Oxymorons !!!!

“Paris”, his father – in – law announced with an air of pride. He was revealing the long kept, surprise honey moon gift to his daughter and son – in –law. “Paris for a week, oh Appa you are the best” his wife said emphatically kissing her dad.

Seeing her excitement he wondered “how weird can girls be ?”. He was always astonished by how girls took honeymoon so seriously. For an average, small town engineer who was brought up in a conservative Hindu family, honeymoon meant just one thing. After all he was never allowed to even have friends who were girls, forget girl friends. Guys like him had to wait for 25 years if not more to be with a girl. That too only after his parents found him grown up enough to be of marriageable age.

“Height and cold drives your hormones better”, his friends had told him. “That is why the newly weds go to mountain tops like Ooty, Kulu and Manali”, they justified. But Paris was not even in the mountains. “At least it would be cold” he assured himself.

He had thought that the time would come on the night of the marriage. But unfortunately the family astrologer had other plans. He prescribed something called the “Shanti Muhoortam” (peaceful/silent moment!), the divine moment for the unity of man and woman. It was the age old South Indian custom that mercilessly dictated the time until which the bride and groom could not touch each other.

Somehow for him the term was oxymoronic. He knew that the divine unity would be divine enough only when the unifying couple shouted and moaned with pleasure. The hundreds of movies that he had seen in various internet cafes along with his friends was a proof of that. Which itself would mean that the moment was not meant to be peaceful or silent. And here was the 80 year old astrologer in saffron clothing and long white beard wishing him exactly the opposite.

The prescription said the date was one week later that too at 6PM. “6PM, that is weird timing” he told himself. He was not concerned about leaving office early. If required he would even apply for a leave on that day. The wait had been too long. But the issue was that none of the members of his joint family would be asleep by then, even the kids. He could not imagine them giggling around just outside his bedroom.

But when he checked the date of the honeymoon he was relieved. Somehow father – in – law was one person who understood his feelings. As soon as the announcement was made father – in – law had asked him not to worry. Now he knew why he had said so. On the auspicious day they would be in Paris away from the joint family. Also when it was 6 PM in India it would be 1:30 PM in Paris.That was four hours after they landed there. Thankfully the astrologer meant 6PM Indian Standard Time. Everything was perfect.

The news of the honeymoon destination earned him great respect among his friends, especially Raju, the one guy who had until now never approved of him. Raju had an air about himself. He was the only one in the group who had a girlfriend (secret of course). He had also been to Europe once and had a long tale of adventures and escapades to tell his friends after he came back. As soon as he heard the news he said “Are tu toh bahut lucky hai yaar. Paris mast jagah hai. Bahut romantic. French kiss toh suna hi hoga tune. You will have fun”. Also Raju gave him a prized possession for his trip, a passport bag that you could tuck inside your pants. Raju advised him to use it. “Passport gum ho gaya toh bahut panga hoga” he had said. “Thank you yaar, tuh hi mera sachcha dost hai”, he replied.

He had always secretly looked up to Raju for anything remotely related to girls. So when Raju uttered the word “fun” it gave a new meaning for the trip. He imagined himself on the top of the Eiffel tower holding her close to him with cold breeze in the air. And then he would kiss her. The French kiss. "How apt", he thought.

When he told his sweet heart that they would definitely visit Eiffel tower she too was excited. Seeing the smile on her face he asked, “do you know what we would do when we get on top of it”. “Of course”, she replied. It was encouraging. He looked into her sparkling eyes and asked “what ?”. She looked back into his eyes. It was as if an AR Rahman tune was running in the background. With a soft blushy tone she replied, “We will take pictures. What else will we do”. “No wonder she comes from a Shanti Muhoortam - family”, he told himself.

The next two days were reserved for packing. The difference between male and female ideas of honeymoon became apparent in the respective list of things to take. She had a long list ranging from the make up kit to matching shoes. On the other hand he had minimal stuff especially after he was assured by Raju that European cities had vending machines in every corner.

Finally the day of travel arrived and they reached the airport. After the usual bidhayi tears of family /extended family members they finally had some solitude. The elaborate functions of the big fat Indian wedding never let the couple be alone in the day. And in the night they had to sleep in separate rooms even after being legally married, thanks to the astrologer’s prescription.

As they sat waiting for the flight they heard the announcement “Can I have your attention for a change”............ “How rude was that?”, he told his wife. But thankfully the Hindi announcement was clearer. It said “Dwar sankhya badlav ke liye dhyan de".

As they entered the airplane he saw an old lady, with folded hands, saying in his granny’s tone “Belcome, have a nice plight”. “She is definitely a Gujarati” his wife said with a smile. With white hair and saggy skin her hands were shivering.

He realized that there were things more oxymoronic than “Shanti Muhoortam”. This “old - air hostess” was a living, rather almost dying example of that. Father – in – law had booked their tickets in a Government airline citing economic reasons. Now he knew that the airline was cost effective because they saved on pension by not allowing their employees to retire at all! As they settled down another old lady with pure white hair shouted “help me no !!!!!!!!!”. She was referring to their hand baggage. She was too old to close the luggage room on top.

The 10 hour journey promised to be a definite pain in the ass thanks to the wooden seats covered only with a thin cloth. They were harder than the seats in any desi auto rikshaw.

After waiting for an hour after take off they were shown slight mercy when another lady brought them a bottle of water. He was so thirsty that he drank the whole bottle in one gulp. And when he asked for more the lady gave a stare and said “Penised”. “Excuse me”, he said. She replied “the water is penised”. “Another Gujju”, he told his wife.

The best part of the journey was that the cabin crew kept the Indian flavour intact. The whole atmosphere was a replica of any Indian railway platform. Unlike in private airlines where air hostess came to each passenger and asked politely if they wanted tea or coffee, the ladies here were walking around shouting at the top of their voice “Tea..... tea ...... tea....tea”.

Thankfully the airplane landed with just a shiver and an unusual screeching noise. The 10 hour journey was extended only by 3 hours. They stepped out of the airport into one of the most beautiful cities in the World. The icy wind of Parisian winter gave a soothing touch to their numbed asses. “French kiss” he rememberd.

They checked into the hotel room at around noon. This was the auspicious day. He was excited. After taking bath and spraying Parisian scent all over his body he put on a new T shirt and a black trouser. His wife was still busy unpacking all the stuff. He did not want to sound too desperate, so he waited. As she cleaned up the luggage she noticed the passport bag. “What is this?” she asked.

His wife was not very approving of the bag, especially because it was a used one. Though slightly torn and faded , was strong enough to hold the 50 page document that had the French Visa stamped on it. So he decided to demonstrate its utility.

“The idea is to keep the passport as close to your body as you can. So that even if you are mugged you will not lose the passport” he boasted as if he had invented it. He was giving a live commentary as he showed how to zip it and tuck it in. “First you have to put your belt through the bag’s loop. And then once you have worn the belt the bag dangles over your pant just below the loop, like this”. He laughed as he shook his hip.

“Then you have to turn the small bag inside”. As he said this he pushed the bag inside his pants. It did not help that the pant was too tight. So he had to push it harder. So hard that the bag went not just inside his pants but also the underwear. But he was so focused on the act that he could not feel the chill of the metallic zip on his skin. He continued to push it down and then came the disaster. He had not zipped the bag completely. As he pushed it harder the skin of "some" part of his body got stuck in the gap in the zip. In his enthusiasm he did not notice that his skin was moving along with the bag. In the heat of the moment he gave a final push to the bag and simultaneously cried out loud.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah”. He could feel the blood drops. The bag had completely gone inside but as it went down it painfully stretched "some" vital part of his body. Rather one of the most vital for a honeymoon.

“Oh my God. What Happened? Are you OK” she asked. He could barely speak. He just managed to squeeze out some words from his mouth “Nothing. I am Ok. I just need to go to the loo. Can you help me ?”. Since he could not stand upright she put his hand on her shoulders and he slowly limped to the bathroom. He got in and shut the door. The pain was killing him. He had to remove his pants to get the bag out. So he unbuttoned it but the belt was still on. He had to remove the belt. Sadly the loop through which the bag was hung on the belt was just as wide as the belt itself. So everything was stuck. His belt, pant, the bag and his skin. He thought of trying to tear the bag with a knife. But knife was too dangerous to use. It could damage things permanently. So he tried hard to pull the belt loose. But the bag clinged on too tightly to the belt.

After about 15 minutes he heard his wife’s voice. “Should I call a doctor?”. Calling a doctor would be too embarrassing. This was like many of those great points in life when one has to face things all alone. So he shouted back “No need. I am alright. Will be out in two minutes sweety. Moreover we do not have any insurance. It is mandatory in Europe”. "This would calm her down" he thought. Instead she said “You do not sound very well. I will at least call the reception”. He could hear her footsteps fading. He had to do something, else it would be the greatest embarrassment of his life, that too in a foreign land, in front of foreigners.

So he closed his eyes, prayed for a second and with one violent rush pulled the belt. Unfortunately, he had called on the eternal bachelor in Hindu mythology, Hanuman. Probably he bestowed what he thought was the best thing for a man.

It all happened in a flash. The belt came off. But along with it, it brought the bag and some bloody skin with it. He shouted “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah”.

His pants had turned blackish red. He could not even touch that part of his body. But the agony and the pain did not stop him from hearing the cuckoo clock in the honeymoon suite strike 1:30. It was the “Shanti Muhoortam”.

He was rushed to a hospital. Things were stitched and bandaged as he cried with pain and the French nurses giggled. Before he left the hospital the doctor advised “do not wet the stitches for a week.” Seeing the puzzled look on his face he came near him and whispered in his ears with a French accent “you know what I mean”.

He overheard his father in law on his wife’s phone. "Do not worry I will ask him when the next Shanti Muhoortam is". “Ok Appa, btw we will go to Eiffel tower tomorrow” she said.

That is when he realized what the doctor meant. The next one week was to be more oxymoronic than “Shanti Muhoortam” or “old-air hostess’. He was on a “sexless honeymoon”.

Peepli Live

Anusha Rizvi proves to be a debutant director whose confidence stems from the trust on her characters. She could have easily resorted to double exploitation, .....exploitation of the sentiments of the audience towards the exploitation of the ever oppressed Indian farmer. Or she could have set the cash registers ringing through mindless comedy, belittling the overused Bollywood-stereotypes, namely the poverty stricken farmer, his ever-wailing wife and the TRP-craving journalist.
Instead she chooses to spice her piece of art in a khatta-meeta style of the local panipuri wala on our roads.

In a time when Bollywood continues to rely on the star power of actors who refuse to acknowledge their limitations of being human, Peeply Live stands out. While in the multiplex, the closest I got to Bollywood (as I have known it all along) was the trailer of Salman Khan starrer, Dabaang minutes before the movie started. In fact every now and then I am forced to get back to the Wikipedia page on Peepli just to get the names of the actors right.

The protagonist, Natha played by Omkar Das Manipuri is the personification of innocence, naivety and congenital poverty. He very easily falls into the trap set by his brother, Budhia. One fine day he declares that he is going to commit suicide in exchange for the “posthumous” remuneration from the Government of India. To his dismay, this sets off a chain of events that draws politicians, the media, shopkeepers and even street circus troops to his cramped household, making his death bell an extravagant celebration. He finally has no option but to abscond, only to land in a similar urban setting.

Budhia never gets any better than his brother in spite of being cleverer than him. He finally ends up as the sole bread winner of the family and gets nothing in exchange for his loss.

Rakesh, the local journalist is the only one who sees the underlying truth. But he has to pay for catalysing the chain reaction that traumatises Natha and his family, with his own life.

The strength of the female characters in the movie was a pleasant surprise. All the three females dominate one man or the other throughout the movie. This is interesting considering the fact that the whole drama is set in rural India, a world where women are not even allowed to have a sense of opinion.

Dhaniya, Natha’s wife starts off with a bang in her first scene by throwing out her husband and brother in law from the house. In spite of incessantly complaining about the state of events and the incompetence of the men of her family, she continues to labour for her children. She does not show an iota of sentiment even after she loses her husband. She is pragmatic enough to think about the posthumous remuneration instead of wailing over the past.

Amma, Dhaniya’s mother in law does not allow her physical constraints to suppress her opinions. Always caught in a feud with her daughter in law, she dares to make her presence felt through sarcastic remarks. The fact that she orders and at times slaps her sons with her skinny palm but only manages verbal duels with her daughter in law, adds to the feministic touch.

Malaika Shenoy plays the convent educated media woman, Nandita Malik. She manages not to become another fictitious stereotypical representation of Burkha Dutt. Nandita exactly knows what she wants to do. Rakesh looks upto her as the ideal journalist. But she is so driven by her need to increase TRPs that she fails to see what Rakesh sees. Her misunderstanding in the climax that Natha is dead is a testimonial to the same.

The unknown farmer who symbolically digs his own grave is a true representation of the plight of millions of men like him. His protruding ribs and fleshless arms do not stop him from labouring his sweat into blood. He is the only one who is not benefited by Natha’s declaration. No one seems to notice his death in spite of the entire media of the Country being stationed in his neighbourhood, ironically expecting the same to happen to Natha.

It is rumoured that Peepli Live was written by Anusha during the peak of farmer suicides in the Vidharbha region. I am not sure if some lives would have been saved if Amir Khan had not pondered so much over its commercial success, but Peepli Live definitely gets its message across.

But as they say Indians seem to be so involved in the present that it loses its sheen as soon as the moment passes. As we moved out the movie hall we overheard two gentlemen. One asked what the time was and the other replied that it is just past mid-night. “Oh, 15th August”, he replied. “Shit,........another holiday lost on a Sunday”, the other complained.

Blood Brothers

There are three vices in me that rise regularly in an ordered fashion with one paving way for the other.

The first among them is jealousy. I was devoid of even slightest trace of this despicable but basic human quality, until that fateful day. The day I heard that incessant wailing for the first time, the day from when I had to share every single possession of mine, the day when I realised that there was a tragic psychiatric ailment called the “mom’s attention calling behaviour”..................The day my brother was born.

Being as human as I was, I always found innovative ways to get back at him, more so when we both were far away from the sight of our parents. I used to pinch him, nag him, brand him with unspeakable words and at times give a nice little push. Until a certain age his only reaction was to open his loud mouth (more than what a hippo could), blurt out his tongue and send out that screeching voice of his. After all he was five years younger.

But things started getting a little nasty after his Fourth birthday. He started to react and react strongly. I was somehow sure that I would never have been as strong as he was at his age. I always attributed this to the fact that my first baby food was farex while his was cerelac, both market leader of their times. Five years was good enough for improvisation.

So from then on it was always tit for tat. If I slapped him he pushed me, if I pushed him he pinched me and if I pinched him he kicked me. A typical duel would last for around ten minutes because by then it would have lasted enough to wake my dad, who would be snoring in his bedroom. I have always wondered how he could sleep for so long without even attending grammar classes.

Though my brother was as strong as me, his reflexes could never match mine. My ear drums would vibrate in a peculiar way on hearing my dad’s footsteps. And given the circumstances there was only one reaction from my brain towards these vibrations, “run...”.

This is when the second of the three vices, “selfishness” shows up its ugly face.

There is a scene which all Hollywood directors, consider indispensable in their adventure movies. The hero and his group (consisting of friends, relatives and of course the scantly clad girl friend) are face to face with a giant monster. Invariably only one person in the whole group has his senses intact at this deadly hour, the hero himself. As a proof of this he says the same word that I do in these circumstances, “run”. But the difference is that he says this for the benefit of his dumb companions and I deliberately say it only to myself. I always knew that if we both run he would get ahead of me in seconds and then I would have to face the monster all alone. But I could never really blame myself for this selfish act. After all, in war, its every man for himself.

I was never an athlete but as they say “when the going gets tough the tough get going”. I had the route by heart since I was both the driver and the navigator. First I would take two long steps to get to the door of the hall and then a sudden left into the kitchen. I had to be careful not to bang my nose on the refrigerator adjacent to the kitchen door. The kitchen was not broad enough and hence one step would be enough to cover it. I never had got enough time to notice my mom busy in her own world probably crushing something in her mixer. I had always attributed the mixer’s noise to mom’s detachment to all the violent happenings in the hall (where by now my brother would have again opened his hippo mouth, even before dad’s cane came next to his ass). But at times I doubted if she could be the typical bollywood ma crying “nahiiiiiiii” at the top of her voice when her Ram and Lakhan were being mercilessly beaten up.

Crossing the kitchen door into the store room was a big problem. My granny was always there busy cutting the vegetables (vegetable rather, my mom was terribly monotonous in her cooking choices). The store room was at a slightly lower level than the kitchen. Hence she would be comfortably seated on the kitchen floor with her skinny legs planted in the store room floor, blocking my way. I had to choose between giving her a gentle push or jumping over her. I always chose the latter.

The jump would land me in the middle of the store room. I just had to be careful not to jump too far into the sink at the end of the room. Then just a left turn, and I would be in front of the bathroom. The bathroom bolt was not too strong. Inspired by the lock opening scene in “Roop ki rani, Choron Ka Raja” I had found a unique way to open the bolt in no time. I had to bang exactly two inches below the bolt and the hideout was all mine.

I always wondered why my meticulous plan never took into account any contingencies. I mean, I never had a plan B in case someone had already occupied my hideout for their daily routine. But I guess the “Roop ki rani, choron Ka raja” trick would work even if the bathroom was occupied. And since my dad would invariably be busy dealing with my brother, I could be sure that it was not him in the bathroom.

All I had to do after getting into my hideout was to take an about turn and latch the door with another bang.

Then the ordeal that brings the third vice into the foray starts. This was a combination of waiting and praying. It was pure “sadism”. All I could pray was that my dad should never stop wacking my brother’s ass or at least that he should wack it so much that He would be so tired so as to spare the efforts on me. But this was not because I wanted to take revenge on him for his kicks and blows through my dad. The manhood in me never allowed me to do that. Men did honourable acts of revenge themselves.

But my dad was strong. After all he was my brother’s dad. He would finish off the first part of his job in minutes and march towards me like a soldier moving towards his enemy’s hideout. Once again my ear drums would catch the footsteps. This time the instruction from my brain was different. It said “Pleeeeeeeead”.

But I never started the negotiation. What if my dad had already decided to spare me. Of course that never happened as he believed in the institution of democracy where everyone except him were equals. So I could hear the roar “Come out, I say”. I could never say why my voice turned femalish after this. It iss some kind of immunity I suppose. “Pls pls pls pls pls dad”, “I will not do it again”, “I was not the one who started” and finally the trump card “Ill fall at your feet, have some mercy”. But, my dad never liked any female voice other than his wife’s. (Interestingly he never mentioned anything about this, it was my mom who used to say this again and again). So, all my appeals turn useless.

And then I hear the ultimatum, “will you come out or should I come in”. I always wondered why I fell for this threat. Now when I think back, the only way he could come in was by breaking the door. But he would never do it as it is he who would be paying for it. But at that moment of misery if someone had told me that my dad would hire a helicopter and directly land on the bathroom roof, I would have blindly believed it.

So finally I gather the strength to unbolt the door. This act was quite contrary to what I did as soon as I got in. It would be far too slower. The noise of the bolt would remind me of the screeching of vultures and laughing of hyenas waiting to feed on my dead body.

After the door opens my innocent eyes (wet with tears) would meet his. It was like the hunting scene on discovery channel where the murderous eyes of the majestic lion stare at the innocent peepers of a trapped fawn (baby deer).

I would take a Jesse Owen’s jump and directly land on the kitchen floor. My granny who was at the kitchen door minutes ago would have vanished in no time. Some time she would move from the battle ground as soon as she saw me over her head. But most of the time, my jump (while rushing towards the bathroom) would have caused a delicate kick on her head. (as I said I was not that good an athlete, not in high jump). I have always wondered why my dad was not mad at me for toppling granny. But little did I know that family feud was not always a saas-bahu affair. My granny was my mom’s mom, not dad’s.

Darwin’s theory of origin talks about a phenomenon called adaptation. Thanks to this I always got better with every jump. But unfortunately Darwin was as democratic as my dad was. It is not just the deer that adapts with better jumps but also the lion. With every jump of the deer the lions’s paws grow stronger, faster and the nails on it get sharper. Invariably the lion would catch the deer.

Dad’s timing is impeccable to say the least. He knows when exactly to unleash his right hand that held the cane. The interaction between the cane and my sensitive-lower-thigh-skin is a very good geometrical, real time demonstration of what a tangent is. A tangent is a straight line (read cane) that just touches a circle (read sensitive-lower-thigh-skin) exactly at one point. But here the case is slightly different. The tangent not just touches but also causes slight deformation of the circle. This deformation would later materialise into a long-thick bloody-red/purple line that would stay on for a week in spite different medicinal experiments by my mom.

I always had excellent concentration. So I would be so focussed on my jump that I would not notice the burning sensation until I reached the hall. But once I reached, a unique harmonic oscillation was generated due to two screams of slightly different but very high frequencies. We both would look at each other with tears rolling down our dilated eyes. I never knew that two enemies who were ready to tear each other apart minutes ago could reconcile so fast. Probably it was the “only a wacked brother can understand another wacked brother” phenomenon. Or it was the “enemy’s enemy is a friend” phenomenon.

We would sit next to each other examining the weird colours of our wounds. This invariably reminded of the “long lost brother found” scenes in the Bollywood movies of late 80s.

We would swear that some day we will have our revenge on our common enemy........................ A day that never came.

The way of light

It’s anger,
Against whatever I could not achieve,
Against all those unfulfilled aspirations,
Against myself, through others.

How long,
Will the blame game continue,
How long,
Will i find solace in ficticious mistakes of others,
How long,
Will i take my side,
How long,
Will i try to prove without actually trying.

But i find my strength,
In my past and in my present,
I find it in my future,
I find it through others.

I will see the world,
With my own eyes,
Life as it is,
Discard as it is not.

Reality and not fiction,
Will show the light,
Ill move to those heights,
Which i thought ill never reach.

Vinnai thandi Varuvaya, a review

A guy who is "thunder bolted" and a girl who is forced to confine her world of romance inside a nutshell covered by her commitment towards the family, this is what Vinnai Thandi Varuvaya is about.

Time and again, Indian movie makers have narrated love stories by various means, but not many have attempted to do so solely by the means of the characters that they have carved out. Vinnai Thandi Varuvaya is such an attempt by Gautam Menon.

"Karthik" falls in love at first sight and believes that this is the way it should be, that this is true love and that he can do anything to pursue it. This is the philosophy that takes him from one point to another, both in time and in space. Even his aspiration to be a director blossoms due to this philosophy. And at the end of the movie he reiterates that his first love and only his first love would inspire him to live his life in his own way, whether she would be physically with him or not.

"Jessie" too falls for the "love at first sight" phenomenon, but is too scared rather practical to acknowledge it. Every time Karthik tries to get closer, she tells him that this is not going to happen. Just like Karthik, she knows that what she feels towards Karthik is the truth, but unlike him, does not consider it worthy enough to go beyond the boundaries of her family.

This difference in personality of the two characters takes the movie ahead, scene by scene. The music and the camera make this flow poetic, but never disturb its natural state.

Karthik is single minded, which he proves time and again through his perseverance. But this quality is highlighted the most when he uses his first movie to depict what he thinks the worthwhile ending of his first love should be. Jessie seems to be confused. She does her best to avoid what she thinks will lead to disaster. But every now and then she is not able to completely escape the magic of romance. But both these characters are strong and never let things go beyond what they believe is true.

Throughout the movie Karthik tries to convince Jessie what he believes. And like any normal guy of his age, he succeeds at times and fails at many. He gets agitated when he is not able to understand what is in Jessie's mind. It is almost as if he is screaming, "It is so simple, how come you do not see it" and every time Jessie replies "you will not understand." Karthik never understands, and this is what makes the movie both realistic and beautiful.

Gautam Menon makes use of some very basic rules in the Indian society to tell his story.

Rule No 1: There is always a point in a guy's life when he thinks of a girl and nothing else.
Rule No 2: Many Indian girls are torn between their family and love, at some point in their life.
Rule No 3: True love never fades away, it never makes a person perpetually sad. Instead it acts as an inspiration.

The belief in modern times is that a true piece of art should attract extreme reactions from a viewer. All feed backs from people who have seen the movie reiterates this fact. Some fell in love with Karthik and Jessie and flew in the moonlit stream of romance. Some hated it to the core, both for the slow pace and for the extreme form of romance used.

Thus this piece of art, whose title has been taken from one of the most beautiful songs in recent times, deserves applause. After all not many genuine creations we see in these times of masala and sensation.... Do we ????........................................

No distance matters

There are instances in life when you feel the need to pour out your mind.But you find that opening up to a person,physically close to you, does not abate the urge.............
You crave to run away from the isolation.

And then,all of a sudden, you think of a face that was there next to you when you wanted it to be there. There were eardrums that were ready to vibrate with your sound waves . There were eyes whose light would cast on you, just to remind, that you are not alone in the darkness of this World.
Alas....... that face,those ears and those eyes are nowhere near you now.

Yet, just this thought would suffice to quench your thirst of loneliness.
Because there are some, in our lives who are too close to be missed, however far they might be.

It is for those few that,
"No distance matters".


U feel you have to talk
Look around or go for a walk
Find someone nearest in person
Try pouring the verbal dispersion.

U speak n speak
No thoughts of the decibel peak
He is there next to u
Not farther than a foot or few

He is listening with all ears
Still he is farther by mile n years
In telling your mind u try so hard
But the signals are always barred.

In your mind in a flash
Cutting through as a swordy slash
You think of some face
That’s heard u before with never any haze.

Just the thought n nothing else
You feel it’s unreal and all spells
Not a word not a sigh
Nothing uttered, still your high.

In no time the urge is gone
The solitude is dead as soon as born
Not even a twist of the tongue
Even then it’s all nice n done.

Just the thought that someone is there
Makes you smile n makes you bare.
All you need is the belief
Someone is there that’s the relief

May be far may be dead
Still u see him nodding his head.
As the wise always say
No distance matters come what may.

On a lonely evening ……………..

The wind is soothing , sending a chill all over me.

Empty beer cans and cigarette buds lying around.

Psychedelic waves of pink floyd ringing all over my senses.

The faces of long lost friends, girlfriends and all other happenings in my life till this moment, are the only interruptions.

And what am I supposed to be embarking on?

Preparation for the IIM interview that’s about three weeks away!!!!!!!!!

Not that this mood and ambience is not going along really well with my task.

After all Iam trying to answer one of the most frequently asked but seldom prepared questions …..”Where do you see yourself in the future and how do you think an MBA at IIM C would help you in that?”…….

Well, doesn’t the task really fit into the happenings around.

OK let me rephrase it…” What do you really want to do with this God given gift that people call LIFE?”

Anyone bitten by the CAT bug but who has survived it has only one thing to say.

Be really frank in your interview.

Which tells me that the only way to get answers out of your mind is by being truthful to yourself.

By going through all those happenings ,those emotions ,those aspirations ,those triumphs and those setbacks that you still willingly or unwillingly carry in your mind.

And what more other than psychadelic music and a little bit of alchohol and tobacco smoke can help you in revealing your self to yourself ????

So after this one on one session with myself I will uncover the truth, which would make me more focussed more responsible and more single sighted .

I would be able to scale the heights of my professional life through determination and the non distractive mind that I would have moulded for myself.

I would be well versed in finishing unfinishable assignments, in meeting deadlines and in carrying the responsibilities knowingly or unknowingly weighted on my shoulders .

But I have one prayer ............

Whatever I may strive to achieve and to whatever extent I may be ready to go for the same , atleast at some moments in my life however fleeting they may be, may I have the same feeling of lightness in my heart that Iam feeling now.

At least at some sparkling instances let me have the featherly touch of thinking about nothing and nothingness alone.

May I realize the freedom that none other than myself can grant me.

May I fly in the timeless space of the world like a kite that’s just broke its string.

May I be what Iam and be ecstasic about just that.

May I feel myself and never regret it.

May I be me

PS: At the end of it all there is just one question unanswered…….Am I drunk???