first car ?
Yet to have one.


16. Favourite drink
Bhanng. Serious! Besides that… Rum + coke. Red wine. I can’t take whisky.

17. If  I had the time, I would…
Write and write and write. Of course blog it too. And I’d improve on writing. I’d also read books not directly relating to my field. Like the introductory book to Microbiology (I did start it ' read the first chapter!!), the introductory book to Microeconomics, world politics, electrical engineering, JAVA, HTML, C++, the list is endless!


18. Do you eat the stems of broccoli?
I don’t know what that is. Whatever it is, I think I could.

19. If you could dye your hair, what colour would it be?
Red. Like that Chinese guy in coll.

20. Name all the cities /towns you have lived
Grrrrrgaon (like Valsa Lall would call it), Lucknow (actually it should come first), Bangalore, New Delhi.


21. Favourite sports to watch?
European football leagues ' English, Italian, Spanish, German tennis too. Nine/ten ball pool. Badminton. I fkn loathe cricket coz it stifles other games. I love playing cricket though. But nothing beats football.

22. What’s under your bed?
You don’t wanna know. I am in a hostel room. There was a rat sometime back but I drove it away. Do you wanna guess in what mess the rat lived?

23. What would you like to be born again.?
A woman. Dunno y. I think it’s a special feeling to be one. Don’t raise those eyebrows.

24. Morning person or a night owl?
Both.
 

24. Over easy or sunny side up?
This is how easy/sunny I can be: barbaadiyon ka shokh manaana fizool tha, barbaadiyon ka jashn manaata chala gaya gam aur khushi mein farq na mehsuss ho jahaan, main dil ko us maqaam pe laata chala gaya. I can be more romantically optimistic than anyone you have ever met.’

25. Favourite place to relax?
I think sapno mein?

26.Favourite pie
I don’t like chocolate. I like vanilla. So there. Actually have a theory on that one. Wanna listen? Wanna listen? OK! I think the simplicity of vanilla is like the constancy of love while the sudden burst of the taste of chocolate is like the transience of s**. I think I prefer love. When you have had loads and loads of chocolate and vanilla, may be you'll see it. I have had so much chocolate I got sick of it. In the global war for supremacy between vanilla and chocolate, chocolate is winning currently but I’d love to see vanilla win it someday.

27. Favourite ice-cream flavour
Vanilla.

28.Who would your dream date be, Sonia, Condolezza or Queen of England"
None of the above.

29. Of all the people you tag this to , who do you think is most likely to respond.?
Don't really know.

30. Are you a vegetarian?
Yes and No. I keep switching sides. Sometimes non-veg disgusts me.
 

31. Do you sleep in the buff?
No. But tell you what it's a great feeling.

32 List some of your fascinations and tell of them in brief.
I have a fascination for the great institution of marriage. I am fascinated by complete men and women. The ones who have lived a life and achieved. People so complete who don't have even a speck of paranoia, self-consciousness or hysteria to their personalities. But I think even those who do are complete, and in their own way. I am fascinated by them, too. I am fascinated by simplicity. I am fascinated by mysteries and anything that is intellectually stimulating. I am fascinated by night dreams.

33.Did you have fun?
Well, I did have fun.

34.Do you think that is the last question?
Yes.


And now I tag Tammanna, Sarath Chandra, VT, Indigo Iris, Sahil Banga, Renu Ayyar.

I feel intense hatred, murderous, against an element that has infiltrated society, which I cannot give a name to nor a definite face. I recognize it though instantly, when I see that which it has poisoned. I see its face very clearly when a pathetic book, a pathetic movie is reviewed well in newspapers and supposedly loved by all. I see its face very clearly in mass hysteria over kitsch crassly contrived. I see its face when an objective question asked in school goes unanswered on various pretexts. I see its face when everything is done to keep us from being educated in the real sense. When students are fed off cheap books written by Indian writers and kept away from those American books from which the former have been plagiarized. I see its face when everything is done by newspapers and news-channels to keep truth from society; when masses are fed of myths and blind-led. When they cheerfully follow with a swelling of their heart. I feel murderous rage where objectivity and reason are not the cornerstones. Can you smell it; can you sniff it out of the various instances I mentioned of its occurrences? So, what do you see? Tell me, for I don't know the nature of that which I hate. Can you give it a name? Can you feel the helpless, blind hatred I feel? 

******************************* 

These are the feelings of a fictitious character. I don't know this person!

Daddy, how was I born?

A little boy goes to his father and asks “Daddy, how was I born?”

The
father answers, “Well, son, I guess one day you will need to find out
anyway! Your Mom and I first got together in a chat room on Yahoo. Then
I set up a date via e-mail with your Mom and we met at a cyber-cafe. We
sneaked into a secluded room, where your mother agreed to a download
from my hard drive. As soon as I was ready to upload, we discovered
that neither one of us had used a fire wall, and since it was too late
to hit the delete button, nine months later a little Pop-Up appeared
that said:

“You got Male!”

You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

I”ve been tagged by Jolly. To spread the good word, the post is being tagged from one iLander to another, spurring more and more people to get informed about eye-donation, and the ways/ means on how one could do it. The procedures are simple, and the post has an embedded link to a website (”lightaneye”) that gives a list of all the hospitals in your area where the corneal operation could be done.

((Those who wish to carry this post on their iLands, begin here. From my end, I tag Indigo Iris, VT, Prachi))

Here”s Udita”s blog:

“What a Wonderful World”

-Louis Armstrong

" I see trees of green, red roses too
 I see them bloom for me and you

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
 The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
 And I think to myself, what a wonderful world"

The soulful rendering of this song evokes vivid images of a vibrant, colourful world. Ever wondered how a sightless person would react to this song? How would he visualize the host of golden Daffodils, fluttering and dancing in the breeze, flash upon that inward eye, which was the  bliss of solitude for Wordsworth?! What a dark, dreary world with everything dyed in monochrome- BLACK !! And yet, those of us who are fortunate enough to be blessed with the miracle of sight, do precious little to restore this gift to our less fortunate brethren, snug in the comfort of our cocooned lives! Here are a few facts about corneal blindness.

FACTSHEET

Ø      Corneal blindness mostly affects children

Ø      Corneal blindness can be cured only by corneal grafting from a donated eye

Ø      One can pledge to donate eyes during one's lifetime

Ø      Eyes can be donated only after death

Ø      If not pledged, eye donation can be done with the consent of relatives

Ø      People of all age groups can donate eyes

Ø      In India, there is a requirement of about 1 lakh corneas per year, whereas only 30,000 are donated

Ø      This shortfall can easily be bridged by spreading awareness about eye donation

HOW WE CAN HELP

Spread the good word around- most of us are not aware how a little effort on our part can light up someone's life!

In the unfortunate event of death of an acquaintance, try to persuade the family to donate the eyes. This is the toughest part, considering the sensitivity of the situation, but if the family can be convinced that

• the eyes of the donor will live on after him,
  
• giving sight to two persons for a lifetime, and
  
• that the procedure of removal is free of cost, simple, hassle-free, & does not cause any disfigurement to the body,

it is quite likely they would agree. So here's the real test of your persuasive skills! Once you have their consent, here's what you need to do next.

      Call the nearest eye bank immediately. For Delhi, dial 1919 ( 24 hr-MTNL Toll-free service).Telephone  numbers of eye banks in other cities are available on the website www.lightaneye.org.

      Switch off all fans in the room- cooler or AC, if available, can run.

      Wrap some ice cubes in damp cotton, & keep them on the eyes. This  prevents the tissue from drying up, & helps keep it fesh.

      Keep the head slightly raised with a pillow.

      Doctor/technician
from the eye bank will reach the venue within the shortest possible
time, collect about 10 ml blood, and remove the corneas, all in 15
minutes.

      Eyes are fit for retrieval upto 6 hours after death.

      Remember, donated corneas are never sold/traded.

The Govt of India is also organizing National Eye Donation Fortnight from August 25 to Sept 8, 2007 to highlight the cause. Friends, where there's a will, there's definitely a way ..come, let us all join hands to eliminate the scourge of corneal blindness from the face of our country, and help everyone relish the rainbow hues that you and I take for granted!

Glossary of hindi words used:

Patang: Kite
Paangbaaz: A man skilled in flying kites
Patangbaazi: Sport of kite-flying
Saddi: The white reel or thread used to fly kites
Maanjha: A special dark-coloured thread which is lined throughout its length with very minute pieces of glass so that it can cut the thread holding other patangs in the sky!
Charkhi: It is made of light wood and onto it the white thread or saddi is reeled. Now as the charkhi would spin and thus unwound the thread, the patang would go higher.

Bua: One’s father’s sister.

*******

I can close my eyes and bathing my face in the sun can trick my mind and fill it with the consciousness of those days of yore. Those carefree days feel only like yesterday. Those days of the familiar, friendly neighbourhood; of playing cricket in the mohalla's kriida-sthal (playground); those lazy afternoons filled with strange sounds of the carpenter constantly working his hammer in his shop that would lull us to sleep. Oh, how the afternoons slept!

Rakshabandhan and kite-flying

One special occasion in those heady days of yore was of Rakshabandhan which used to be celebrated with the whole city flying kites. I’d be decked out in kurta-paijaama complete with the most outrageously big raakhi, bigger in the whole neighbourhood and amongst all the cousins who had come in; not to mention the red-powder and chaawal smeared on my fore-head, in turns by all the behenas and buas! 

So, much to our chagrin in front of pretty girls in flowing ghaagraas and nice bindiis, and myriad-coloured bangles, when all of us Chintus, Sonus and Monus were ready, we would go on foot, or better send Chchotu to the nearby patang ki dukaan to buy patangs. Now these patangs came in a whole lot of varieties. There was a patang costing aath aane (50 paise) ' this one was made of polythene. The speciality of this patang would be that you could fly it even when it rained. Then there was the ek rupaye waali patang whose business throbbed most ' everyone from Golu to Monti would buy that patang including Pappal bhaiya, my neighbour, under whose supervision I used to fly kites or rather hold the charkhi for him, to later hold the patang when it'd go real high, right in between the white clouds, so there was no risk of it coming down. Then there was a do rupaye waali patang ' the problem with this one would be that you'd feel a whole lot of gham (melancholy) when someone would cut it in mid-air, and therefore, the 'financers' would generally not put there money on it and rather go for the ek rupaye waali patang ' which was the safest bet. One popular and memorable ek rupaye waali patang was the tirange waali patang that would come in the tricolours ' this one would get especially popular during ‘swatantrata divas’ (Independence Day).

There was a whole vocabulary dedicated to the sport of kite-flying. Let me intimate you with some of it. When you are able to stabilize your kite at some decent height and it begins to look good, you say patang khil gayi (the kite bloomed), this I believe with the analogy with a flower that when it blooms swings in the air and looks pleasing. Then there used to be something called saddi and something called maanjha. Saddi is simply the white reel or rather thick thread. The maanjha is the 'real stuff'. This is threaded together with the saddi by a simple (or sometimes tricky ' for the purposes of better kite-flying) knot and this maanjha is then joined to the patang. The purpose of the maanjha is to cut someone's patang actually (Cut someone's patang as in cut the thread holding it.) and so this maanjha used to made of special material. It would be very sharp in that it would be lined with very tiny pieces of glass throughout its length, so sometimes when one would exert too much pressure on it, one's fingers would be cut. Then there would be the charkhi onto which the white thread or saddi is reeled. Now as the charkhi would spin and thus unwound the thread, the patang would go higher.

One could see more patangs than birds in the sky on Rakshabandhan ' the whole sky would be flooded with patangs, and many of then would be amateurs and they would irritate the real connoisseurs of the sport who would sniff and snort and ask them to fly in their own 'air-space', to which the amateurs would say, 'aasmaan kya aapke waalid ka hai?' (Is the sky your dad’s property? - True Lacknawi style!) The connoisseurs would mutter below their breaths: 'sab badti aabaadi ka asar hai, bhagwaan bachaaye is desh ko!' (its all a result of population-explosion, only God can save this country!) and retreat.

The problem was actually a big one. Everyone in the mohalla from Sonu to Ricky would fly their patangs. That would all get very cumbersome what with the friendly neighbour cutting your patang even before it reached a height of 30 metres! So we would sometimes have a deal according to which the neighbours exactly next door were not allowed to cut our patang. Many bhaiyas would sometimes get their younger sisters to hold the charkhi for them ' promising the sisters they'd let them hold the patang for a while 'bas ek baar aasmaan mein tan jaane diyo, tab tu pakadiyo, abhi yeh charkhi pakad!' (Just let the kite attain a good height, I will let you hold the string then; until then hold the charkhi!) The sister of the twins Sonu and Monu, Chutki, would have to run back and forth in between her two brohers, holding their charkhis in turns for brief periods. The time period spent holding the charkhi of one brother a proof of her love and dedication towards him. This all also added some mirchi masaala to the whole affair what with ‘Pinky’ albeit seemingly rooting for her bhaiya to cut Ricky's patang but in her heart of hearts, well And therefore the battle in the skies between Ricky and Pinky's bhaiya would attain gigantic proportions ' Ricky's friends would root for him commenting: 'abbey, apne saale se mat patang katwa lena, nahi toh kiss muun se haath mango-gey Pinky ka?!' (Don't you lose to your gonna-be-brother-in-law, or how would you ask for his sister's hand?!)

Thus there used to be high drama and a battle royal for survival up in the skies what with the younger sisters and brothers rooting for their good bhaiyas to cut the patang of someone else's bhaiya. Our veneration and faith in our supremely talented bhaiyas surmounted to such a level that the mere sport of kite-flying attained the proportions of a battle between Gods and Demons in the sky! Our bhaiya had to win. There were no two ways about it. He couldn't lose because Prince Ram didn't lose and Arjun didn't lose!

Well, the times, they sure are a changing ' everyone has moved on but when we go visit our city during summers, we can still see some of the bhaiyas in the neighbourhood flying their patangs. This time it's not their sister who's holding the charkhi for them; the sister got married to Ricky since Ricky cut her bhaiya's patang on each occasion!, rather it is our little Golu, who like his father, shall one day fly patangs like a real patangbaaz (kite-flyer) and shall one day cut his cousin's ' Pinky bua's son's ' patang, and thus avenge his dad's defeat!

Me and Swati have had debates over the literary status of this story. When I had first posted it here, I had thought this story to be a gem, a work of sheer genius, a product of those magical hours when some power alien to you takes charge of your pen and you no longer determine the fate of the story, the story becomes a separate entity in its own right! While she right since the beginning has been of the view that this story doesn't have much merit. Over time I shared her view and concluded that this is indeed shit. Something so stupid it belongs to a soundless space, to the nether world! But then again she changed her opinion, 'I think Kush, if you change it a bit here and a bit there Do away with multiple usages of the word, 'bosom' (she was very amused to note I had happily used this word for both the male as well as the female species) , , And, well, err this isn't such a bad story after all.' So I followed suit and changed my opinion too. And so here's the edited story.

Hope you like it.  

Oh and btw, I have done away with multiple usages of the word, 'bosom'.

Oh!- the verdana font- let me dedicate it to VT and the story I dedicate in adoring veneration to my lord, master, friend, philosopher, guide, Pavement Freud.  

Oak Grove School, Darjeeling stood at the top of Tiger Hill. The road wound like a thread around the hill finally ending in the school premises. The hostels for the students were located eight kilometers downhill from where the school stood. As you drove uphill and the school neared the trees alongside would grow thick. Like guardians standing at the school's doorway they seemed to welcome you.


The wind had always had a chill to it up here. But today it was more violent than ever. It ran among the trees like a beast mad with passion. And to the twenty-nine year old man driving up Tiger Hill this summer of two thousand and five, this wind seemed like the ghost of his own memories. Of the times he had spent among these trees with his friends.

Sahil Trivedi was driving up this evening to his school to attend the ISC 1993 batch re-union. He was excited to meet old friends. Excited to know what had happened in all this time in the lives of his friends. Pallav, who used to have all the girls- would he have changed for good and finally settled down into matrimony? What had become of Bushra's writing skills, had she managed to become a writer? Had Priya and Nikhil married after their love affair in school? Whom had the other boys and girls married?
But what about her.. Had she too..?


Sahil had gone to the states immediately after his schooling and after his graduation from there, had taken up a job in a leading law firm and stayed back. Only sometimes he would fly home to Delhi to meet old friends and relatives. But that was not enough to remain updated of whatever was happening in the lives of his school mates most of who were from different parts of the country. Now had finally come the time to satiate all his curiosities.


As the school neared, the great banyan tree in the school's premises made itself visible from a distance. It had always been there and had sucked life from the earth on which it stood. Much like he had a long time in the past. As he saw that banyan tree, his bosom heaved heavily with a pain too great for tears. But he checked himself in time. It was an old forgotten habbit he had developed in the first year when he had left India after school for the states.


The school came in another five minutes and Sahil parked the car in the parking area. Lots of cars were parked there indicating most of his class-mates had already arrived. Even from down below he could hear the loud music coming from the school auditorium.
The party's already begun in the audi!


The school auditorium was on the first floor. He entered via the main entrance and headed straight to the stair case. He could not recollect if when he had walked in the same gait, looking around in the same way, it had been in one of his dreams or he had really been in school. Too many times he had dreamt of that long central corridor and his dreams mingled with reality. He reached the stair-case and started ascending even as the music coming from the audi began to grow louder. As he climbed the last step, he looked up and through the audi's glass door, he saw Pallav, in gay abandon holding a glass of wine in his left hand and entertaining three girls.
The bastard hasn't changed yet.

As he entered the audi, somebody whistled hard and everyone turned to look who had come. Two boys came running to him, shouting and singing, "bahaaron phool barsaao…" and carried him on their shoulders to the place in the audi where the party was at its peek. They were Tarun and Rohit. They had had a gang of their own during school. He, Tarun and Rohit. He joined steps with them and started dancing. He danced and laughed till tears came to his eyes. He drank a bit. He had never drunk all his life, but he would not break his friend's hearts. Not today. Today he would dance, today he would sing. Today he would crack all the non-veg jokes. Today he would again tease Kaushiki because she had still not reduced weight. He saw Bushra dancing on the stage and made a mental note to ask her of what had become of her literary pursuits. He danced till his legs gave way and then he excused himself from his friends. While he was making his way out his eyes met, for a very small moment, those of a girl clad in a pink sari.
Sonali! She's come! And she hasn't any fucking sindoor on her forehead! And ah! She still looks the same!


Almost everyone had changed dramatically and it was hard to recognize. Only in Sonali's face there lingered the same innocent beauty of when she had been a sixteen year old. After class 10th, Sonali had gone into Science stream and he had taken up commerce. And for whatever reason, they had talked little after that. Then one day, suddenly, in their class 11th, she spoke with him and he saw her face from near. It was flushed with a new color. A color that bespoke of youth. It heralded the coming of age of a girl. She was becoming a woman. She had transformed almost overnight. The freckles on her cheeks had sent the blood rushing to his fingertips and he had felt an animal-like desire to grab at her. The sudden memory of it all gave him a sharp pang. Now that same color flooded and set maturely on her face giving her a rare grace and beauty.


He had had enough of the party and the strange faces in it. Too much it had pained him to see them change and in such less time. He had come here up till Tiger Hill to relive the good old days. Perhaps to stay up overnight in the hostels with the boys and play a game of football early morning much like the good old days. But that was not to be what with everyone flouting their attractive spouses and bragging about their successes in their respective fields. And he had already met Rohit and Tarun so little remained of the party for him. It seemed to him that except him no one really cared to re-discover the real magic of a heart-felt re-union in the true sense of the word. When Sonali's eyes had met his that evening, it had been as if they had pondered together on this thought. But, there had been something else too to those eyes


Sahil left the audi and headed towards the class-rooms.
So what if they don't want to relive the good old days. I want to and I will!
He entered the class-room which had once been his beloved class 10-A. After switching on the lights and fans he sat on the same seat he used to sit on in the school days with Sonali at his left. On the blackboard was written in white chalk: "In sooth I know not why I am so sad, it wearies me and you say it wearies you".
So Merchant of Venice is the play they are teaching this year.
He groped in the desk to find something familiar and found a book of poetry, Creative Muse. He opened the Index page and found John Keats' Ode to a Nightingale.
My favourite poem!
The opening words of the poem had been the most romantic words he was to ever come across in his life. Indeed he had remembered them till now and he said them aloud even now much like he had the first time when he had explained the poem to Sonali. It had partly brought on one of her suspicious spells but he had lulled her. The words had always caused his own heart to ache along with Keats' and he said aloud: 'Sonali! "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains,
My sense, as though of Hemlock I have drunk," '.


He immediately broke his discourse to an imaginary Sonali sitting by his left as he heard foot-steps approaching the room from the audi. They were surely the foot-steps of a woman.
A woman


The footsteps neared and as they came further close to the room he finally saw Sonali standing at the door. She came and sat by his left triumphantly as was her wont in school days. Without saying a word she childishly snatched from him the poetry book and started reading it from where he had left: "…Or emptied some dull Opiate to the drains,
One minute past, and Leethewards had sunk."
She broke off at that and turned to her right and looking in Sahil's eyes said, "Explain me these lines Sahil".


Since the moment Sonali had appeared at the door Sahil had moved only a few muscles so he could get into a comfortable position. He would always do it whenever he was to talk to a girl. On hearing those words from Sonali, he suddenly realized that she had heard him say those words aloud. That she understood why he was here, that he was remembering her, talking to the ghost of her memories and now they both silently shared the consciousness of this undercurrent. He returned her gaze and parted his lips to start speaking but for all his words, a strange light emanating from Sonali's eyes caught him in time. On Sahil's left was sitting the same girl, who he had once loved so deeply and so simply that he wasn't even aware of that love. And that love had been taken too much for granted by her to ever realize it. And in the years that had followed those beautiful years he had in time come to realize that what he had lost during teenage was true love. And he had remained unmarried. His friends thought that it was a cross he had decided to bear. But the truth was that his heart had been broken. Now as Sahil gazed into Sonali's eyes, all those wonderful years of the long forgotten past came alive and were suspended in the space between them. It seemed even as it were only yesterday when they had parted and laughed and cried together. And today was only the next day at school. That same summer lingered somewhere in the trees outside and once more came alive and along with it came the same gay abandon, the same childish desires. Sahil and Sonali were looking in each others eyes and seeing a summer as far away as it could be.


"Explain me the lines Sahil!"
Their trance was broken off by Sonali's words. Sahil perfectly understood her implications. She and he had just revisited a dream and now Sonali wanted to live that dream in reality as well.
"Keats, as you know Sonali, was the first of the Romantic Poets. In this poem Keats is taken to a completely different plane, indeed a different time and era in history and all while listening to the song of the Nightingale which is sitting on some tree nearby. The opening lines My hear… My… heart aches convey his utter sense of love and loss…"
Sahil broke off at that. There seemed to be double meaning in everything that was happening including the words he had just spoken.


In this poem Keats is taken to a completely different plain, indeed a different time and era in history and all while listening to the song of the Nightingale which is sitting on some tree nearby. The opening lines My heart aches convey his utter sense of love and loss…


What perfect double meaning! Only there wasn't a Nightingale singing and he himself was Keats.

He could not continue further. His bosom heaved heavily. Coupled with the confusion in his bosom was a sharp rising pain. A pain bottled up deep within him for far too long. Sonali's eyes bore deep into his soul and understood perfectly. Suddenly she put her right hand on his heart and with her left hand she guided his right hand to her bosom. The incessant flow of time had stopped long back. And the only sound audible was of their heartbeats. Sahil looked into her eyes, and found his own self reflecting in then. He averted them first not believing what he saw. Sonali had never been this way. Such profound understanding and sympathy of spirit was never hers. But instantly, he looked back again, and this time their eyes were glued. Sahil hesitantly came close to her, and as she moved near to him, he found the guts and hugged her.


When they withdrew he looked into her face for a long time. She was so beautiful it broke his heart. When he had been away from her, though he had not married, he had begun to believe that time had cured him of loving her. How could he ever think so? Suddenly Sonali came close to him and plucked at his lower lip. She tended to it and when he returned her kissing they were both transformed to another plane. The cold lips tickled a bit, but there was more to the kiss than a kiss. It was a re-union of emotions, a celebration of sentiments, a triumph of bonding, and underlying it all was a passion fuelled by many years of chastity.
After kissing for a full minute their wet lips parted. Sahil could see that she was not the same Sonali. She had changed from deep down in her soul. Now everything seemed to be of some spiritual value to her. She had been a silly gregarious girl during school-days. May be it had kept him from realizing his love for her in the silent knowledge that it would only break his heart. But now, and to his delight, Sonali had begun to feel, and to desire. And all without uttering a single word. It made the rest of the course which he had to take pretty easy now.


Sahil lounged sensually in his chair and after some time he took her left hand and stared at her ring finger.
"So you haven't married yet."
"So haven't you."
"Sonali, let us stay overnight at the hostels. Are baba you in the girls' hostel, me in the boys' hostel and tomorrow, with some friends let's go to the same temple you used to visit every Tuesday during school and .."
"Yes".

Lata Mangeshkar

Like parents love anybody who love their kids, I love this woman so much that I love those who love her.

Here are two of my favourite songs by the Queen:

1. Yun hasraton ke dagh muhobbat mein dho liye [lyrics]

2. Unko yeh shikayat hai ki ham kuchh nahi kehte [lyrics]

The tragedy in her voice when she sings this Madan Mohan composition unko yeh shikayat hai breaks your heart.

Vocation

WHEN the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our lane,

Every day I meet the hawker crying, “Bangles, crystal bangles!”

There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home.

I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, “Bangles, crystal bangles!”

When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school,

I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging the ground.

He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or gets wet.

I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with nobody to stop me from digging.


Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to bed,

I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and down.

The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like a giant with one red eye in its head.

The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at his side, and never once goes to bed in his life.

I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night, chasing the shadows with my lantern.

I love Tagore. I identify with him in the deepest fibers of my being. I don’t have to understand him to understand him.



‘The Globe’ in its review (1913) described Tagore’s The Crescent Moon as ‘a revelation more profound and more subtle than that in the Gitanjali,’ and ‘The Nation (1913) found in it ‘a vision of childhood which is only paralleled in our literature by the work of William Blake.‘ (It referred to Blake’s Songs of Innocence and experince I believe.)

First Love

Paul and Maria were the happiest people on earth. And why would they not. They had finally come of age and their teenage love had mushroomed into real love. The consciousness of this greatest of human feelings in their being gave them the pleasure they had not known all their lives. It made them happy, content and enthusiastic young lads who were ready to happily walk with all others on the great walk of life. It also made them a tad special among the human race.


Paul was a painter and a poet. And Maria knew more about Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley than any other man or woman in the town of Savannah. Paul’s paintings were filled with a rare love for the simplicity of life in Savannah and this touched the heart of the people. All of Paul’s paintings used to be sold at a good price. But nobody in the town of Savannah knew about the magic that worked behind the paintings of this young boy of twenty-two. Not even him. The twenty-one year old woman Paul loved was as elemental as fire. And in Paul’s heart as in his paintings reflected Maria’s own fire and spunk and this was the great secret of Paul’s paintings and of the town of Savannah herself.


Many a men in Savannah who had not been able to woo Maria had warned Paul of Maria. Of how masculine, untamed and almost headstrong and sometimes even cruel  her mind was. But that was Maria to other people. With Paul, all of Maria’s restless energies would be transformed into passionate glowing love. Only Paul knew how feminine Maria really was. And that would make him love her with a passion. Maria was too much woman for an ordinary man and therefore she had waited a long time for the right man to come in her life. And so when finally he did, Maria loved him with a passion incapable of in ordinary women.


But for all their love, something was not going right in that summer of 1887. Maria’s high-spiritedness had always balanced Paul’s sometimes boring earthy stability but this time it was different. It was Maria’s affinity for other males that was beginning to irk Paul. Maria had always shared men’s company. Not because she was drawn to some particular male. That of course she was incapable of because of her passionate love for Paul. And Paul knew it. She would not talk to women simply because she was too full of idealism to put up with women’s useless small talk. Paul tried all means to tame her without success. She was simply too elemental to be confined in the boundaries of tradition and standard and acceptable behaviour. Since she was a little girl, she had always followed her own straight and innocent heart and strange people had always had problems with her. Something she could not understand to this day. And so when Maria had had enough of Paul’s complaints, she fought with him bitterly. Paul, for all his patience and stability, could not keep himself from shouting back at her. Things went out of control and Maria’s simple mind could not find a solution to the complex problem. The only quick solution that came to her was to run away from him. Maybe he would call for her if he really cared. When Maria really believed something, she would simply forget to consider the possibility of it not happening. And so almost with a childish glee and with a clear and simple conviction that Paul would someday come calling, Maria went away from him.


It had been a week since Paul had not seen Maria. His heart was desolate and so was the line of customers outside his house. With Maria’s inspiration gone, Paul’s paintings no longer had the same fire. Paul’s mother knew Paul deep down in his soul. And she knew what the problem was. So she sent for a woman by the name of Della whom she knew. Della was a woman with large eyes that seemed to take everything in. She was indeed very beautiful for her thirty-five years. Paul’s mother suggested Paul to sketch Della to revive his reputation in the market. And the formulae worked. Paul’s heart began to be healed with the company of this beautiful woman and his paintings too had begun to be sold at a high price. Both Paul’s mother and Della sympathetically understood the workings of Paul’s heart and his brush. And Della was more than happy to help and be associated with the most popular painter of her town. After all who did know about Maria and Paul and who did not know that their bond of love was unbreakable. But Della was a self-possessed woman who had her own dignity and it was hard to say if she would welcome from Paul’s side any romantic overtures. Paul after all was only a young boy for her.


In a month since she and Paul had met, Della’s self-conserved nature began to intrigue Paul and he was drawn to her. Della, with her unmistakable feminine instinct, could easily guess that Paul was falling in love with her. She knew she could never consent to Paul nor break his heart so she simply decided to part ways with him. So from one day Della stopped turning up at Paul’s house. Paul went all about the town to search for Della but could not find her. At last an idea came to him. He penned a simple poem for Della and gave it to be published in the daily of that town. He wrote: “I loved you before I knew you,
And in all my paintings,
I have loved you.
I am desolate without you,
With your subtle eyes,
You’d follow the wanderings of my heart and my brush;
Indeed you’d direct my brush,
The magic that worked behind my paintings,
I now know that that is you,
Where are you?”
Paul Morrison.

Paul forgot to address Della in his poem. Della who had already left the town did not read the poem in the daily but Maria who was in Savannah, read it. Maria naturally assumed that Paul had written the poem to her. That he was still searching for her. That he still cared, still loved. That very day she ran back in his arms. In Maria’s embrace, Della faded from Paul’s consciousness as a tiny something which was not even realized. The flame of their love rekindled and in it was dissolved all their past hatreds. They kissed passionately and for a brief moment they forgot everything. And in the next moment life took on another form. A form they had known before.


The End.



Maria in this story is a sun sign Aries.


“She’ll never hold a grudge, seek revenge, indulge in self-pity or bitterness. After an emotional storm, her optimistic, April nature will return like the rainbow suddenly appearing after a shower. Lots of people will tell you an Aries woman is completely masculine, but don’t you believe them. She’s all woman underneath her flashing, forceful exterior, perhaps too much woman for the average man.”

Linda Goodman, “The Aries Woman”, Sun Signs.




On a tangent– This is the first story I ever wrote. (Wrote it about 10 months back!) Actually this story — each time I read it — takes me back to my school days. I was in 12th standard. We had two periods and had to write an essay or a story. Marks were to be given on it. I chose writing a story; the topic was, ‘The fortunate mistake.’ In 10 minutes I conceived the plot and wrote it in another 40 minutes. The plot is exactly the same as you read here in this 1000 word story which is an adaptation of that original one which was a 400 word story actually. After having given the test that day, I waited and waited till days on end for my english teacher to give me feedback but she didn’t say a thing. Even the answer sheets weren’t returned. Then one day out of the blue a girl told me that in my absence once in the class, the eng. teacher praised me for the story and added that it couldn’t go in the annual magazine for its ‘content’

It is with no particular reason that I shared with you this small anecdote except that I miss my school days badly! How I wish I had never grown up! I would still be playing football in the school field. Taking that free kick I so loved! Still be studying The Merchant of Venice– you know I learnt by heart almost the entire Act IV, Act V, most of Act I etc. I loved Shakespeare! A fellow Taurean, lol!!! Actually many people learn Shakespearen plays by heart– thats nothing extraordinary. Well but I learnt by heart short stories! Would you believe that? The first one I learnt by heart was The Diamond Necklace (or The Necklace or La Necklace) by Maupassant. I was in 10th standard. I also learnt by heart Chechov’s The Bet and many other stories. Of course poetry I loved learning by heart. I would do it even when it was not required. And I would try to understand it on my own. With the help of an excellent book recommended by the teacher.

Another anecdote– I remember when Keats’ Ode to a nightingale was being taught in standard 11th, the teacher explained to us each and every line but the last line! The last line read– “Fled is that vision:- Do I wake or sleep?” I waited patiently for her to speak about that line but she did not. I think I understood not only the line but why it was not explained. I had a strong urge to explain to the class what I had understood but I did not. But anyway, I checked out the guide of that book written by a Lucknow University professor (and who was then teaching Eng. Lang. in our school). And I wished that he had taught us the poem.

Bla bla bla…

BTW, it is rather appropraite that I blog this story on the first day of the month of April. April is the moth of renewal, of regeneration, it is the month of the sign of Aries– the sign that stands for all of these and innocence and virgin beauty. The girl I loved in school was an Aries. She loved me too. Except that neither one of us knew. The tale, the fights are partly inspired from there, Of course, we were not in Georgia surrounded by cotton fields extending till as far as the vision could see. But still, we were fourteen, and it was lovely enough