Music is a gifted fruit of life-a divine multitude of delicacy richness and mellow coupled with benign sweetness. It is a world of sounds, modulated to seep through the soul and evoke a fountain of emotions to dance in merriment. In other words, it is a uniform stream of thoughts that amplifies our emotions and reiterates in resonance. Music is a journey through varied perceptions, tended and caressed with melodious inputs. Indeed an experience to cherish, music speaks the language of love, beauty, enigma, passion, harmony and peace as opposed to fear, jealousy, anger and grief. It communicates through the clinging of vessels and cutlery, honking horns and racing vehicles, running taps and splashing puddles. It flows through pearly white rivers and glittering oceans lashing out to enormous boulders. It lies in the strength of a new born who cries on its entry into the living world. It thrives within the physical self, a reason for continuance of life through the beating of the heart and a channelized flow of air through the lungs. It is a call of the first showers of rain, sobs of grief, tears of happiness and a medium of expression. It ends the day with hushed prayers and lullabies to make way for a blissful nights’ sleep and wakes up at the crack of dawn with a new commencement, a fresh series of melodious compositions to look up to.
Sunday, 15 March 2009
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Direful Destination
A gloomy paradise is blessed with inundated showers of bliss. The soft chattering gets aggravated to thick sheets and lashes out in rage, only to sabotage the glorious and timely inventions of the revered one. Enormous boughs and rattling branches slowly descend and shatter the pride of widened barks with violent dancing and swaying. The day succumbs to a thick blanket that leaps to encompass the atmosphere with swallowing darkness. The night feasts with great exuberance on triggered fright and frail of many a beast thriving on the delights of daytime. It is a cursed boon of which a young teenager becomes an unfortunate part, tripping and trotting her way back to the local city bus on a highway.
The girl is lost for sure and pays no heed to her grizzled hair and heavily dampened jacket. Her eyes are absorbed in self-sympathy and eagerness to seek shelter, now that she is nowhere close to a network of fellow humans. She maps her journey with every possible way that could lead her to a small town or an octroi. After covering a considerable distance from a spot of nothingness, she is back to where she came from- dense greens and lifelike trees staring back at a pair of perturbed eyes.
Albeit grappled with fear, the girl manages to spot a cave to the left of an old trunk. The cave is huge and appears gravely ominous. The girl rushes to the cave and walks further into it. Her quest for light and warmth is seized by a tug on her leg, a thick rope entangled on a horizontally placed wooden slab. She bends down to get a visible picture of the entwined rope and the wood only to discover a broken iron latch at one end of the slab. She unties the rope and pulls open the door that makes way for a flight of stairs descending downwards into pitch darkness. The girl tumbles into the doorway, although intimidated by her sudden discovery. Her curiosity however, compels her to follow her instincts, at the same time, allowing them to engrave her destiny.
Timelessness descends the wandering teenager to a place where stairs cease to exist. With every reluctant advance, a torch-light comes to life from either sides of an aisle. The aisle directs towards numerous doors sandwiched between a pair of torch-lights. The girl walks with greater pace and rapidity, intrigued by the series of ongoing events. On realizing the perpetual horizons of the aisle, she chooses to enter into one of the doorways, hoping to spend the night and kill time discovering creepy and unusual things. The door opens to a huge brown shelf full of thick leather bound books, ancient oak furniture and a webbed ceiling. She seats herself upon a comforting couch and fixes her gaze upon a pile of books weighing down a mystic brown table to her left. She picks one of them, a fairly thick black book to entertain herself through the night. The book opens to the following words…
‘… She is accompanied by an entourage of young boys and girls of her own age, chattering into the day with juicy gossip. The city bus comes to a halt and the teenagers jump out of the vehicle for some fresh air. The gang gets carried away with jittery talk and gradually drifts away from the highway to a nearby forest. The youngsters race amongst themselves only to be terminated by flashes of lightening followed by patter of raindrops. Almost every teenager manages to track down the city bus with the exception of a young girl who is left behind. She is trapped by the vicinity and is confined to dense greenery surrounding her from all sides. She walks deep into the forest and enters a huge cave for shelter. Very soon, she discovers a secret passage underground and walks into the doorway. She strides down the aisle and is benevolently guided by the torch-lights through the door that preserves a storehouse of leather bound books. She sits down and begins to read the story of her journey from the city bus to the mystified aisle. This book depicts her destiny and the place where her life will come to an end. She is soon to be devoured by four ravenous cannibals, eyeing her for a lavish feast comprising of succulent flesh and bones…’
The girl gives out a violent smirk to resist the adrenalin captivating her insides. She diverts her gaze from her book, to stare into a pair of jet black eyes coupled with rigidly cracked lips. The ferocious being seems to have replicated into three of his kind to leave the girl faltered with immense terror. They crouch towards her, craving for a rush of warm blood behind the pinkish epidermis and a bite into the flesh of the victim. They stare into the caricatures of the nerves that make up her terribly aghast face. Their propinquity swipes her ability to scream for help. There is little time left for her as the cannibals with their huge claws are almost ready to make her written fate into reality…
The girl is lost for sure and pays no heed to her grizzled hair and heavily dampened jacket. Her eyes are absorbed in self-sympathy and eagerness to seek shelter, now that she is nowhere close to a network of fellow humans. She maps her journey with every possible way that could lead her to a small town or an octroi. After covering a considerable distance from a spot of nothingness, she is back to where she came from- dense greens and lifelike trees staring back at a pair of perturbed eyes.
Albeit grappled with fear, the girl manages to spot a cave to the left of an old trunk. The cave is huge and appears gravely ominous. The girl rushes to the cave and walks further into it. Her quest for light and warmth is seized by a tug on her leg, a thick rope entangled on a horizontally placed wooden slab. She bends down to get a visible picture of the entwined rope and the wood only to discover a broken iron latch at one end of the slab. She unties the rope and pulls open the door that makes way for a flight of stairs descending downwards into pitch darkness. The girl tumbles into the doorway, although intimidated by her sudden discovery. Her curiosity however, compels her to follow her instincts, at the same time, allowing them to engrave her destiny.
Timelessness descends the wandering teenager to a place where stairs cease to exist. With every reluctant advance, a torch-light comes to life from either sides of an aisle. The aisle directs towards numerous doors sandwiched between a pair of torch-lights. The girl walks with greater pace and rapidity, intrigued by the series of ongoing events. On realizing the perpetual horizons of the aisle, she chooses to enter into one of the doorways, hoping to spend the night and kill time discovering creepy and unusual things. The door opens to a huge brown shelf full of thick leather bound books, ancient oak furniture and a webbed ceiling. She seats herself upon a comforting couch and fixes her gaze upon a pile of books weighing down a mystic brown table to her left. She picks one of them, a fairly thick black book to entertain herself through the night. The book opens to the following words…
‘… She is accompanied by an entourage of young boys and girls of her own age, chattering into the day with juicy gossip. The city bus comes to a halt and the teenagers jump out of the vehicle for some fresh air. The gang gets carried away with jittery talk and gradually drifts away from the highway to a nearby forest. The youngsters race amongst themselves only to be terminated by flashes of lightening followed by patter of raindrops. Almost every teenager manages to track down the city bus with the exception of a young girl who is left behind. She is trapped by the vicinity and is confined to dense greenery surrounding her from all sides. She walks deep into the forest and enters a huge cave for shelter. Very soon, she discovers a secret passage underground and walks into the doorway. She strides down the aisle and is benevolently guided by the torch-lights through the door that preserves a storehouse of leather bound books. She sits down and begins to read the story of her journey from the city bus to the mystified aisle. This book depicts her destiny and the place where her life will come to an end. She is soon to be devoured by four ravenous cannibals, eyeing her for a lavish feast comprising of succulent flesh and bones…’
The girl gives out a violent smirk to resist the adrenalin captivating her insides. She diverts her gaze from her book, to stare into a pair of jet black eyes coupled with rigidly cracked lips. The ferocious being seems to have replicated into three of his kind to leave the girl faltered with immense terror. They crouch towards her, craving for a rush of warm blood behind the pinkish epidermis and a bite into the flesh of the victim. They stare into the caricatures of the nerves that make up her terribly aghast face. Their propinquity swipes her ability to scream for help. There is little time left for her as the cannibals with their huge claws are almost ready to make her written fate into reality…
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Dilli 6
The devouring darkness of the night is taken over by a speck of bright light, dominating the enormously squatted city of New Delhi. The light blankets, circumvents and bombards the already bustling streets of Chandni Chowk with delightful pomp and splendid celebratory ambience. On the gracious occasion of Ram Navmi, a stage is embellished with multicoloured props and numerous stage lights. Masked men are seen pondering over the huge dais with their torsos bejeweled with armaments, coloured clothing and bizarre strokes of paint. It is an auspicious event embraced with great generosity by all those who are a part of it. The soil of the venue suffers a great deal from the constant dancing of happy feet rushing to see the play. The sutradhar (narrator) is the first character to be witnessed by the peacefully seated audience. He amplifies the narration with a touch of cultural and social beliefs, leaving a deeper message of morality and righteousness behind. The channel of intense emotions leaves everyone intrigued of the sequential events to unfold. On the onset of an effectively melodramatic scene, Goddess Sita is stopped short of grieving over her fate by a promotional campaign of a political party. The representative of the party greets the audience and begins with a spluttering of strong Hindi diction. The end of days play is indicated with the successful publicity of the political party for the upcoming elections.
Delhi 6 is all of the above; a place of people who brace many more of their kind to live together harmoniously. Every hint of joy is momentously captured and preserved, only to be flushed by intimidation. As much as Mr Producer has promoted the typicality of chandni chowk, he has the root cause of cultural disparity put into action. The entry of kala Bandar shows the first sign of fear and triggered insecurity which alarmingly spreads through the common masses. The black figured criminal is only used as a means to surface ones possibly existing sense of fear. The supposedly haunting Kala Bandar controversy becomes the talk of the town, a reason to be alert and cautious and a fun filled gossip among the pickle and papad blenders (the female counterpart). The hero comes into picture amidst the controversy and unknowingly becomes a part of it. His sole purpose of coming ‘home’ is to fulfill his granny’s last wishes of ‘perishing on the Indian soil’. Chandni chowk fascinates the protagonist as much as any tourist would be on his first visit. Streets are jammed with posh four wheelers teaming with evergreen cycle-rickshaws, hawkers and vendors selling foodstuffs and pedestrians walking to and fro. There are showers of religious prayers adding a touch of integrity to the diversified nature of the place. Delhi 6 seems ever ready to welcome anybody who wishes to explore and experience.
Further, there is an episodic flow of daily events flavoured with melodious inputs. Rahman adapts to every situation and brings out the best of his technical abilities to blend with the colours of Delhi. He adds a touch of Sufism to portray the significance of Muslim dwellers and their religious passions. To add to his appreciative skills, he makes way for his musical scores to mingle with changing spheres of circumstances. Delhi 6 is a musical journey of romance, love, religious beliefs, traditional outputs and the sigma of the above four-Indianness. The heroine (Bitto) is shown to have a typical nature of a Local Delhi girl who is on the quest for a successful career. A very common phase which most of the female counterparts may have experienced is the scene where the girl is shown jumping out of her traditional to go western. Like every other innocent girl, she is fooled by a localiite who promises her an easy entry into the popular musical stage ‘Indian Idol’. She is bounded by traditional ties and family norms that permit little or no exposure to worldly issues. The protagonist shows her a ray of hope to fight all atrocities which is flopped in vanity by her own people. The conservative nature of Indian families is clearly evident in this phase.
There is not much of a romantic roller coaster highlighted, but the concept of romanticism is enveloped by religious boundaries and superstitious beliefs of the masses. There is no element of surprise when untouchability is shown to be a part of peoples daily practices. A woman belonging to that section of the society is deprived of following her own religion and is also detested with a strict degree of confinement. As opposed to peoples scornfulness, she chooses to stand by them to resolve an undying social conflict. Bitto's passion taken for a mountain of despicability is royally suppressed to preserve self- esteem and respectability in the society . In one of the scenes, her father is shown to bribe a family into ‘buying’ his daughter for a couple of silver ‘sikkas’ out of desperation. There is little sense of morality when situations are out of hands. Meanwhile, the Kala Bandar controversy continues to perturb many minds and evokes religious disputes amongst the inhabitants. The widely renowned Baba inculcates a feeling of disparity and secularity falls prey to caprice. There is a wide spread rumour of the pre-existence of a Hindu temple where a Mosque stands. Political rivals raise issues on religious insecurities and blame the opposition parties for it.The terror spreading through the deadly monkey man is precariously used as a weapon to contest elections. Hindus fight over Muslims for their right and Muslims are seen defending their culture. Climactically, there is an outbreak of a religious war which persists till the ‘Kala Bandar’ is finally witnessed. It is only after the Bandar is impulsively shot, that the masses realize the root cause of such pointless commotion. The movie ends with a social message which defines the true concept of the movie ‘Kala Bandar thrives in every heart that nourishes fear and suspicions; he is very much a part of our own existence…’
There may be strong reasons attached to the movies failure at the box office. To me, it is all that takes to make a sensible movie out of a meaningful concept.
Delhi 6 is all of the above; a place of people who brace many more of their kind to live together harmoniously. Every hint of joy is momentously captured and preserved, only to be flushed by intimidation. As much as Mr Producer has promoted the typicality of chandni chowk, he has the root cause of cultural disparity put into action. The entry of kala Bandar shows the first sign of fear and triggered insecurity which alarmingly spreads through the common masses. The black figured criminal is only used as a means to surface ones possibly existing sense of fear. The supposedly haunting Kala Bandar controversy becomes the talk of the town, a reason to be alert and cautious and a fun filled gossip among the pickle and papad blenders (the female counterpart). The hero comes into picture amidst the controversy and unknowingly becomes a part of it. His sole purpose of coming ‘home’ is to fulfill his granny’s last wishes of ‘perishing on the Indian soil’. Chandni chowk fascinates the protagonist as much as any tourist would be on his first visit. Streets are jammed with posh four wheelers teaming with evergreen cycle-rickshaws, hawkers and vendors selling foodstuffs and pedestrians walking to and fro. There are showers of religious prayers adding a touch of integrity to the diversified nature of the place. Delhi 6 seems ever ready to welcome anybody who wishes to explore and experience.
Further, there is an episodic flow of daily events flavoured with melodious inputs. Rahman adapts to every situation and brings out the best of his technical abilities to blend with the colours of Delhi. He adds a touch of Sufism to portray the significance of Muslim dwellers and their religious passions. To add to his appreciative skills, he makes way for his musical scores to mingle with changing spheres of circumstances. Delhi 6 is a musical journey of romance, love, religious beliefs, traditional outputs and the sigma of the above four-Indianness. The heroine (Bitto) is shown to have a typical nature of a Local Delhi girl who is on the quest for a successful career. A very common phase which most of the female counterparts may have experienced is the scene where the girl is shown jumping out of her traditional to go western. Like every other innocent girl, she is fooled by a localiite who promises her an easy entry into the popular musical stage ‘Indian Idol’. She is bounded by traditional ties and family norms that permit little or no exposure to worldly issues. The protagonist shows her a ray of hope to fight all atrocities which is flopped in vanity by her own people. The conservative nature of Indian families is clearly evident in this phase.
There is not much of a romantic roller coaster highlighted, but the concept of romanticism is enveloped by religious boundaries and superstitious beliefs of the masses. There is no element of surprise when untouchability is shown to be a part of peoples daily practices. A woman belonging to that section of the society is deprived of following her own religion and is also detested with a strict degree of confinement. As opposed to peoples scornfulness, she chooses to stand by them to resolve an undying social conflict. Bitto's passion taken for a mountain of despicability is royally suppressed to preserve self- esteem and respectability in the society . In one of the scenes, her father is shown to bribe a family into ‘buying’ his daughter for a couple of silver ‘sikkas’ out of desperation. There is little sense of morality when situations are out of hands. Meanwhile, the Kala Bandar controversy continues to perturb many minds and evokes religious disputes amongst the inhabitants. The widely renowned Baba inculcates a feeling of disparity and secularity falls prey to caprice. There is a wide spread rumour of the pre-existence of a Hindu temple where a Mosque stands. Political rivals raise issues on religious insecurities and blame the opposition parties for it.The terror spreading through the deadly monkey man is precariously used as a weapon to contest elections. Hindus fight over Muslims for their right and Muslims are seen defending their culture. Climactically, there is an outbreak of a religious war which persists till the ‘Kala Bandar’ is finally witnessed. It is only after the Bandar is impulsively shot, that the masses realize the root cause of such pointless commotion. The movie ends with a social message which defines the true concept of the movie ‘Kala Bandar thrives in every heart that nourishes fear and suspicions; he is very much a part of our own existence…’
There may be strong reasons attached to the movies failure at the box office. To me, it is all that takes to make a sensible movie out of a meaningful concept.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Daddy Dearest!
I remember taking giant leaps to keep up with his pace; walking with him always meant trouble to my skinny legs. He would take me to a nearby sports club for some exercise which was always of primary importance to him. Being a kid, I had trouble focusing on his explanations; sports talk is something that demands tremendous amount of patience. At the end of a tiring session, he would playfully lift me up and jog back home to get me dressed for school. That’s daddy to me, a sports champ and a thorough athletic package. Apart from that, one of the greatest time freaks I have ever witnessed in seventeen years of meager life. (That’s because he’d get started for our 10 minute journey to the educational institution an hour before its commencement!)
Biology being his favourite subject, he’d enjoy giving sermons related to the subject even when least required. One of his biggest lectures was on the external structure of heart and its internal functioning (which dates back to 1998, when I was a confused fourth grader). His knowledge was finally put to use in a science project which apparently turned out to have a great impression on my teachers. Those were one of the few, rarest of occasions when I acknowledged his affection as a father. A staunch believer in educational qualifications, he inculcated principles of basic knowledge and its significance, yet we (i.e. my brother and I) were never confined to academics. I was always pampered to a degree greater to my elder brother, who unfortunately, was the innocent one amongst us. He took pride in our achievements in a very queer manner; a manner that stood completely invisible to us till the time we were made to realize of its existence.
There came a time when it clicked me of his introvert nature, gradually enfolding itself. Being an exact replica of him myself, I despised his ruggedness and conservative conduct. I rooted various reasons to burst out on him, yet, he guarded respect, never stormed out directly to prove his point and till date stands out to be extraordinarily consistent in preserving that quality. Today, I feel extremely remorseful, never having acknowledged of his pertinence, protectiveness or even his mere existence without which my presence would have been practically impossible.
If the above sketch is a dry imitation of his own self, then let me clarify that the potential emphasis lies in this particular phase of his character- duties and responsibilities, all of which comprises of his shoulders that have abundant strength to fulfill them and immense practicality to perform them rightfully. His love for his family is in every way, as ordinary as anybody else’s could be. Yet, he has the power of doing what people are fretful to consider as one of their responsibilities- the power to initiate duty for the sake of it, not as a means to achieve anything out of it. The only reason that saddens me of him is, of all that he did for his dear mother, he was left with little or no time to grieve for her. I couldn’t help but feel proud and sorrowful for a loss that affected him more than it did to anyone else. It was as If the stretcher carrying her was the entire world crashing down on his shoulders. He was broke, yet he fought his grief to accomplish final rituals, a traditional quintessence for the soul of the dead to depart in peace.
How much ever I write about him, words are still few. This is one of the little ways of appreciating his support and his love for us. WE LOVE YOU DAD!
Biology being his favourite subject, he’d enjoy giving sermons related to the subject even when least required. One of his biggest lectures was on the external structure of heart and its internal functioning (which dates back to 1998, when I was a confused fourth grader). His knowledge was finally put to use in a science project which apparently turned out to have a great impression on my teachers. Those were one of the few, rarest of occasions when I acknowledged his affection as a father. A staunch believer in educational qualifications, he inculcated principles of basic knowledge and its significance, yet we (i.e. my brother and I) were never confined to academics. I was always pampered to a degree greater to my elder brother, who unfortunately, was the innocent one amongst us. He took pride in our achievements in a very queer manner; a manner that stood completely invisible to us till the time we were made to realize of its existence.
There came a time when it clicked me of his introvert nature, gradually enfolding itself. Being an exact replica of him myself, I despised his ruggedness and conservative conduct. I rooted various reasons to burst out on him, yet, he guarded respect, never stormed out directly to prove his point and till date stands out to be extraordinarily consistent in preserving that quality. Today, I feel extremely remorseful, never having acknowledged of his pertinence, protectiveness or even his mere existence without which my presence would have been practically impossible.
If the above sketch is a dry imitation of his own self, then let me clarify that the potential emphasis lies in this particular phase of his character- duties and responsibilities, all of which comprises of his shoulders that have abundant strength to fulfill them and immense practicality to perform them rightfully. His love for his family is in every way, as ordinary as anybody else’s could be. Yet, he has the power of doing what people are fretful to consider as one of their responsibilities- the power to initiate duty for the sake of it, not as a means to achieve anything out of it. The only reason that saddens me of him is, of all that he did for his dear mother, he was left with little or no time to grieve for her. I couldn’t help but feel proud and sorrowful for a loss that affected him more than it did to anyone else. It was as If the stretcher carrying her was the entire world crashing down on his shoulders. He was broke, yet he fought his grief to accomplish final rituals, a traditional quintessence for the soul of the dead to depart in peace.
How much ever I write about him, words are still few. This is one of the little ways of appreciating his support and his love for us. WE LOVE YOU DAD!
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
A thought to remember...
The International Monetary Fund yesterday issued a warning that record oil prices will stunt the growth of global economy next year….
“Post graduation in management studies would mean minimal investment of ten lacs. Can we afford it in times of recession?”
The state government’s decision to end the stamp duty amnesty scheme on February 15 led to considerable confusion among flat owners who….
“Let us assume that I obtain a degree in Mech. Not considering campus interviews and job opportunities, is it practical enough to opt for an MBA after that?”
…threat to boycott SSC/HSC exams if the state government does not clear salary sheets. Fully-aided schools…
“Your cousin sister is excelling in academics and is due to receive an offer letter from TCS this year. Well, she’s a nine pointer after all…”
Rewind: few years back
“…and don’t forget to carry your Tiffin-box. The least I expect is that you starve all day unnecessarily.” There is a single slice of toast left on the plate, half emptied glass of milk and bits of bread scattered on the ‘bearer-of-all’, our loyal furniture (table i.e.). You are half choked with a sickening combination of omelette and few gulps of milk. Prepare yourself for a single- warrior combat and get set to play the hero who gets defeated in the end! Mommy dearest will ensure that you are showered with the deadliest of whacking and an elevated spirit to be welcomed at school. You are taught very well to walk up a miles distance without relying on anybody; your back is embellished with a two kilo bag lazily slumped over your shoulders and a pair of dragging feet. Pretty much to your advantage, you have a half hour’s time to flush out your frustration. Eating breakfast is such a waste of time! I am fed up of being stuffed with bread and milk every morning…That old school fellow..! He’s too full of himself; I will beat him in marbles today. Forget homework, I am yet to finish my class work. About the book that I am to submit today, I don’t remember keeping it in my bag….
Such events bear major importance within them, equivalent to a minister’s appointment with his fellow cabinet members, a celebrity interview with a news channel and a mid-life crisis. Every morning greets a play with a protagonist encompassed with petty jobs and too much load, the responsibility of fulfilling his/her parents expectations by religiously walking back and forth to school, completing homework assignments and attending to additional commitments that people often mistakenly address as ‘multi talent’. Amidst all the haunting tasks, the ‘star-kid’ speeds off to hit a couple of shots or pick up a ‘toy’ fight with neighbourhood tots. The joyride is not confined to concrete school grounds and brick red open spaces; there is constant chattering by the seas, getting defensive off the giant water bodies, munching on peanuts and feeding spicy red ‘pav bhaji’ gravy to already dirt smitten clothes. There are huge monuments and sky scrapers looking down upon the bearer of innocent eyes widened with wonder and excitement. Every moment of exhilaration is an outcome of- the right time to grab an ice cream, a race through wet streets washed away by the showers of first few drops of rain, a giant alien ‘toy’ loitering in the streets destroying thick ‘rubber snakes’ dug beneath the earth, our dear samosawala’s arrival and discount toy stalls set up at the neighbourhood grounds, to name a few. The carrier of such innocence and half knowledge is yet curious to know why, with a zillion things worthy of appreciation, is the world around him/her unhappy and tensed?
The protagonist is a toddler who appraises the gravity of any situation like we do, today as young adults or experienced elders. The innocent ‘five and something’ will grow up to evaluate every circumstance in a manner he/she is taught to, lest there should be a reason with enough pertinence for an exception. The basic difference lies in the changing degree of appraisal with passing time. In other words, what may have seemed to be challenging then is now a part of sweet memoirs of the past and is therefore, no longer a challenge. The innocence in procuring joy out of cute and cuddly events is swiped out with growing maturity. Once the burden of responsibilities is bestowed upon us gracefully by the older generation, we fail to gratify those moments which add up to our lives, our age and the individuality that develops over time; the little reasons that carved gradual smiles on our faces, the tearful ones and those that brought immense happiness even in times of grief.
As much as we wish to have those days of dashing bicycles and ‘galli’ cricket back in our lives, technically it is said to be an impossible dream. For all that God has left with us, let us live in harmony and spread happiness with this thought in mind: the privilege of living through childhood, the greatest of all gifts granted to mankind.
“Post graduation in management studies would mean minimal investment of ten lacs. Can we afford it in times of recession?”
The state government’s decision to end the stamp duty amnesty scheme on February 15 led to considerable confusion among flat owners who….
“Let us assume that I obtain a degree in Mech. Not considering campus interviews and job opportunities, is it practical enough to opt for an MBA after that?”
…threat to boycott SSC/HSC exams if the state government does not clear salary sheets. Fully-aided schools…
“Your cousin sister is excelling in academics and is due to receive an offer letter from TCS this year. Well, she’s a nine pointer after all…”
Rewind: few years back
“…and don’t forget to carry your Tiffin-box. The least I expect is that you starve all day unnecessarily.” There is a single slice of toast left on the plate, half emptied glass of milk and bits of bread scattered on the ‘bearer-of-all’, our loyal furniture (table i.e.). You are half choked with a sickening combination of omelette and few gulps of milk. Prepare yourself for a single- warrior combat and get set to play the hero who gets defeated in the end! Mommy dearest will ensure that you are showered with the deadliest of whacking and an elevated spirit to be welcomed at school. You are taught very well to walk up a miles distance without relying on anybody; your back is embellished with a two kilo bag lazily slumped over your shoulders and a pair of dragging feet. Pretty much to your advantage, you have a half hour’s time to flush out your frustration. Eating breakfast is such a waste of time! I am fed up of being stuffed with bread and milk every morning…That old school fellow..! He’s too full of himself; I will beat him in marbles today. Forget homework, I am yet to finish my class work. About the book that I am to submit today, I don’t remember keeping it in my bag….
Such events bear major importance within them, equivalent to a minister’s appointment with his fellow cabinet members, a celebrity interview with a news channel and a mid-life crisis. Every morning greets a play with a protagonist encompassed with petty jobs and too much load, the responsibility of fulfilling his/her parents expectations by religiously walking back and forth to school, completing homework assignments and attending to additional commitments that people often mistakenly address as ‘multi talent’. Amidst all the haunting tasks, the ‘star-kid’ speeds off to hit a couple of shots or pick up a ‘toy’ fight with neighbourhood tots. The joyride is not confined to concrete school grounds and brick red open spaces; there is constant chattering by the seas, getting defensive off the giant water bodies, munching on peanuts and feeding spicy red ‘pav bhaji’ gravy to already dirt smitten clothes. There are huge monuments and sky scrapers looking down upon the bearer of innocent eyes widened with wonder and excitement. Every moment of exhilaration is an outcome of- the right time to grab an ice cream, a race through wet streets washed away by the showers of first few drops of rain, a giant alien ‘toy’ loitering in the streets destroying thick ‘rubber snakes’ dug beneath the earth, our dear samosawala’s arrival and discount toy stalls set up at the neighbourhood grounds, to name a few. The carrier of such innocence and half knowledge is yet curious to know why, with a zillion things worthy of appreciation, is the world around him/her unhappy and tensed?
The protagonist is a toddler who appraises the gravity of any situation like we do, today as young adults or experienced elders. The innocent ‘five and something’ will grow up to evaluate every circumstance in a manner he/she is taught to, lest there should be a reason with enough pertinence for an exception. The basic difference lies in the changing degree of appraisal with passing time. In other words, what may have seemed to be challenging then is now a part of sweet memoirs of the past and is therefore, no longer a challenge. The innocence in procuring joy out of cute and cuddly events is swiped out with growing maturity. Once the burden of responsibilities is bestowed upon us gracefully by the older generation, we fail to gratify those moments which add up to our lives, our age and the individuality that develops over time; the little reasons that carved gradual smiles on our faces, the tearful ones and those that brought immense happiness even in times of grief.
As much as we wish to have those days of dashing bicycles and ‘galli’ cricket back in our lives, technically it is said to be an impossible dream. For all that God has left with us, let us live in harmony and spread happiness with this thought in mind: the privilege of living through childhood, the greatest of all gifts granted to mankind.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Random thoughts
Writing is the toughest job I have ever come across. If I consider every minute of my routine, I have a hundred jobs to perform on a daily basis. There are times when I feel like pouring out each passing moment on a piece of paper which is far from being possible.Sometimes I can feel my head throbbing, overburdened with random thoughts, trying its level best to channelize its priorities and ultimately, failing to do the same. It is only when I am walking down the street or preoccupied with important commitments of the day, I am struck with a turbulent flow of thoughts worth putting on paper; which is when I am stuffed with frustration with layers of disappointment piling up. After going through a series of emotionally vibrant episodes, I have drawn an inference: I write only when I feel I should and if it is good, it happens only once in a while. It has nothing to do with my emotions, my mood or psychological elation and tribulations. I am in a stage where I could bring out issues never intricately considered or thought of. Yet, I lack the ability to let the flow descend without obstruction. If you consider writing as a learning experience, you may jot down points for framing sentences in accordance with the topic chosen, the body construction and the impression one can make upon the reader by projecting a wacky introduction. In that sense, it is an uphill task to perform, an added responsibility for passionate readers and those who aspire to make it big as writers. The most peculiar aspect of being a part of this race is, you can always back out whenever you want to, but you will always have a mark of your own to remind you of your role as a writer. You will know your importance as one when you choose to opt out of it. Escaping or making giant leaps towards resignation from writing could be an easy option altogether, but one of the most difficult situations to deal with. If you are heavily doped with thoughts and have had experiences with ink and paper, then writing is certainly meant for you. If bad writing makes you feel low, remember one thing: writing is an art of playing with words, juggling them and putting them in the right places. It is synonymous to building a new outlook towards life. In the process, you are always learning something new from your own literary work. It is a skill acquired by few in this world of teeming millions, mastered by a handful. Bad period should never be mistaken for lost talent, it is something that develops and diminishes with passing time…
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