Intra-muralistic pleasures

There is a line of separation between having freakish fun and gearing up for the future. If one needs to violate this line and enjoy both these premises at the same time, one has to look no beyond the one place- Hostel. The name itself brings vivid flashes of dingy rooms with rickety beds, giving you claustrophobic sickness; really bad mess food and the works. But believe me, in veracity there is much more to hostel life than these small intricacies.
When I first entered my hostel I was apprehensive to say the least. I had never been away from my home and at that time, to go to an alien city and live among strangers was a preposterous and ludicrous idea for me. But when I retrospect, I find myself deeply gratifies with the way things shaped up for me. When a person enters a hostel, he leaves behind everything to be a part of a completely new and different world. He is like a pliant mound of clay waiting to be moulded to desired conformation on the hearth called ‘hostel’.
Apart from the fact that the food was outrageous and at times it seemed that the mess workers were contractually bound to see to it that the inmates lost their appetites, everything else was wonderful. It seemed like a cultural summit, where everyone was uniquely different in terms of background, castes and creeds, yet the purpose was same- to grow up to be a successful human being. In spite of the huge cultural differences and upbringings, everyone gelled together. A hostel epitomizes the really pretty picture that the makers of constitution had in mind, when they concocted secularism into existence.
In hostels you are away from the perfectly sheltered lives of your homes. You start to feel lonely in the crowd and that’s when you develop instincts of survival. Somehow hostel life seems to be in contention with the Einstein’s theory of relativity. There is no ‘survival of the fittest’ but rather a ‘survival to be the fittest’. Everyone tries to help each other in growing mutually.
Hostels are like dream worlds, where everyone knows each other and are willing to look out for each other at the drop of a hat. You learn to be ascetic in certain sense, but that doesn’t deprive you of new indulgences every now and then.
Where there is a rose, there ought to be thorns, similarly in a hostel you are faced with some saturnine moments, clash of interests, egos, emotional outbursts and cynical perseverance but they only spice up hostel life. And more importantly they instruct us how to tackle problems of life amicably and in the interest of both the parties involved.
Insouciance becomes the code when you inhabitate a hostel. The boundations cease to exist. Everyone is a free soul, devoid of any social stigmas and behavioral etiquettes. For the period of stay you experience what it feels like to be free. The place which resembled hell’s alternative at a time, looks like an abode of happiness. It is the place you learn to laugh with others, cry for others and feel for others. The previous mawkishness becomes genuineness and binds you together.
The most important thing that hostel life gives to us is the persona. Most people develop a personality during the say in hostels. I’ve seen introverts simpletons turn into street-smart manipulators. You are a zilch before entering a hostel and you are everything you ought to be when you leave it. I’ve seen boys become men and men become gentlemen and that’s where it is so important for a person to taste the recipe of life in a hostel.
When I started writing this article, the idea was to pay a tribute to what has been a dweller’s paradise but I ended up in giving you a realization of how impassable is hostel life. When I think about it now, words form in my mind-
Men as always come and go,
But it stands rigidly tall;
It treats us a friend not foe,
Until we can take on the fall.

Purple Haze

The splendid stuff looks green
On the surface, without a sheen.
Rolled into a pure white paper,
Nothing looked more clean and safer.

Passed around with a whimper,
It belonged to us like a finger.
The distance between us was short,
And the pleasure that struck me was tart.

Slowly as the lungs heaved,
None of us ever bereaved.
The smoke sank in deeper,
As we kept floating higher.

My life was colored purple and grey,
As my moods danced to a rhythmic sway.
And then I began crying,
For all the memories that came flying.

But in a jiffy I was delirious,
Don’t know what was hilarious!
My mind was a purple haze,
Sliding past a maze in a daze.

For what must have been many hours,
I had none of my human powers.
Lost in the world of delusion,
My dream was one big illusion.

That was when the days were glorious,
With an attitude that was spurious.
We romped our way through life,
Like a comet tearing the skies.

But now my life is no illusion,
Nor is there any confusion.
The smoke crept through my blood and veins,
to shatter my life to despicable ruins.

The haze has vanished,
and so has my life.
But there is no point ruing,
The day I started doping.

My life

All my life has been
Running around n round in circles
With a pen and a paper
Trying hard to beat the others

My life has always been
Like an open book where
Evry1 comes n scribbles
At their own will

I want to run away
Away from this life
Where all one care about
Is Swiss chocolates and Valentine’s Day

Is there anybody who
Who can show me the way
Way out of this maze
Can any1 show me the way

I want to break free
From these imaginary shackles
I want to spread my wings
Take a deep plunge into my dreams

I want to fly away
Away from these bounded cage
Away from the pressures of this market place
Away from this stupid race

Want to give my life
A fresh new meaning
I want to rewrite the story
The story of my life

I want to live every moment
Not governed by the social obligations
Bu finding happiness in the little things
That will make my life so great

An Encounter with......Me

ROME

The year is 400 BC. In the heart of the city of Rome, stands the Colosseum. Today, it is filled with people from all over. Merchants, astrologers, peasants, every one has come to watch the show. The Roman Emperor is seated with his queen next to him. The atmosphere is electric. All you can hear are the drum beats and the roars of the crowd. In the field below, stands a Gladiator. Dressed in a bronze armor, he stands there in the center of the field waiting for his worst nightmare to step out of the cage in front of him. He knows the crowd would love to see him die a brutal death. He has to win to see the sun the next day, to live to fight another day. His heart is pounding but he has to stand firm, there's a weird rush of energy through his hands but he doesn't know what to do with it. The cage in front of him opens slowly. A huge lion steps out of it. Sweat drips down from his face. He gets ready to fight the beast. Suddenly, another cage right behind him opens and another lion steps out of it, bigger than the first one. A momentary chill passes through his body. He had not expected this.

MANCHESTER

It is 2008 AD. It looks like the whole of England is present in the "Theatre of Dreams", Old Trafford. The whole world is watching. Today is the UEFA Champions' League Final. It is the day all players dream of, all their lives. The match is between Manchester United and Chelsea. Yes, an all England final at Old Trafford. It cannot get any bigger than this. But Manchester United will have an uphill task containing Chelsea. Four of their main players are injured and two are suspended. They could not have imagined a worse condition going into the final match. The moment the players step onto the field, the stadium erupts. The toss takes place and the captains walk back to their respective teams. As ManU's captain, the no.7, walks back to his players, he knows this is going to be the toughest night of his life and probably the most memorable too. He looks around at the audience. Frankly, he has his all on stake today.

ROME

The lions step toward the Gladiator. He is the only one left. All his companions are already dead, their bodies scattered about in the field. He only has a harp to defend himself against the beasts. The lions approach him slowly as if sizing him up. He steps sideways to be able to see them both. And then it happens. One of the lions springs at him. He rolls out of the way but before he has time to get back on his feet, he sees the other lion charging at him. He stands up but the beast jumps at him taking him down instantly. He lands on the ground, head first. The beast is standing over him, ready to tear him apart with its claws. The sudden impact has blurred his vision temporarily and his mind is not thinking. He sees his death in front of him. I rush to the occasion and pull him up. He slashes hard at the lion with his harp and drags it away, long enough to get away from it. The huge beasts seem to be conspiring in getting him down. They ambush him again, only this time it is worse. Both pounce at him at the same time. He is scared to death but I pull him out of the way. The lions clash in midair drawing a huge applause from the audience. They are angrier than ever before after this humiliating episode. I whisper in his ears and he is back on his feet ready to face them again.

MANCHESTER

The referee blows the whistle and the match gets under way. Chelsea take possession and they start attacking from the word go. An outstanding cross and Chelsea's striker has the ball and only the goalkeeper in front of him. He strikes it hard....the goalkeeper has no chance. Its a Goal!! Chelsea have struck in the 3rd minute. The stadium goes silent. ManU's captain shakes his head in disbelief. The play gets underway again. ManU has the possession. They advance towards Chelsea's goal. The Left winger delivers an accurate pass to the no.7 and the captain strikes it towards goal. The ball is travelling fast but is stopped midway by the goalkeeper. He passes it back and its a counter attack!! Chelsea's players are swift. Their passing is impeccable and ManU already seem to be lagging behind. The center midfielder chips in a clever ball and the striker just pushes it past the post. Ten minutes in and two goals down already. ManU are shell shocked. The captain is horrified. He knew it would be tough but this is devastating!! His head drops. I think its time I stepped into the picture. I tell him to fight. His mind refuses to believe that ManU can win from here but I keep at it. Finally, I am able to infuse some confidence in him and he whispers to himself " Let's Do it!"

ROME

One of the lion jumps at him, but he gets his harp in the way at just the right time. The lion is dead, the Gladiator lets out a sigh of relief but he has no time to relax. The other lion pounces at him and hits him in the face. His head guard flies away and he starts to bleed from right below the nose. He is tired and this blow from the lion almost knocks him out. He doesn’t want to fight anymore but I urge him on. The lion smashes him again and this time knocks him down. He sees the light fading away from his eyes. I battle with his mind, his senses. I want him back up but his body refuses to oblige. The lion goes for the kill, goes for his neck. At the last second, I scream in his head and he is back on his feet. He picks up a sword lying nearby and drives it into the lion’s body. It dies. The crowd lets out a huge roar. They have seen something special. The Gladiator stands in the center of the field. He is bleeding profusely, he cannot feel his left arm and he can fall down any minute. But he has won and that makes him feel good. Suddenly, two gates open and men riding on chariots come out to kill him off. He looks up at the sky, calls his God and lets out a cry of agony. I tell him that I’ll be there with him till the last minute but he is not listening. I tell him to go for it, once more. He doesn’t want to but I am not in a mood to give up either. I strengthen his grip on the sword, conquer his mind and he opens his eyes to give it his all, one last time.

MANCHESTER

The game kicks off again and I am incessantly trying to talk to the captain. 15 minutes pass by and neither side scores. Then the captain gets a ball in his favorite spot and kicks it towards the goal. The ball is curling in the air but the goalkeeper is quick too. Well, not that quick either, he is a just a fraction late and the ball hits the net. 20 more minutes pass and the sides are battling it out in the middle. Its almost half time when the ManU’s center forward breaks through and slices the ball past the goalkeeper. The crowd goes berserk. The captain is delighted and I ride on him. Second half gets underway and Chelsea are attacking with full force now. Some of ManU’s players seem to be getting tired, the captain notices it but he knows they do not have good substitutes today. Infact they are too slow one time too many, Chelsea’s striker gets past all of them and sends the ball flying into the back of the net. The captain is loosing heart now and I am having a tough time convincing him. He gets the ball and rushes towards Chelsea’s goal. A defender trips him and he smashes into the side boards. His head has burst wide open and blood flows out without restraint. He is lying there motionless. The medical staff rushes to the site. They ask the manager to substitute him immediately but I am still asking the captain to fight. The manager agrees and I am shouting now but he is not responding. Just as they are about to carry him off, he whispers “I’ll play”.

ROME

The chariots rush towards him but I am standing by his side. He is fearless. He aims at the rider on the first chariot and throws his sword towards him. It strikes him in the chest. “One down, one to go”, I tell him. The Gladiator is now all set to tackle the other one. As it approaches him, he takes the harp out the lion’s body and stands firm. The man shoots an arrow at him and before the Gladiator has time to react it has penetrated his thigh. He cries out in pain, I am having a difficult time holding him up. I tell him to finish him off. With everything he has left in him, he takes the arrow out of his thigh and throws the harp at the man on the chariot. It travels through the man’s heart. He is dead. The Gladiator falls down on the ground, exhausted. The crowd applauds him. I congratulate him; together we have won against all odds.

MANCHESTER

The captain stands up. He is leaning on my shoulders and I tell him to give it his all. He receives medication and walks back onto the field. Few minutes later, ManU get a penalty kick and they convert it into a goal. The score is 3-3. ManU have to win if the captain has to save his job. He knows this is do or die. 5 minutes left on the clock and neither side seems to be dominating. The captain is feeling light in the head. His mind tells him to leave the field. I keep on fighting with his mind. Suddenly, Chelsea commit a foul and ManU get a free kick. The captain has to take it. He steps up. By now, he is totally exhausted. His eyes are red. Blood is dripping down his face but he has listened to me, and that is why he is still standing out there. He looks at the goal. Old Trafford is silent. His whole career flashes before his eyes. "Finally, it has come to this", he thinks to himself. He kicks the ball, it flies over the wall. He looks at the ball fly and realizes he has kicked it a bit too high. He closes his eyes in disbelief. All eyes are fixed on the ball. It seems to be going over the goal. Suddenly it dips, the goalkeeper is late in his movements. It hits the net at the back of the goal and the stadium erupts. The captain kneels down on the ground. He lets out a cry of relief. Chelsea's players look on in disbelief. ManU win the match and the captain smiles. He thanks me for all I did for him today.

By now you must be thinking that who is this good for nothing creature taking credit for the victories of these brave men. Well, …any guesses!!! You know me by many names. But I am who I am. I am the “Human Spirit”. I was there in 400 BC , I am here in the present world and I will be here long after you are gone. I have driven the world for ages and I will keep at it as long as humans inhabit this planet. I am behind the most incredible achievements of mankind. I am the one who doesn’t let him give up. This was how I met the Gladiator and the captain of ManU. Have we met lately? I can’t say because I meet so many people everyday. I can’t remember you all. What about you. Ask yourself!!

The Exodus

Among the clouds, in the skies,
where human beings look like flies,
an evil gleaming eye sees,
a crowd of humans, praying for peace.

Down below, people look up in panic,
as the plane’s antics become frantic.
It spits forth a pair of ‘deaths’,
Destined to win better bets.

It hits the ground with a roar,
burning up people on the floor.
A huge fireball explodes,
and gulps them in its stride.

The remaining life on the land bolt,
running along with nothing to hold.
Burdened with sacks on their back,
their knees tremble, as they walk on track.

The country where they were born
, Moments before, became another’s barn.
Familiar sights pass, of palm groves,
providing rest for nesting crows.

The glorious sight of the setting sun,
the cascading rivers that spell fun,
the majestic scene of standing trees,
for the last time now, people see.

With a brilliant silhouette as background,
People trod, banishing familiar ground.
What else do the people ask?
Other than a future that will last?

It is their for sure their destiny,
that they’ll loose hard earned money,
While their homes, occupied before,
Present a sight of blood and gore.

The time has arrived,
to bid farewell to their home.
The houses where they grew,
with memories fresh and new.

With a fervent prayer on their lips,
and children clinging on their hips,
the women and men leave their home
and thus begins the exodus.

Life Estranged

Life-the one word which embellishes almost all the philosophical articles, the very basis of so many clichés in the literary world. But have you ever thought about it? There has to be a reason why it is the only thing which can be compared to anything in the world? The comparison could vary from the most innocuous thing like a bicycle horn,to the most bizarre stuff like a soccer pitch. What is it that makes it click as a literary weapon? Almost all the major writers have something or the other to say about ‘life’, and each one finds something unique to compare life with. Those of you, novel buffs might have noticed that whenever the author is looking to stall the pace or get more number of pages into his creation, he invariably chooses to forcibly push towards us his interpretations of ‘life’. Even an amateur like me is choosing ‘Life’ to get through to you. So, Is life that simple a phenomenon that everybody has a his own say on it? But that certainly doesn’t seem very likely possibility because I can’t think of any writer who has had the courage to spell out life as ‘simple’. So what we gather by this is that even though life is very complex yet any Tom, Dick and Harry thinks he knows about it.
Actually life is far too complex for anyone to understand. It is the congeniality which attaches itself to you when you are born and just like the truest friend it doesn’t let you go until death separates it from you. It is the only thing which has the power to make us do anything. Some fear it; some bear it while still some befriend it. It is like the dragon which keeps hovering around you that can’t be tamed or made to follow your wish. It is the vessel which can’t be measured for its depth and capacity.
When you really look at it, a human being, starting from his/her birth, develops a bond with life although subconsciously. When we are young, we respect it. We treat it like a cradle which holds us until we are ready. It seems like a smaller idyllic world, provided to prepare us for the bigger and bitter outside world. We feel warmth under its shadow.
Them comes the famous ‘teenage defiance’. We start looking at life as a caged carnivore, which on the onset seems docile but inwardly it is ferocious and deadly. But we are too wasted in the intoxication of youth that we pay no heed to the inward possibility. We keep pushing the envelope. We try out level best to try and intimidate it, but it doesn’t loose its portrayal of unruffled equanimity. Some of us do get lucky in provocation of that savage but they don’t live to bask in the glory.
Then youth comes and with it comes the effervescence. We taste success, we fall in love. Everything seems to be brimming with verve. Life seems to have become your best friend while it bestows on you the joys of life. Each new day brings with it a new meaning of life and exuberance. It is the phase which each one of us wants to continue indefinitely.
But as they say ‘life’s like a cycle. To keep your balance you have to move on’. Like all the ephemerals, the euphemism dies down. The life dons a new hat and a new role. A role which we have never seen it play that of a tyrant landlord, whose constant fear haunts us. The mornings become tawdry. Each day you wake up to a new agony in waiting. Life seems to be castigating your transgressions. You start to slide down an abyss. The gears and steers are no longer turning at your will. Luck seems to run out. And that’s when you develop the fear. The moment you start dreading your life its all folks! The life takes away everything you ever wanted. The apodictic certitude is gone and all you are left with is a meek acceptance of the fact that your peroration is just around the corner. You become just another pawn in the vast game of chess.
In the end darkness engulfs you. Try however you may but life shows you its/the upper hand. And then it all disappears, the suffering mitigates, the agony subsides and you are left with an eternal peace. Your languorous soul emits opulence for a while and then the circle of life starts all over again.
So in the end life conquers all then why try to conquer its complexity. Why waste some precious moments of life in trying to comprehend the notion behind the mother of all clichés. Life is too beautiful a concept to clutter your mind with. Live in the moments that take your breath away. Past brings tears and future brings fears, so try and live in the present and never forget to have fun along this journey called ‘Life’ because try however hard some may, no one has ever managed to come out alive.

What's in a NAME?

Ambarish. I love my name. I adore it. An unique identity. One of it’s kind. Fashionable and presents the image of a suave aristocrat. A rare spectacle in my state amongst the more prevalent balajis, aruns, srinivases, santoshes, venkats and the krishnas. A peculiar happening in a city where most of the grandchildren have their grandparent’s name and hence a whole family survives on just 2 or 3 names. Bless my dad for giving me such a name and also bless him for not giving me the name vandhiyadevan which he thought suited me better. His intentions were noble, I agree, but bless my mom too for not letting him do that. Bless my dad again for not letting my mom name me Balaji. Imagine my life with a name like vandhiyadevan, a legendary Tamil warrior. My friends would have called me vandhi, short for vandhiyadevan which translates to puke in Tamil. So much for the legendary war hero! I would have been famous, no doubt, for people would have just called me just for comic relief. My name would have been in everyone’s mouth, fitting for its Tamil translation.


I was christened R.Ambarish when I stepped into my earthly abode, r for my dad’s name, Ravichandran. We tamilians do not have a surname, just the father’s name which constitutes the initial before the name. Ambarish means the sky god, which my friends are so much familiar with now and frown upon, after my innumerable rants. But to stick my thumb under their noses, it was with this explanation that my first job interview started, which ended with me bagging the job. It’s the name of an epic character from The Mahabharata, the great-great-grandson of Arjuna, again a story well known in my friends circle. All was well till then, until something happened on that fateful day. My dad came to know about a famous (?) numerologist and with my uncle as his accomplice embarked on the journey that changed my life forever, from extra-ordinary to truly extra-ordinary. The astrologer summoned all his knowledge and prowess to totally mutilate and annihilate my beautiful name. All the numbers added up to a staggering preposition and the consequence is the present form, S.R.Sriambharrish. The result of all the calculations was the extra r and h and the sri which is supposed to enhance my wealth. Must say that it hasn’t done much till now! At least he didn’t end up adding an x,y or a z in my name


I had to endure the occasional jibes at the extra r and h in my name, what with people driving cars with their mouth when pronouncing the extra h. Point driven home my friends. As if this wasn’t enough, there was always the embarrassing juncture when I had to explain how my name was among the last few names in the class roll though my name was ambarish. My friends just called me ambu, which would have been the case even in the original form. This was ok, actually good and I liked it pretty much, though I despised the occasional ambi, amba, amber and ambuli. The nick name I would have liked to have had is ambush rhyming with George Bush, which gave a sense of grandeur and power. But all this I could endure with a wry smile. My life went on, until another defining moment arrived. I was the day I cannot forget ever, the day I filled the passport application form.


It was a bright shiny day, but there were thunderstorms in my world. Huge, dark, gloomy clouds lumbered over my head. The realization hit me like a typhoon, that I hadn’t suffered anything at all compared to what was to come in the near future. There it was, looming large in front of my eyes, the column which asked for my surname. What was my surname? It was the expansion of SR, Srinivasan Ravichandran, Srivasan being my great-grandfather’s name. Back to square one, the square I hate the most. The square of the commoners. The srinivasans are back in my life. The name that spells terror to me. The name, when u call out makes at least 10 people turn in a small crowd, thinking that they were being called. The name that a kid in every third bench in school has. The name that I had ridiculed all my life. That was the first blow.


The second one struck me even harder. I was filling the applications for a MS degree in the USA. I was entering my surname in the given column when the name got truncated. Srinivasan Ravichandran had become Srinivasan Ravichand. I transformed overnight from a Tamil Brahmin down-south to a northerner. Chandran became Chand and I became stunned. The column didn’t have enough space to contain my surname. My sufferings and anger became manifold. Woe was I, when a horrendous realization dawned upon me. People in the USA referred to others by their surname. So I was going to be called Mr. Srinivasan Ravichandran, or worse Mr. Srinivasan. I fought with my dad and made him agree that he made a terrible mistake 21 years ago. But now it’s too late. I cannot possibly change my name in all the legal documents, for there were simply too many. It would take a name with many more `lucky’ syllables in it to endow me with the kind of luck to get the herculean task completed before I die.


So, am still living with it, afraid of all the ignominy I would have to face in the faraway land. My mind is still a vortex of misery as I sit now waiting and trying not to think of the unspeakable torture that awaits me. Who was the guy who said ` what’s in a name?’

Conscience at the crossroads

By R. Lakshminarayan

Chapter 1: Confession

I am not a thief. I try to earn a living for my family. My life has a meaning and I always wanted to achieve something better. Destiny painted me gray because it left me with no money. One harsh twist of fate left me penniless and I had to indulge myself in a painful activity which tested my conscience.

I pick pockets. I have a wife and a son and they still believe that I work in an insurance company. This is not the story of my expeditions and techniques, but this is the story that crushed the purpose of my existence.

Chapter 2: Beginnings

My father was the most respectable man in the neighborhood. He was hailed as an honest, principled peon in the government hospital situated in the heart of Chirag Delhi (an urban township in 1985). I was brought up near the slum- like government quarters allotted for unskilled employees. My father never denied me anything. He took pains to send me to a good school so that I could equip myself with proper knowledge which, he could never receive. All my materialistic demands were met, as my father would buy me expensive clothes and continued to adorn his ragged, torn dhoti wherever he went. My educational capabilities were below par but my father encouraged me to do better. If I scored very poor marks in a term, my father would go to the janitor’s room in the hospital and shed tears, but he would never show disappointment on his cheerful and gentle face. After many failures and relegations, I reached high school and since higher education was more expensive my father barely managed to pay my fees at school. At this crucial juncture my mother contracted pulmonary tuberculosis and after a few months she passed away in pain and suffering. My father’s dejection was uncontrollable after her demise and her sweet memories accentuated the agonizing void in our lives. Shortly my father suffered from bouts of pneumonia and doctors linked his failing health to the depression caused by my mother’s death. Days skimmed past our deprived lives making each day more difficult and nostalgic.

On the fateful night of August 15th the rain gods poured fresh water on the parched landscape, filling the roots of magnanimous old trees with precious crystal clear water, forcing the birds to abandon their quest to conquer the sky and allowing earthworms to jiggle through perforations, digging their trenchant heads through the tender soil like spiral wires. I arrived at my home in the dark, drenched and tired. My eyes fell on a new cycle placed magnificently on the entrance gleaming from the moon light that shone on its water soaked body. My dad had bought me my first cycle, spending his lifetime savings just to see a large gleaming smile on my face. When I rushed inside the house beaming with joy, I saw my father lying on the ground, soaked in rainwater which was streaming down his nostrils. His pulse was ticking but his body was as cold as a block of ice. He had braved the rain to buy me a birthday present. As I rushed him to the hospital his miserly heart gave up hope and his stubborn lungs refused to admit fresh air in its domain. My father’s last gesture hurt my sanity and this inexplicable grief ripped my heart apart. He was my life, he was my hero and he was my God. That day destroyed all elements of faith in me and since then I have trudged a path of deceit and dishonesty with an impassive heart and a trounced soul.

Chapter 2: Habits

My aunt brought me up after my father’s demise and I spent my youth by taking up menial jobs like selling papers and delivering eggs in the locality. The income I earned from these makeshift jobs would hardly fetch me a square meal. There were days when I would ask myself about the effort my father made to educate me and my utilization of such opportunities. Such questions would increase my desperation and deepened my grief. If I couldn’t study even after working hard in school, why was God sacrificing my happiness at crucial junctures in my life? Why did he take my father away? Why was I the only one to face the burden of incapability along with the loss of dear ones? Why did God deliver pain to my father in return for his honesty? Maybe, these questions have no answers.

My elder cousin was extremely obtuse and insufferable, yet he earned a lot of money. He claimed that he was an insurance agent but I always felt something ominous about his way of life. To unravel this mystery, I kept a close watch on my cousin for a week and followed him like a shadow. He lavishly spent money on filthy entertainment and extravagant food. The only thing he brought home was the salary of an insurance agent. Where exactly was he generating such a huge income? A week later, when I followed him to a bus I discovered his secret. He was the best pickpocket I had ever seen. In fact, his swift catch was so mind-blowing that one couldn’t guess what he was doing. This revelation meant instant wealth at the expense of others, but then fate had been cruel to me and principles had evaporated from my psyche leaving it high and dry. If destiny wanted me to redeem myself and feed myself at the expense of others I was not a parasite but, a social scavenger, one could borrow some hope from people by sharing his poverty. It did seem logical to me that if something is there to be picked, why one should hesitate to grab the opportunity. My starvation gleefully approved my thoughts. My downtrodden life groped for emancipation.

Through observation I mastered this malevolent art and in no time I developed a knack of picking wallets wherever I went. It came naturally to me and I perceived my victims as a bunch of clothes bearing wallets waiting to be picked. The element of risk seldom affected me as I assumed an innocuous semblance warding off any traces of suspicion. My initial conquests were unrewarding and a tinge of remorse downplayed my confidence but the instant returns helped me trounce my scruples. As riches poured in I moved in a modest rented house and as a token of appreciation for my aunt, I sent her gifts every month. This also served as my redemption. The loot sustained my parsimonious expenditure and helped me save some money for the future. Although it may seem that picking pockets would bestow marginal returns, smart pickups and clever prey selection served me well. Soon enough I was married into a poor, unsuspecting family and in no time I had a son and in the true sense, a complete family.

My cousin may have realized that I was using the same decoy (an insurance agent) but to protect his cover, he never asked me about the transition. And I enjoyed success until someone invented the credit card.

Chapter 3: Adaptation

To sustain an occupation, one needs to move with time and change with time. He has to improvise and invent methodologies to survive. After the invention of credit cards and debit cards and various other encrypted cards, my job became more difficult. My riches vanished, largely due to my lavish spending and I was barely able to provide for my family. My hunting grounds were busses and markets where electronic systems were still unconceivable. Even in such places many people carried empty wallets. Even if they had some money on them it was too scarce to even pay for a single meal. Instead of two or three wallets a week, I had to pick around 20-25 wallets in a week and selected random locations in order to avoid investigators, who may discover some sort of a pattern if I operated without caution.

Chapter 4: The final act

As the sun dipped to the horizon blurring its shape at the edges, birds dived through the hanging bliss of orange light decorating the outline of the sky. Every beautiful sight reminded me about the irony in my own life. It prompted my mind to harvest the crop of prudence, and yet my greedy senses groped for redundant pleasures. The bus roared to a stop near the busy fish market and new boarders ascended with a renewed hope of meeting their loved ones at the fag end of the day. It had been a particularly satisfying day for me, picking 23 pockets and collecting enough money to settle my account with the neighborhood grocer. I had decided to resign for the day when I spotted a natural prey.

This man was sitting just in front of me and his wallet was gleefully peeking out of the back-pocket of his pant. I removed the wallet in a flash when the bus jumped on a speed breaker, and held it firmly in my hand. As I got off at the next stop, I recovered its contents and threw the wallet off the bridge into the depths of the river Yamuna. Pleased with my latest catch, I reached for my back-pocket to produce my wallet. I was in for a shock. My wallet was gone! It took me some time to realize that my alacrity in stealing the alluring wallet had cost me my own wallet. As I turned my dejected face to see the bus dash past the bridge, I noticed a man running towards me. He was the fellow whose wallet I had picked. As I turned my face to avoid him, he waved, gesturing me to stop. He finally stopped in front of me and said “Hey mister, you dropped your wallet on the bus. It must have fallen from your pocket while you were getting off”. I was standing still as a stone from the fear of getting caught and doubted his intentions but he smiled and continued “Today is my son’s birthday. I was going to the market to buy him a cycle. I had to work overtime and withdraw a part of my life’s savings to pay for it”.”He will be so happy to see it”. “Anyway please take your wallet, and please don’t thank me, God is great and he always helps people in trouble”. Uttering these words he handed me the wallet and ran behind another bus to catch it. Before I had any time to react, the bus sped away on the road as if nothing in the world could stop it. All the contents in my wallet were intact. I was still clutching the crumpled notes stolen from the man’s wallet. The image of my father flashed in front of me. I staggered down the road with a blank face and a trampled soul. The money in my hand was representative of my sins.

My father would have hated me today…

R. Lakshminarayan

REMINISCENCES OF A CONFUSED MIND

As three and half years of my college life have come to an end, time has come to put pen onto paper.
Now is the time for retrospection. A general question everyone asks themselves is, ‘what I have achieved in these years?’. I would beg to differ and reinstate the things I have felt, thought, seen, learnt and unlearnt.

I still remember how pleasant it was as a tiny toddler to enter school. Entry into college was in complete contrast. It was a rude awakening. A complete shake-up. It was the first time many of us were going to stay alone. Our lives were placed completely in the hands of our seniors, the futile attempts of the hostel wardens notwithstanding.

Though hidden sources forewarned us of the shattering experiences of ragging and associated events, we, being suave wannabes, shrugged away the realities and believed ourselves to be invincible. Let me leave the gross details to imagination. Ragging, though started off in a lighter vein by an unassuming soul, assumed staggering proportions. The dual combination of mental and physical ragging tore us apart. As an upshot, we lived together like never before and like there was no after. The Spirit of unity flowed through our veins and we became comrades-in-arms. This was one thing that hostel thought us in plenty, which would never have hit us with our parents. Nostalgia flooded our corridors. We learned to adjust and accept. We learnt to adopt and adapt to the changing situations. There were many challenging situations which required immediate, clever getaways. Small fights to be solved amicably. Plethora of awkward situations to be doled out slyly.

The way we managed money was another thing we learnt. Now we were adults with full fledged bank accounts and ATM cards, which we swiped at our whims and fancies. Though most of us ended up overspending and asking for more (there were some who saved too, to our amazement!!), it thought us the basics of spending, sharing, insights into accounting, money management and where not to spend (?).

No memoir can be complete without mentioning the most important commodity that keeps us running, food. Though the initial few weeks of hostel food offered a welcome change from the monotonous food at home, it soon turned out to be bland and insipid. What used to be an eagerly awaited blare, the dinner siren, turned into an unnecessary din that came to be frowned upon. This led to increasing forays into the eateries adorning the roads as well as the refuge for the connoisseurs. People fought for titles of who had the longest hotel-eating streak, which leads us back to details of paragraph no 4.

Semester exams were one of the least things that bothered us, we being a bunch of optimistic, happy-go-free lads. The ground reality of exam warrants another story, beyond the scope of this one. The innumerable night outs, mounting pressure, unsurpassable exams, butterflies in the stomach and the usual freaking out afterwards can never be explained in words.

Apart from the chai and chit-chat phenomenon, there was something more to our friendship. There was a golden thread of understanding between us that only people living in 3x4 cubicles next to each other could forge. Is it the physical proximity or the metaphysical embodiment?

This was the last stage of ‘no strings attached’ friendship, which gains a negative perspective ripe with cunning forebodings, jealous pangs and hypocritical attitudes, faster than a pupa turning into a butterfly. I strongly believe that friendship, just like any other human emotion is in its purest form when our life starts and gains evil intonations, identical to a rolling snowball from a zenith transforming into an avalanche that could eat away life, in both the cases.

As much as it has thought me to stand up on my own, hostel life has made me look irksome to others (especially when am at home). Irrefutable freedom guaranteed comes with its flipside, the haughty and headstrong individual who has increasingly less regard for advices and experiences. But in a way this is what makes you a man (chauvinism not intended J) who can stand up to the intimidating world outside his spectrum.

Many incidents made me ponder a lot. I have a simple mind, sometimes gullible. My heart paints a rosy, perfect picture of the world. My mind asks me to beware. Eventually my heart wins the tussle and I end up getting snubbed (hopefully not slaughtered) by the world. Not that I can’t re-battle, I don’t want to. I don’t want to fight at every juncture of life’s turnings. I don’t want to turn my life into a battlefield, an arena of mental turmoil. Many questions haunt the corridors of my mind. Why are hypocrites the way they are? Why do they have to wreck havoc in others lives? Why isn’t selfishness a virtue? After all, we are born alone in this world. Isn’t it fitting to place our needs before others?

I have no other choice. I Am a rat surrounded by hypocritical snakes, waiting for one wrong move. Living with cynics, hypocrites and sadists has rubbed these qualities on me. In any case, I am also a chameleon trying to learn the colors of nature to save my skin.
I always knew these sort of people existed but I picturised myself to be a messiah who could turn them around. But, with only hope our principles cannot last long. There needs to be something concrete to strengthen it up.

Somewhere along the line I learnt to live in Rome as Romans do. Here again rises the question of idealism vs practicality. I have witnessed the heights of hypocrisy and cynicism. So slowly and surely I keep getting sucked into these murky waters and hope against hope to stop, before it becomes apocalyptical…

Writer’s note : please forgive the alternating strong and light-hearted paragraphs. After all, life’s the same way, ain’t it?

p.s. this is a totally revised and updated edition from my personal blogosphere J

The AGD syndrome

Just as the bald eagle soaks the board in white,
we sit back as bored as bored can be.
Ducking our heads to avoid the stinging bite,
for we fear the raucous noise at our bloodshot eyes.

We look up to his unparalleled concentration,
Unfazed by the rattling noises of our stomach.
Nothing stops him from torturing us with deliberation,
neither the fluctuating current nor the chiming clocks.

For us it’s often a battle of wits,
to sit through without hurting our heads.
But seldom do we match his gifts,
for his stare saps half our threats.

The screeching siren’s our only savior,
as only it can stop him forever.
We bask in our minute of glory,
as the next hitch enters with fury.

Road To Freedom

I was sent to prison in 1987 for murdering my neighbor. I was convicted for firing three bullets at him two of which hit him in the chest and one on the forehead. He died instantly. It was a cold-blooded murder for which no mercy can be expected from the judiciary. And quite rightly, they did not show me any mercy. I was sentenced to 20 years of imprisonment in that ‘jail’ of the country where only the most dangerous criminals are sent.

All this is true except that I didn’t commit the crime. Yes sir, I didn’t murder anyone. I just happened to be there at the scene of the crime. Our courts need a scapegoat if not a criminal in such cases. I was the scapegoat in this one.

THE FIRST DAY

A guard threw me into my cell and locked it from outside, thus separating me from the world for the next twenty years of my life. The cell was four feet by eight feet, barely sufficient for even a single person. I slumped to the ground and sat there motionless. The prisoners from the nearby cells watched me intently as if I was a creature from another world. I sat there with my knees in my hands and thought about my life. What had happened? What had I come to? What can I expect from my life after getting out of this place? My wife would have married someone else by the time I get out. My children would not recognize me. My business would have been ruined. That was the life waiting for me on the outside but before that I had to serve twenty years of a life sentence in this prison. Twenty years!! Was it worth it? Was there any point in leading a tortured life here in the prison and then going out to meet a life which no longer wants you. Wouldn’t it be better if I ended it all here itself. That was the question I posed to myself. Yes, I was contemplating suicide. I had thought of it all the way to the prison but now, once I was in here, the feeling grew stronger.
Just then, I heard a voice.
“Hey, What’s your name, fellow? I am Rahim”, said a voice.
I looked around and figured out that this must be the man in the cell next to mine.
“I don’t want to talk to anybody. Leave me alone”, I said in a dejected tone.
“Hmm…Ok…at least tell me what are you in for? Murder? Arson? Or Rape and murder”, he laughed. “ You see, we guys have groups in here based on the crimes we had committed. Ha Ha. I just want to know if you belong to my group. Hahaha…”, he said.
A sudden rush of energy passed through me and I shouted at him “Shut up. Shut up. You find it amusing. You don’t even know what happened to me. You bastard.”
“Oh ya. What happened. Tell me. May be I can help you out.”, he was still laughing.
Something took over me. I don’t know why I felt that he can really help me.
“I didn’t murder anyone. It was a false charge. Now I am in here to rot.”, I said silently.
“So you are in for murder. Well, if it’s any consolation, you will be the part of the largest group here. Hehe.
Don’t feel bad now. There’s nothing you can do about it”, he said.
“Oh yeah. Then how am I supposed to feel. Should I rejoice.”, I replied, irritated.
“Well, let me tell you one thing boy. It’s a prison as long as you think it’s a prison. Think of it as your playground. Always remember one thing. Wherever you go and whatever you do, you live your entire life in the confines of your head”, he said slowly, as if teaching me something.
“Not if it’s a short life.”, I shot back.
“Hey, are you thinking of suicide. Ha. C’mon, what are you. A little sissy girl. Be a man. Face your life.”,he replied.
“What do you know about me. What do you know about my life.”, I said.
“Nothing, to be honest. All I know is that whatever happened in your past, you can still live your dreams. Why throw away your life by committing suicide? Give it another chance.”, he tried to convince me.
“There’s no point. Dreams are over. My life is over.”, I replied.
“C’mon. Promise me you won’t kill yourself today and we’ll talk it over tomorrow”, he said with a hint of urgency in his tone.
“What makes you so interested in me?”, I laughed back.
“That’s my profession, Sir. Hehe. C’mon promise me you won’t do the silly thing today. C’mon!!”, he pushed me.
I finally gave in. “OK. I won’t. But I want to rest now. Will talk to you tomorrow. “, I said.
That ended the beginning of my life.


THE JOURNEY

The next day, I came to know that Rahim had been in there for five years, with fifteen more to go. He used to be a Professor in an Arts college and was convicted for murdering one of his students!! He met me at the field where we had to work everyday.
“Hi. You didn’t tell me your name yesterday.”, he asked with a smile on his face and an extended hand.
“Sameer”, I replied shaking his hand. It was nice to see such civil behavior in a prison.
“Thank you for keeping your promise. What did you do on the outside”, he enquired.
We kept on talking and he enquired virtually everything about me. In the process, I too came to know some things about his past. It seemed awkward that a man like Rahim could murder someone.
We talked about what I can do to keep myself busy. Honestly, it didn’t interest me in the beginning but he kept at it. In a few days, Rahim made me realize how much I liked writing. Yes, that was the magic of the man.
He encouraged me to start writing in my cell. I was hesitant at first but with Rahim you just cannot win.
Ultimately, I gave in and requested the Officer-in-charge for a pen and some paper. He was kind enough to help.
So that’s how it came to pass. I started writing short fictional stories in my spare time. Rahim would read them and correct any grammatical errors I made. By now we were good friends and spent the better part of the day together.
I once asked him “Did you really kill him. Or are you innocent?”
“How does it matter. Now that I am in here, this is my life and I have got to give it my best.”, he smiled.
Some years went by. One day he asked me “Why don’t you get your stories published. I mean you write well. Your stories are good.”
“C’mon, who would want to read some crap written by a prisoner”, I replied.
“Well, you can give it a shot. l bet my ass you will get some readers. Just ask the officer to arrange it for you. We are, at least, entitled to do so.”, he said.
“Are you serious? You really think this can be done”, I asked him incredulously.
“Give it a shot” was all he said.
I asked the officer and after some fifteen requests he yielded. My stories were sent to a small publishing house best known for publishing mystery novels of the third grade. They obviously had no interest in anything which cannot boast of some murdurous plots and mysteries. It went on for fifteen months. We contacted many publishing houses but none of them agreed to print my stories.
Then one day, in 1994, finally a publishing house agreed to print my stories. The money I got was meager but it hardly mattered. I wrote two books, one after another, but didn’t get a good audience like Rahim had predicted. “Keep at it. You will succeed. C’mon Sameer. It takes something to be a man. “, he would say to me.
So, I wrote another one and with this book, all his prophecies came true. The book was a best seller. People loved it. Overnight, I became famous as the murderer who can write brilliant stories!! In 1997, I wrote another one and struck gold. By now, I was a famous name and Rahim was my best critic. He always used to say that he had some money on the outside and once we both get out, we can start our own publishing company and publish my stories ourselves. That would make both of us rich. I liked the idea, more because I would be able to work with Rahim. He was a dreamer and he dreamed big. He dreamed for himself, he dreamed for me. He would never talk of failures. It seemed as if he didn’t care about them. All he cared about was living your life to the best of your abilities.
I kept on writing. Some more years went by. It was the year 2001 and Rahim was about to be released in a few months.

THE DEATH AND THE OLD MAN

I was working in the field when a fellow inmate came with the news. Rahim had died working in another part of the field. They said that he died of a heart attack. I rushed to the site and saw him lying on the ground. I just stood there without talking to anybody, The sight of him lying there dead filled me with grief. Rahim had left us. Even then, he looked at peace.
But after his death, peace left me. I became more agitated than ever before. May be I was not able to come to terms with the fact that he had left us. Some days after his death, an old man, a veteran of eighteen years in the prison, came to me.
“ How are you doing Sameer. I know Rahim’s death must have not gone down well with you.’, he asked.
“Yeah, he was about to get out. I like to believe he was innocent”, I said.
“I think so too. He was not a man who could kill somebody.”, the old man replied.
“He didn’t die alone. His dreams died with him. He always kept smiling in the hope that one day he would be on the other side of the wall, that one day we would publish my books. Goddamn it. Its all bullshit. You don’t get out of this place. No one does. I’ll die in here too. He kept on smiling all these years but what did he get? What did he achieve? He died in here. NOBODY, nobody out there knows that Rahim has died. Nobody cares!!”, I shouted in agony.
“You cared about him. Didn’t you?”, the old man asked me silently.
“Yes”, I said with my eyes wet.
“You know what was his achievement. Rahim had told us all to never tell you this but I think now you have to listen. Before you came here, Rahim tried to help out nine other guys just like he helped you. He tried to motivate them, give them the fighting spirit. Rahim did not give up on any one of them but they gave up on themselves. All those nine people committed suicide, fed up of this place. But Rahim didn’t loose faith He never gave up. You came next and he helped you. He helped you become the man you are today, he helped you become the famous writer you are today. You ask me what was his achievement. Well, you are his biggest achievement. You are his success!! He taught you to never give up. He taught you to fight your way in life. He made a man out of you. You say that he died a failure. I say that he was an immensely successful man.”, the old man said.


Five years later, I got out of the prison. Today I am a successful writer. I live in Goa and intend to spend rest of my life here. A life I owe to Rahim. He taught me how to live. He taught me how to find opportunities in the darkest of places. But most importantly, he taught me one thing. “Wherever you go and whatever you do, you live your whole life in the confines of your head.” You can be free yet sad or you can be a prisoner yet content, like I was with Rahim. You can give up and throw it all away or you can live your dreams even when you have nothing left with you but your will to succeed.
Rahim showed me the Road to freedom. Freedom from fear, freedom from my past, freedom from the Sameer who wanted to kill me on that fateful day of 1987. He gave me the life I live today and I shall honor it.

The Sun that will never set

What is an ideal place for retrospection? Is it a garden, a historical monument or the sea-side. I think it is any place that is quiet yet filled with nature's chaos, which is calm yet dynamic in nature. It is a place which allows you to be amidst nature yet offers the vantage point of an observer. I believe that nothing artificial can ignite your thoughts in the way nature can. I had the opportunity to visit such a place recently. Its a dam called the "Pahuj Dam", situated in the town I love the most, Jhansi.
I reached the dam in the afternoon, descended the stairs and sat by the river. The afternoon sun was shining brightly, the "Betwa river" glowed like diamond in its light. A hill, on the other side of the river, stood shielding me from the world on the other side. I settled under the shade of a tree on the bank of the river. There was no trace of another human being for miles, and that was fine by me.
In that moment of solace, the first thing that came to my mind was my college. My college life is almost over with only the last semester remaining. Three and a half years, I have spent in VNIT. Three and a half years!! Enough to live a lifetime. College is the place where we ward off our childhood and step into the shoes of adulthood. Some of your most lasting memories are built in this period. So the question in my mind was, what had I learned? What were my experiences? Was it worth it?
Of course every one studies courses in a discipline in a college. But that is not all that you learn, is it?
In college life, some of the most important lessons are learnt outside the classroom.
While I was indulging in my thoughts, I laid down on the sand and watched the limitless skies cover me like a blanket. Just then, nature propped up a question for me. I saw a group of birds fly by. How beautiful they looked flying in complete agreement with each other. The kite shape they made looked lovely against the blue background of the skies. This made me think that had I learnt the importance of group effort in college? Had I learnt to be a part of a group? My mind took me to the time when we were preparing for the drama competition in our college.
How it had all looked so dull when all of us were not working in unison. How, then irritated with our own indiscipline, we had put our heads together and worked day and night. How satisfied we had felt after putting up a good show as a result of this team effort. We hadn’t won the competition but, nevertheless, it had been one of the most enthralling experiences of my college life.
Smiling to myself, I sat up and looked at the river. The sound of flowing water in that silence seemed like Beethoven’s symphony played on a piano. Right across the river, I saw lush green grass with spread out plants spreading like velvet below the hill. How beautifully had the river and the hill conspired in nurturing them!! The river was there source of the moisture they needed and the hill protected them from the sun light for a good part of the day. Had I witnessed similar acts of kindness in college? Had I and my friends been kind enough to the needy?
Well, this brought an incident to my mind. I remembered how in the first year we played volleyball every day outside our hostel as if our life depended on it. Some construction work had been going on and the labor toiled as we played next to them. Even some women worked there and as they had no choice, they brought their kids to the site too. That day we were playing as usual when the bell rang indicating that snacks were available in the mess and that we should collect them. Some of us, like me, were so engaged in playing that we didn’t go to collect the snacks. Others did. One of my friends, Baba(His real name is Ankit), brought his biscuits outside. A poor kid who had come with his mother looked on with misty eyes as people ate their biscuits. Suddenly, Baba approached the kid and gave all his biscuits to him. The child looked perplexed but took the biscuits eagerly. As he ate them hungrily, and we looked at him, our hearts started to ache with a rush of emotion that cannot be described in words. Everybody stopped playing and the ever chaotic playground was totally silent for the briefest of moments. Baba had given us all a lesson in kindness.
A faint smile crossed my face as I thought of that incident. Suddenly, I felt something on my foot. I saw some ants that were trying to climb up the bark of the tree. My foot just happened to be in their way and they climbed without any loss of enthusiasm. They were trying to carry some dead insect at least 5 times their size. They climbed up some distance and fell to the ground. Then they tried again and fell again. But they didn’t loose heart and kept on trying. A question propped up in my mind. Had I learnt such perseverance in college? Had I lost heart after failures or did I have to guts to carry on? Did I get intoxicated by success or did I maintain my composure?
My thoughts flashbacked to the third year when I had participated in a paper presentation contest. The presentation had gone awry minute and my team had lost. Not only this, the judge had ridiculed our presentation and mocked at us. The next year I again participated in a similar contest and we won the first prize. So had the failure early on deterred me? Had the success later made me too proud? I like to believe the answer to both the questions is no. This reminded me of some lines from “IF”, a famous poem composed by Rudyard Kipling.
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same
Yes, in nature’s company the mind does start to have poetic inclinations. I took a deep breath and fixed my gaze on the water. I saw a school of fish travelling in the water. Their motions seemed so fluid that it filled my heart with joy just to look at it. They were travelling like free spirits, creating ripples on the water surface like souls without a care in the world. This brought me to think that had I experienced such joy and freedom of spirit in college? Had I learned how to enjoy my moments?
This thought at once reminded me of my friends. They were the people whose company acted like panacea for all my worries. I remembered how we rode bikes at two in the night just for tea or a cigarette.
How, on the bike, I felt the punishing chill of the winter season and yet the reassuring hand of my friend on my shoulder. I remembered the songs my friends sang after “controlled consumption of alcoholic beverages”. I remembered how we endlessly laughed at our pranks and at the friend who was at its receiving end. How we played volleyball all night mindless of the consequences we were going to face in the next day’s exam.
It was getting darker now with the sun hiding behind the hill. I got up to go back but my thoughts were still in the premises of my college. The last semester was upon us. The time when we’ll have our last class, the last party, the last prank, the last cigarette……….the last laugh together.
With these pictures in my mind I started my bike to go back to civilization, away from this nature’s playground. As I saw the sun set behind the hill, I knew that there was a sun which will never set…..that of the memories and experiences of my college life.

Walking the line

We build our lives on the foundations laid down in our childhood by our parents. As we grow, both physically and mentally, we are bound to build our own ideologies shaped by our encounters with the external world. Our preoccupation with our thoughts and comparison between different ideas is the most decisive factor which shapes our thinking. But what if our notions of ‘good’ and ‘bad’, ‘practical’ and ‘foolish’ clash with what we have been taught as kids.

THE BUILD-UP

Movies are our favorite pastime. Whenever a family outing is planned, a movie is an indispensible part of it. And why not? The phantasmagoric world of the movies does take away the drudgery of everyday life, if only for a short while. So last Sunday, as my father was free from work it was decided that we'll go to watch 'OSO'. The mere mention of a movie infuses enthusiasm and liveliness in an atmosphere otherwise clouded by the omnipresent “Saas-Bahu” sops in the home. It was a welcome break and so it was decided that we’ll got to watch the night show of the movie.

THE BEGINNING

As it came to pass, I had to go to book the tickets in advance for the night show. So, I rode my bike to the cinema hall, and not to my surprise, found that half the population of Kanpur wanted to se the movie that day!!
A long queue awaited me to join it as people literally battled for movie tickets. The bedlam was scary to say the least but since I had promised my movie maniac younger brother that I’ll get the tickets, I had no option but to stand at the end of the long serpentine queue. I knew I was in for a long wait and reluctantly joined the queue. Ten minutes passed and it hardly seemed to move. Ten more minutes and I had hardly shifted. What were they doing at the counter for God’s sake!! Just then a haggard old man came to me. He had weary eyes as if he hadn't slept for days, a long unshaven beard and the only thing that covered his body was a shirt in tatters and a loose pajama.
OLD MAN: Do you want the tickets?
What does he think, I am nuts standing in the queue for no purpose.
ME: Of course I do. Why do you think I am standing in this queue.
OLD MAN: Which show?
ME: The night show.
OLD MAN: Hmm....By the looks of it, you aren’t going to get to the counter. I have the some tickets. How many do you want?
ME: You mean you are "selling them in black".
OLD MAN: How does it matter? You want the tickets, I have them. As simple as that.
A faint smile crossed his face.

He was actually starting to convince me. But before I could but the tickets, my conscience( all that I had been taught from my childhood) took over.
DO NOT DO ANYTHING THAT IS ILLEGAL AND NEVER HELP SOMEONE WHO IS DOING AN ILLEGAL THING.
ME: Don't you know this is illegal. A policeman crosses by and you will spend the next week in jail.
OLD MAN: I know all that. But I have a wife who is really unwell. I need to.....
ME(Interrupting him): OK . That's it. I do not want to hear your story now. Just get off my face. I am not buying any tickets from you.
OLD MAN: Please. I will sell these to you at just hundred for one. That's just twenty more than the normal price. How long will you keep on standing in this line!
Well, his offer did seem to make sense.
WRONG THINGS WILL ALWAYS SEEM TEMPTING. DO NOT YIELD TO THEM.
ME: Look, I am not buying them. There are so many people here. May be some body else will. Now stop bothering me.

The old man finally gave up on me and walked away. I was nearing the ticket counter now. I looked back and saw a long queue behind me. That really cheered me up knowing all those people will have to wait for as long as I did. Yeah, sometimes the devil inside you does take over!!

THE CIGARETTE

It seems like he didn't find any likely takers for his offer. So he was back!!
OLD MAN: See, you are still in standing in the line. Take these tickets. It will help us both.
ME(smiling): Thank you for trying to put me out of my misery but I think I'll stick to my plan. Didn't you find anyone else.
OLD MAN: Most of them are here for tomorrow’s tickets. Look at it this way. You won't get any poorer by buying the tickets from me but I'll be able to feed myself and my wife for at least 3 days.
ME: If you have enough money to buy these tickets so that you can sell them in black, I don’t think you are in such dire-straits.
OLD MAN: This is all I have. I needed to get some medicines for my wife for which I need some extra money. That’s why I am doing this. I don’t even have a home to go to.

Was he telling the truth, or was it all made up. How do you decide? It’s the mother of all questions. Buy the tickets from him, a voice inside me pushed. Was it my conscience or was I being foolish. NO, what the hell am I thinking. These people will say anything to make you yield to them. Stay firm.

ME: Sorry, but for the last time I am telling you. I won’t buy the tickets from you.
Just then the man at the ticket counter announced that only six tickets of the night show were remaining. Six tickets and three people still ahead of me in the queue. OK, enough of morality, its time to listen to reason.

ME: OK. I'll but the tickets from you.
OLD MAN(cheering up): Four tickets, isn't it.
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A FREE LUNCH. PEOPLE DON’T HELP YOU WITHOUT A REASON SO YOU DO THE SAME.
I probed my pockets and took out four one-rupee coins.
ME: Take these four rupees and get me a cigarette from that pan-shop. Then I'll buy your tickets.
OLD MAN(eagerly taking the coins): Sure. I'll be right back.

Well, as it turned out, the three man standing ahead of me had come to buy the tickets together. Someone called them up on the phone and they cancelled their plans to watch the movie. SO, it left me standing in front of the queue. The man at the ticket counter asked me how many tickets I wanted. I was almost going to answer him when I remembered about the old man. "How many tickets?”, the man asked me.
What should I do. Should I buy the tickets; they'll cost me lesser. Or should I wait for the old man. I told him that I'll buy the tickets from him. "You don't want the tickets then let others buy. Don't just keep standing there", the man barked at me. I looked back but couldn't spot the old man anywhere. May be he just escaped with my money. You know how these people are.
"Four tickets please", I said and bought the tickets from him. Just as I turned there was the old man standing there, out of his breath and with the cigarette.

OLD MAN: Here's your cigarette. How many tickets did you say. Four. Here are the.........
His face went pale as he saw the tickets in my hand. He looked crestfallen.
OLD MAN: You told me you'll but the tickets from me.
ME: I thought may be you...
OLD MAN(Interrupting me, agitated):If you didn’t have to buy the tickets from me , you shouldn’t have bothered me. Its not only my wife who is ill. I am not well either. And I know this is an illegal thing but what else can an old and poor man like me do.
Saying this, he walked away into distance. Was he able to sell the tickets? I don’t know.

THE END

A day later, I was passing through that road again when I saw a crowd gathered at a place.
Seeing the commotion, I stopped to see what was going on.
As it turned out, a man had died on the street. People said he died of the cold in the night. As I looked closer, a chill went through my spine. It was the same old man who had tried to sell me the movie tickets that night.
But the question was, what killed him? Was it the night cold or was it...me. May be, if I had bought the tickets from him, he would have had enough money to feed himself and his wife. May be, he would have survived had I bought the tickets from him. But wait, why was I holding myself responsible. I did as I was taught. I didn't do a wrong thing. I did a practical thing. Anybody else would have done the same. I followed what was taught to me. Or may be, the rules were laid right but I didn’t interpret them correctly. When I was at the ticket counter ready to but the tickets, when the man at the ticket counter had pushed me to buy the tickets, may be that was the TEMPTATION I SHOULD NOT HAVE YIELDED TO. Was I helping him by buying his tickets or was he helping me. Knowing the morally and practically right things isn’t enough. What matters is your ability to judge everyday situations and apply what you think is right. This was the difference between knowing the right path and walking the right path. Following the righteous path is as confusing as it is tough. Its a thin line to walk.
“Does anybody know him? Where did he live?”, a man in the crowd asked.
“I know him. He didn’t have a home”, I said silently.

Touch Me Not

Does casteism still exist in our country? Most of us would say yes to that even if we haven't experienced it in person but believe me, most of us won’t recognize how crude it is unless we see it for ourselves.Well, it was my turn to be educated about this evil and as they say "Education begins at home".
I was visiting my grandfather's place in Jalaun(a small town near Jhansi(UP)). Its funny how you feel detached from the world in a place like this. Its quiet, the only sounds you hear in the morning are that of a Maulvi praying in a Masjid and that of chirping of birds. Frankly speaking, in a few days you begin to miss the polluted air of the cities!! But that day the calm was short lived.
I woke up in the morning and to my utter disdain found my grandfather shouting at the top of his voice."The boy sleeps till 7'o clock. What is he going to do with his life", my grandfather shouted at me. He looked flabbergasted. Its a sin to sleep after sunrise in Jalaun and I didn't know that. He might as well have hit me for sleeping till 7 but something pulled him back ; may be he thought I was too old now to be beaten or may be he was waiting for the right time, right place. Whatever it was, I was thankful to have escaped my bed without a bump on my head.And so it began.
After freshening up, I settled down to read the newspaper. They say lightening doesn't strike twice in the same place. Well, in my case, it did."Bring me the Karkatiya, hurry up.", my grandfather snarled at me.I got up to fetch it but stopped mid way. What was I supposed to get? Oh God!, I realized I didn't know what a Karkatiya is!!I went back to him and asked " Grandpa , I don’t know what a Karkatiya is . Can you please explain it to me?"I might as well have asked him to shoot me, it wouldn't have made a difference."You don't know what a Karkatiya is!! What good are you. What do they teach you in your college. Oh my God, this lad is as dumb as they can get.", he shouted.First things first . Of course, they don’t teach about a Karkatiya in an engineering course and if it was such a life altering thing , I should know about it!!As I later found out , he was asking for a screwdriver. OK, that was the news of the day.
As the day passed, his anger subsided. I was able to survive the next few hours without being scolded. But that's more than you can as for, isn't it?In the afternoon, a man came to clean up our verandah and the sewage system of our house. His name was Ramlal. My grandparents had given him this job for which he got paid monthly.They also gave him to eat some leftover food on most days. Rest of the days, he got a cup of tea. That day, it was tea.
After he was through with his job he asked my grandmother for a cup of tea. My grandmother took a cup which was especially separated from other cutlery items, kept in one corner of the kitchen."A separate cup for him Dadi?", I asked her."Of course, we are brahmins, beta.", she said.These people really think I am dumb enough not to know that."Ya, Dadi, but how does it matter. Wouldn't it be good if we treated him in a more humane way", I asked her."Beta, there are some things in life you should not question. If we are doing this, it is for a reason. Now go give him this tea.", she replied.So I took the cup and proceeded to make the biggest mistake of my life. Ramlal was sitting on the floor with a puppy by his side. I tried to hand him the cup but he insisted, "Sahabji, keep the cup on the floor and I will take it."Thats when it happened. I kept the cup on the floor and gave him a pat on his shoulder."Nahiiiiiiiiiiiii", shrieked my grandmother who was watching us from the door.The man stepped back, his eyes wild as if he had seen a ghost.”Nahi Sahab.”, he said with terror in his voice. Before I could understand anything or ask my grandmother, she ran back into the house.Hell, now even I was scared. Was there something scary that I was missing, c’mon tell me!!In a moment, she came running back with a bottle of water and hurriedly started spraying it all over me, mumbling something at the same time.Now this was embarrassing, contrary to popular belief I do take a bath everyday. By the time she stopped I was half drenched. I was shell shocked. Ramlal was still staring at me as if I was a ghost. The poor puppy had the shock of his life and tried to escape through the closed gate, but only managed to get its neck stuck in an opening."He is not to be touched. Don't you know that? This is gangajal to purify you. Never do this again.", she shouted at me. My grandfather, hearing all the noise, came outside. When he came to know what had happened all hell broke loose. "He is an Achhut. Why did you have to touch him. Are you an idiot? You have no commonsense for God's sake...." I stopped hearing after that.
All the neighbors were looking at us in bewilderment. The fact that I had touched an Achhut didn't go down well with any of them. They were looking at me as if I had brought shame to all of them. Taunts and advices started flowing in from all the surrounding roofs.The fact is, I did feel embarrassed for Ramlal. How would have the man felt at that moment when everyone was scolding me for "touching him". Frankly, you cannot feel like a normal human being in such circumstances. After about ten minutes, when my grandfather was through with his harangue on untouchability and my lack of brains, we went in. Ramlal left without finishing his cup of tea and the poor puppy managed to run from the house too. So that left me alone. My grandfather’s reaction showed me how he counted this as a normal thing like waking up early in the morning or knowing about a karkatiya !! By the night, almost all my relatives knew of the incident (Frankly, I wouldn't have been surprised to read about it in the newspapers the next day.) As for me, I barely spoke after that. Once I tried to make my point but my grandfather looked at me with such fury that I almost fainted. After dinner, we had our customary stroll on the roof where he quietly(yes, quietly) explained to me the caste system and the grave sin that I had committed. I didn't dare interrupt him, not after the day that I had.
Two days later I packed my bags and came back to Kanpur. But the memory of that incident still lingers on like a ghost. That day I came face to face with a gross reality of “our times”. There are places beyond the metros of our country where casteism and untouchability are still in practice. Small town India has still got a long way to go before it can count itself among developed societies. Nuke-deals and multi-billion dollar acquisitions are good but there are places in our country unaffected by all this hoopla where the basic equality of people is still an issue, of course accompanied by many such evils. Let us not forget that.

Identity

Identity crisis

By R. Lakshminarayan

Prologue

My name is R. Lakshminarayan. R doesn’t “stand” for anything; it is the abbreviation of my father’s good name. I forbid any kindergarten kid to use my name as a reference to learn the alphabetical sequence (as in “A for apple, B for bat… R for R.Lakshminarayan). For starters, the name is derived from the symbiosis of lord Vishnu and his wife goddess Lakshmi. For the past 20 years, the name has been broken up, mutilated (sometimes by me too), and used as a reference to a particular billionaire. This is a story of my name and my existence.

The name

I was registered in my school as R. Lakshmi Narayan. Most of you may not have noticed the “gap” between Lakshmi and Narayan. But in kindergarten, the gap made all the difference. I was referred as Laxmi, Lacchmi, Laccho, Laccho darling, Chameli ??!!(I wonder where that came from). As a child I did not like being referred as a female, not that I am a male- chauvinist, but I was sure about my gender.

To counter all these attacks on my gender “security” I decided to keep names for my fellow mates. As it turned out they were offended and kid’s parents focused their PTA meeting time to discuss my misbehavior.

Teacher: Mrs. Singh, your son is failing in a few subjects. This is really bad for his…

Mrs. Singh: (interrupting) Madam, We (“we” refers to herself and her husband, who is, by the way, busy looking at embodiments of the opposite sex and gaping with awe) heard that some fellow named “Chameli ka bageecha” refers to my son Jagannath as “Jaggi”. This is outrageous! Please tell his parents that we cannot tolerate such misbehavior on his part. This is outrageous… blah blah… blah blah… na… haan… huun haan.(husband still gaping with awe at other objects of his affection)

Teacher: (With a grave expression) this is serious Mrs. Singh. I will talk to his parents. Your son is such a bright kid.

End of discussion. The child is not reprimanded for his poor grades and also earns the teachers sympathy. When my turn comes, I get reprimanded for both.

Also, Mrs. Singh earns the right to call me names (she was innovative enough to add bageecha and turn me into a garden) and yet a simple and efficient modification to her son’s name earns me her wrath. Sooner or later she is going to call her son “Jaggi” instead of Jagannath. Reason? ->No one has time for long names. Chinese and Japanese realized this without delay. If you notice, no Chinese name would span over 3 characters. They simply don’t have time. They would Yin, Yan and do an occasional Chan before the world comes to an end.

Later, I devised a new escape route by deciding to divert everybody’s attention to the second half of my “broken” name. It just led to a new series of names. Now, I was Nari, Nidri, Nariyal (English translation- coconut). No, my head doesn’t look like a coconut; neither do I have three eyes covered shabbily with husk.

Fortunately, one particular derivative of my name (“Nada”) was less offending and I decided to adopt it. Thank you buggers for coining such a wonderfully convenient name. I am Nada... and I shall have my revenge

The Masterpiece

The final test of loyalty

Chapter 1: the day of placement

One couldn’t ask for a better day to retrospect. Sitting on the grass, waiting for the night to cover me with its shadow of peace, I felt a deep force running through me, the feeling of accomplishment. Placements had just started in our college and I had been quite lucky to land up with a sweet job at the start itself. It was as if my college life was finally getting over. During such moments in life people look out for other people in trouble, which I believe is a sadistic impulse one gets. The touch of fur and hair would remind me of a long haired guy in college who would throw himself on me without provocation, but, unlike his brute touch it was extremely soft and momentary. With a swift turn of the head I could see him. His majesty had to be acknowledged. Silvery white hair, brooding jaws and two eyes which displayed grace were lost on me in an instant. The hair on his body was like grass on the meadow waiting for the wind to work itself through it, the wind, like a mermaid wading through the blue ocean with sheer joy. His domestication and age were apparent from his grace and sublime submission to the work of time. It was strange that a dog from the elegant and sophisticated breed of Pomeranians could be found wandering near a boy’s hostel.

Chapter 2: acquaintance

“Where is his rightful owner?” “What is this pet dog doing here?” “What about the hostel hygiene?” the student mess in-charge was in a foul mood and a fleeting look at the creature basking under the afternoon sun certainly aggravated his irritation. The authorities had handed out several memos to the members of the hostel committee and the content demanded specific budget cuts in the food supplies which were unreasonable at this point of time, since the cost of vegetables were scaling record heights. Some of the hostel mates were quick to notify him about the dog’s history and rendered a calculated narrative which could explain why the creature was enjoying its afternoon siesta out on the hostel lawn bench. The dog had been abandoned by the owner for some reason and ironically, he found some solace in the noisy environment of the hostel. The mess in-charge was able to direct his anger at something else and the dog was perhaps, able to brood over a lost bone. Evidently, his claws had worn out and his latency was quite a concern for many dog lovers in the hostel but there was nothing much they could do about it. His prior domestication and inoculation from the wild had made his body a slave to medicinal shots. Without veterinary facilities the dog was considered as a living host of diseases and some inmates kept a safe distance from him. Some youngsters pitied the mongrel and spared some food occasionally. “We should call him “Stalin”” remarked Basu. Basu was a music maniac and loved to flaunt words in his vocabulary and as any ardent follower of communism; he carried a volume of speeches delivered by Marx in Russia with him even to the rest-room. His belligerent response to everyone’s disgust was a simple statement delivered with conviction, “If Archimedes could frame a theorem in his bathtub, I am just seconds away from self discovery and enlightenment”. Despite Basu’s idiosyncrasies, his discussions were emphatic and engaging, forcing many inmates to believe that he was some kind of a ‘misplaced’ philosopher. However, everyone seemed to like the title he blessed the dog with and Stalin was now ‘unofficially’ the new resident of our hostel lawn.

Slowly, everyone got used to the presence of Stalin and any reference to him helped us distract ourselves from the usual arduous routine in the hostel.

Chapter 3: The incident

The sophistication involved in a dog’s life can be slowly understood by studying their general behavior. Stray dogs divide themselves into groups and clusters where each group understands their territorial limitations. The territories are usually divided according to the benefits in an area and some compromise is reached, which not only allows them to live in a chartered manner but also helps them to claim food in their zones. Any intruder in their zone is unwelcome barring human beings who are apparently their “perpetual masters”. It took only a week before Stalin had to face the native dogs and the incident remains etched in my mind.

It was a cold winter night, and all the hostel inmates were busy with assignments and reports they had to submit the following week. A packed hostel in the night is reminiscent of a busy office on the streets of Manhattan before the close of the stock exchange. The only difference lies in the nature of work and the type of noises that erupt infrequently. The night draped a blanket of darkness over the pavements and roads leading to the hostel. Stalin crouched on a bench in the lawn lazily drawing his eyes to close. Then out of instinct he opened his eyes to see a dozen glittering eyes advancing towards him. The stray dogs of this zone had decided to attack him and this had to be done to assert their authority and rights in the zone. Stalin stood his ground. He had none of the tenacity his opponents possessed and was clearly outnumbered. He had almost decided that it had to be his final stand before death when Basu and I walked out of the gate in the hostel. Basu was the first one to notice the standoff and in an effort to save Stalin, he picked up a rock and threw tentatively at one of the attackers. Following suit, I aimed at two other attackers and visibly stunned the stray animals ran for their lives. Satisfied with our effort we stepped on an old haggard motorbike and drove to the night canteen which was 4 Km from the campus.

We finally reached the gas station to refuel and searched our pockets for money. “Hey, somebody picked my wallet” remarked Basu. “How the hell can you be so careless?” my reprimand did not make any significant impact as our vehicle was comprehensively dry and we were stranded at the petrol pump without any cash at our disposal. “Eh, this is gonna be our longest night together, comrade” joked Basu. I was not in the mood for jokes as I had to forward an assignment next morning and the worst part was that I had no clue about the topic. “Guess what, Stalin followed us to the station” remarked Basu. As the exasperated animal came closer we were in for a special surprise. Stalin had picked up Basu’s wallet from the road, where he had carelessly dropped it, and ran all the way to pull us out of the mess.

Chapter 4: The Final Test

Keeping track of seasons and describing them with passion and panache is a hobby well suited for poets and great writers. However, such changes rarely make an impact on a superficial community which yearns for materialistic benefits just by joining pieces of metals and plastics to conjure a device used by a million lazy people to simplify their lives. The only thing which mattered to us was the mess timetable and whatever they had to offer during the recess.

In the evening, hostel inmates loved to squat on the lawn, making groups and explicitly narrating their chronicles of successes and failures which were inevitably spiced up with infectious laughter rendered by the audience. The clock of life had changed Basu, who by now had developed certain capitalistic inclinations after reading about the ideological shifts developing in socialistic nations. It was still hard to say whether he was an ardent follower of Marx or a Friedman enthusiast, but it did not matter much as nobody ever took his political views seriously. Stalin was an apathetic member of the confluence and he had developed no special interest in Basu’s theories and arguments.

Many people enjoyed their evening walk and some people walked their dogs in the college campus which included the hostel premises. Hostel lawns also served as grazing grounds for numerous cows and buffaloes and soon their open defecation in specific areas caused uproar amongst students who demanded the disposal of cow dung from the hostel. However, the authority thought it was best not to entertain such complaints as students may start demanding more luxuries. In fact, some wardens even publicly spoke in favor of the defecation, specifically relating their childhood accounts of playing with cow dung and slapping cakes on their walls, which were received with suppressed expressions of disgust and dissent. Fortunately, cows realized soon enough that their nature’s call was the topic of a public debate and wisely refrained from public excretion much to students’ delight. This kind gesture earned them the right to roam freely near the hostel premises and agitations were unanimously withdrawn by inmates.

Dusk was fast settling in when somehow, an evening dog walker unintentionally irked a bull and subsequently, the bull started charging at him with blood shot eyes and murderous intent. The dog walker went white with fear as blood drained from his face. The poodle accompanying him concealed itself behind the fellow’s legs and slightly raised his cowering eyes which betrayed a stifling feeling of helplessness. In a flash, something sprang up on the bull’s ear biting into the soft and hairy hide with aggression and skill. The bull was evidently surprised by Stalin’s move and temporarily lost control over its objective. The bull ran in various directions before deciding to shrug Stalin off its ear. The bull rammed him on the ground with a force apparently equal to ten times his body weight. Stalin’s bones would have been pulverized by the impact but he still held his jaws tightly on the bull’s ear. The bull rammed Stalin on the trunk of a nearby tree and unable to withstand further pummeling he broke free. The bull was still in frenzy as the shock of being attacked had almost driven him crazy. While we rushed to Stalin for help the bull swiftly disappeared into the thickets. Stalin wasn’t breathing. The dog walker wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead and stood awkwardly, struggling to maintain some form of composure. “Yeah, what a waste. He was no good anyway. He was more like a roaming box of fleas. I had to abandon this beast” retorted the dog walker. This ungrateful fellow was the erstwhile owner of Stalin. The whole gathering raised their heads in his direction and sensing resentment he hurried down the road without looking back. Everyone was silent. Stalin was lying tangled on the tall grass near the tree and yet, he looked calm. “Maybe this is what they call honor; saving people who no longer need you” said Basu silently. For the first time everyone agreed with him. Stalin had cleared the test; the final test of loyalty.

R. Lakshminarayan

“Dedication and loyalty are virtues of the great”