The wrong train

By R. Lakshminarayan

Prologue

Every situation has some irony associated with it. The irony is either amusing or tragic. Since I travel by train a lot, I believe my responsibility to describe in detail the aspects of travel and the social ethos associated with it, is essential. As they say, ordinary situations create extraordinary circumstances. Again, I wonder whom are people referring to when they use “they”. I liberally assume that “they” refers to a group of cranky village philosophers sitting under a peepul tree delivering random statements with no particular significance. The best thing to do is not to mess with them as they may be wannabe motivational gurus desperate for recognition. My grandmother tells me that it may be their first step towards “shankaracharyadom” of some “new” ancient mutt which will be discovered later by carbon dating and the new TV serial on NBC. However, I should move on with my story about the passenger train “Gondwana express”.

Chapter 1: People

Getting inside a train is an easily forgettable experience. Because, by the time you reach your seat, devious railway agents may already have reserved that seat for three other gentlemen, who on confrontation show pale sweaty faces filled with remorse and exasperation. They realize very soon that until the TT arrives their travelling seat and bed would be the famed Indian railways toilet. After settling on my seat, I invariably look out for the most dangerous traveler – a travelling middle aged lady. The travelling lady usually occupies a lot of space, and it should be noted that I’m not simply trying to pour scorn on obese ladies. It is just that, irrespective of their size, volume, weight, area, and head weight, these ladies carry a great deal of baggage. They probably carry some of their housing bricks with them, just to avoid homesickness.

In fact, given a chance, the lady would hire a carpenter to construct an open wardrobe in the train and shed tears of joy watching her 150 pieces (!!!) of clothing dance with joy in the peaceful wind blowing through the train windows, while other harried passengers would haplessly dash for a place in the already overcrowded bogey, leaving the unluckiest ones to cling on to the ceiling fan like primates.

She would then pull out a mammoth sized lunch carrier from her mountain sized handbag and wait for the train to start. As soon as the train starts to move, she would execute her plan with skillful precision. Out of nowhere, the “she- Houdini” would produce 5 jars of pickles and hand it over to the nearby passengers who hold them with intense curiosity, peeking at the lifelessly floating pieces of vegetables in the sea of oil. Shortly afterwards, she would pass on some of the food to her daughter- in - law who would invariably seat herself at the end of some other coach. Assuming that she is bound by law to not get up from her seat, the travelling lady would play a game of “pass the parcel” with the passengers. By the time the container reaches her daughter – in - law, most of the food is already in the stomachs of vengeance seeking passengers (some of whom are genuinely hungry).

The train is however, not a platform for a one man/woman show. There are other interesting people who unknowingly make their presence obvious. There is always one old man removing his dentures before going to sleep. There is another fellow who would squat like a heron while his friend would lie down like Lord Venkateshwara in his heavenly abode “Vaikuntham”.

Then, there is a first time mother, holding a seemingly claustrophobic baby and adjacent to her seat an experienced mother instructs her confidently on bringing up children the right way, while her 15 year old son is busy gazing at the nonchalant European girl sitting in some other compartment and secretly picturing his own fantasy version of a transcontinental “Romeo and Juliet” with her. There are also some passengers who catch up on their extended afternoon siestas that generally last for days and nights.

Chapter 2: The Setting

This time my compartment had all these characters from the above described social ensemble. The incident I shall narrate involves three compartments in the bogey. In my compartment an old man, two afternoon siesta fellows and two newly met individuals were having a dull time. The two newly met individuals engaged themselves in a dry conversation and alternately assumed the heron and Lord Venkateshwara position, while I sat on the top berth with a magazine as the train chugged through stations. The old man was very particular that his dentures were safe and to ensure its safety he didn’t allow his to eyes wander. It is critical to note here that the two sleeping people made no significant contribution to this setting but I should include them for the sake of completeness and humanity.

The adjacent compartment consisted of the seemingly claustrophobic baby, its mother, the over confident experienced mother and the fantasy driven teenager, all of whom were deeply involved in their social engagements as described in the previous chapter.

The next compartment had the danger woman – the travelling middle aged lady, the European beauty and three disgruntled men.

Chapter 3: The Night

In my compartment the two newly met individuals talked for a long time, exchanging ideas, smiling at each other, posing arguments and twisting their moustaches. They were discussing the outcome of a cricket match between Muscat and Egypt. After a lot of head scratching and moustache twisting, they came to the conclusion that the argument had no significance as Muscat and Egypt probably don’t even have a cricket team (even if they had one, nobody cared as such). The short balding man wore a blue shirt while the other guy sported a French beard and wore horn rimmed glasses. For the sake of simplicity I shall refer to them as “Baldy” and “Frenchie”.

Baldy was a bit younger than frenchie, but frenchie was younger than the old man. As the night descended over the train, the old man made preparations for sleep. The lights were off and everyone assumed sleeping positions as darkness infiltrated the compartment through the windows. After a few moments I heard some strange noises and in moments someone turned on the lights. The old man was up on his feet and Frenchie and Baldy were looking at each other with anger and bewilderment. “Awwyooeh vooeuyyuu? Whaayaay doyeee?” said the old man. It took us time to understand that the incoherency in the old man’s speech was due to the absence of his dentures. After putting them on, he reiterated his words “What is this? What are you doing”? Immediately, both Baldy and Frenchie stood up and shouted “This man is a thief”.

Chapter 4: Confessions

After this development the characters in the train exhibited an unprecedented transformation in their behavior and eagerly took turns to interrogate Baldy and Frenchie separately. The travelling lady was visibly terrified that someone might steal her sandals, which would seem out of context here, but the thought process that goes inside the mind of a travelling woman is so complex that even experienced researchers have often found themselves at sea while analyzing this dangerous traveler. With utmost caution she put her sandals in her purse while people walked all over her luggage frantically, just to catch a glimpse of a thief. The real problem is that thieves usually do not look notorious nor do they have fungus infested faces expressing cruelty. They may even resemble your friendly neighbor- hood spider-man. In fact the spider-man outfit helps these burglars to hide their identities. The important issue at hand was that the thieves were deceptive and, after a lot of thought the old man ordered Baldy and Frenchie to give a brief account of the incident.

Frenchie was conspicuously calm and elegant during his disclosure. “I was reaching for my bag when this gentleman made a dash for my left back-pocket in which I had my black leather wallet.” Suddenly Baldy rose from his seat and exclaimed “Aha, your wallet is in your right back-pocket and your wallet is not black, but brown in color, you liar”. Frenchie gave him a wry smile and said “Oh yes sir, you must be correct; after all I couldn’t keep an eye on it all the time. However, it seems that you were responsible enough to look after it, for me, thank you.” With this he crossed his arms and looked at the confused audience flashing a victorious grin. By this time Baldy had realized that Frenchie had bamboozled him, triggering the sudden outburst of truth from him, which would eventually precipitate his downfall. Baldy nervously explained events which could never possible occur in a train and stuttered so many times that the crowd unanimously felt that Frenchie was a better speaker and had the potential to turn into a politician some day. It was evident that Baldy had technically hammered nails on his own coffin because everyone was convinced that Baldy had made a dash for Frenchie’s wallet. They chained baldy to the upper berth ladder and one exceptionally excited man rushed to the train guards. Soon, the gathering dispersed and people started losing interest in the thief. Slowly Frenchie approached Baldy and whispered to him with supreme confidence “I’m sorry mate, two thieves cannot loot the same train, it just shows that you are an amateur. If you were my apprentice I could have taught you backup measures in case you get caught. You see, the key to burglary is tact, and as you can see I’m a master of this art”.

Moments later, the railway policeman tapped on Frenchie’s shoulder and as Frenchie turned around; his expression underwent a sea of change. Frenchie’s shock revealed rivers of sweat on his face, as soon as he saw the policeman.

Chapter 5: The Culprit

“Mr. Patel, isn’t it? You were the one who stole my gold watch last week from this very train. We were having a wonderful conversation after which, you snatched my watch at night and vanished. That day I was off duty and probably you caught me off guard as well. But, I cannot believe that you would commit the classical mistake of boarding the same train the second time” said the policeman as Frenchie hung his face in shame and disgust. As everyone watched in silence, the policeman released Baldy and frisked Frenchie away to the police compartment. Baldy heaved a sigh of relief and wore a defiant smile accentuating his ultimate victory over Frenchie.

Two hours later we found out that Baldy had just disappeared and the travelling lady’s box of jewels was missing. It is very surprising why no one could point out to the policeman that even Baldy might be a thief. However, the only thing that ran in my mind was the one line Baldy would love to tell Frenchie if they ever met in future- “I may have touched the wrong wallet, but you boarded the wrong train.”

LONG LIVE MEDIOCRITY

When you just thought that things could never ever get worse, the HRD ministry has proven again that it can surprise you and surpass your wildest imaginations. Here’s the deal. 50% reservations for SC ST and OBC people in the hallowed offices of the IITs. When did anyone hear of such an outrageous act of defiance against the meritorious and the deserving? When you have not yet imagined the full fledged ramifications of the quota system, you see the final nail driven into the coffin of merit.

No points for anyone for guessing the fact that it’s an election gimmick. The elections are near and the government is unstable and they are desperate to use every last arrow in their quiver. But the arrows are not aimed at the enemy, but at self-destruction, at the heart of the country’s future. The UPA is unwittingly removing big chunks off the foundation of our nation. This point is an axiom. I don’t have to prove it. It’s so evident from their clause, which says that the rule can be revoked next year, if it is not filled ‘despite all attempts’. A sure-shot ploy to remove it after the elections next year.

Everybody knows that the IITs have pioneered India’s revolution in the education sector, especially in the IT sector. The brilliant students have no doubt been at the forefront of it. But the great minds behind the innovation have been the professors who have guided and shaped them to endure ordeals of humungous magnitudes. It is so thoroughly a disgrace for them to have comrades who share the prestigious podium by default because of their caste and not their grey-cells. There should be a limiting point for anything. Things should not be dragged infinitely. What is the basis in having the quota for professors? How are they going to justify this? What sense does it make to have a quota in teaching? The reason that everyone should be given equal chance to succeed should stop at the school level. They stretched it and got it into college. Even after providing so many undue chances, does a person still need some bypassing the merit list? If so, I feel that the person is a complete failure, not to have utilized all the opportunities thrown at him all along.

What next? salary to the ‘qualified professors’ for just sitting at home? I think that it would be a better option than to utilize their ‘skills’ and spoil the party. Just sit at home and have the cash. Don’t teach us and worsen our already precarious position. Already we are a nation filled with a huge chunk of mediocre and lazy people who want the government to provide everything free of cost from food, water, electricity to even satellite television and more recently color television. Our country has got a very small number of entrepreneurs and high thinking leaders for the population and intelligence pool that we have, compared to other countries. Does the government want to demean it even more? We are a country constantly in war with ourselves and it is left to the elite few to get back some semblance of sanity into our ravaged lives.

No one cares a dime about the country going to the dogs. It so thoroughly disgusts me to read such farces and gimmicks by the elected officials early in the morning when I open the paper. A very nice cartoon depicting the trust we have on our leaders has appeared in the Times today. A lie-detector fitted on the podium where a politician renders a speech. Aptly captures the mindset of the totally disgruntled reader who is so thoroughly helpless. Waiting for the dawn...

Gimme fuel

All along the road,
filled with a thousand stones,
I tried to walk through,
without a groan.

But all I could do was,
dream of another cloud,
with a brilliant hold,
on my slipping shroud.

What does it take ,
to tear apart the chains,
that binds me to the memories,
of myriad pains.

What does it take ,
to break the shackles,
to come out free,
and stir up my passion.

What is it that,
I always wanted to do,
but never really got,
the Guts to do.

Break free oh human!
the worlds waiting on the other side.
You need to travel far,
to get onto their ride.

Look at the old man,
who shines the boots.
He Doesn’t really care ,
for the world that snooks.

Look at the mother,
who belongs to the alley.
She breeds her child,
like a million dollar baby.

Look at all the people,
you need to feel their passion.
For it’s this feeling,
that holds up a nation.

Feel from the heart,
look from the eye.
Drown the shame,
that makes you shy.

Let the world stand still,
as you pass them by.
For it’s the passion in you,
that makes you high.

author's note : I have tried to make it sound more like a song than a poem, having little rhyme. My first attempt at that

THE LAST STORY

CHAPTER 1: THE DREAMER

“Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny stopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets, at the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep in his soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening that his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender than the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and deeper-rooted than the love of woman—for had he not turned away from green roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year.…..” Daniel could not get his eyes off the book. He was an ardent fan of O.Henry and lapped up every story of his as soon as he got his hands on one. He was reading this one with intense concentration and interest when there was a knock on the door. His mother was calling him downstairs for dinner but who cared for dinner when you had an O.Henry book in your hand.

After minutes of yelling on the part of his mother, he finally put the book down and got up in a reluctant manner. His room was dimly lit, as it always was. A bed and a wooden pair of a table and a chair was all that could be found in his room except for books. Books. That was all he possessed and cared about. His whole world was confined to books and stories. He liked them because they let his imagination fly, provided a departure from his mundane life. One minute he could be strolling down the smoky streets of London and the next he could be sailing in the pacific half a world away. He smelled the roses, flied with the birds and tasted all the delicacies of the world. Stories provided flight to his imagination, his creativity and were his only friend. They made him laugh, made him sob and made him wonder at the lives of the protagonists.

He was just standing, staring out of the window of his room. The cool breeze made the tree leaves dance to their tunes and his heart danced with them. Unconsciously, he drifted into his dream world, a world where he wrote his own stories and people loved him for that. He was famous, women doted on him and men envied him. It was the utter excitement of such a life that attracted him. He was floating in his dreams, travelling continents and enchanting people with his stories. He was the O.Henry of his dreams. “Daniel, come down immediately.” this time it was his father. He quickly turned the lights off and ran downstairs.

CHAPTER 2: WHEN THE DREAM COMES TRUE

Four years passed. It was 1890. Daniel was twenty three now. He was standing outside the hall. It was quite cold in the snow but his feet and palms were sweating. His heart was throbbing in his chest. The moment was coming close. It was one of the rare occasions when O.Henry made a public appearance. He had spent his month’s allowance, lied to his mother and travelled two days, to get to New York. He was lost in his thoughts when O.Henry came out. He ran towards his idol. Henry was quickly walking down the street with some gentlemen, talking to them. “Hello Sir. I am Daniel. Daniel O’Connor.” he said but Henry wasn’t listening, He followed him, hoping he would listen to him. Henry walked fast and Daniel was almost running, trying to keep up with him.

Henry turned a corner and Daniel followed him. The men with Henry were now looking back at him suspiciously. After a while, they stopped. The men dispersed and Henry motioned to Daniel to come to him. Daniel adjusted his hat, wiped his face with his palm and cleaned it with the back of his coat. He was face to face with his O.Henry, the man who had had such a large impact on his soul and was going to have a huge impact on his life. This was the moment he had been waiting for so long. He had pictured this in his dreams but it had never been like this. Here he was sharing the same air, the same sounds and the same sights with his idol. He was unbelievably excited and terribly nervous. He took his hat off and bowed as a sign of respect. Henry extended his hand and Daniel shook it. “Good Day Sir. I am Daniel O’Connor.” he said. “Good Day young man. I am O.Henry.” Henry replied. He had so much to say to him but now Daniel was searching for words. People probably feel the same way when they confess love, he thought to himself. “I am a huge admirer of yours. I have read each and every story you have written to date. I think you are the best writer ever.” he finally managed and quickly went over it in his mind to check if he had said it all right. “Well, thank you for the appreciation. I do manage to write a few of them. I am pleased to find that people find them worth reading.” Henry replied. “Well, I would be really thankful if you can sign this for me.” Daniel said holding out a book. O.Henry signed it. Daniel was much more relaxed now, ”I want to be a writer too. Just like you. I hope I can write something decent enough to be published.” he said. “Well, just follow your heart, do not give up and you shall succeed,” O.Henry said and looked at his watch, “Well, I would better get going now. May you succeed in your endeavors. Good Bye then.” he said and walked away.

Daniel came back home. He went over that episode many times in his mind. That five minute meeting occupied his mind for the better part of the day. That encounter with O.Henry had lifted his spirits. His words of encouragement rang in Daniel’s ears. Smile never left his face and the sights and sounds of nature delighted him. He sat in the chair in his room and thought it over. He had always wanted to be a professional writer. May be now was the time to start writing. His parents didn’t approve of it but then he had always known that they won’t. His father wanted Daniel to work with him at his wood carving business but Daniel couldn’t be less interested. He thought it over a million times, took out his pen and a paper and started writing.

CHAPTER 3: THE RISE

Daniel was never into girls. He just saw them as pretty creatures of nature about whom he can write a lot but can never fall in love with one. The truth was that he was not much into people in general. He was a loner who liked to write or read stories. He viewed his surroundings as a distant observer, took in the details and wrote about them. For him, this level of detachment from the world was necessary for him to write. It provided him with the space he needed to think and preserve the sights and sounds so that he could successfully reproduce them on paper.

Daniel was twenty five now. He had written four stories but none of them had been published. His mother was pressurizing him to marry and settle down but for him the adventure was just starting, He was desperately trying to get at least one of his stories published and a girl would only be a nuisance he would have to deal with. He made daily rounds of the publishing houses in hope that one of them would agree to publish his stories. He had no money whatsoever and his father was also growing reluctant to help him at this age. According to him, Daniel should have been working and supporting a family by now.

Daniel kept trying and trying. After eight months of struggle, he too was getting tired of it. One such day, he came back from the town, exhausted. He went to his room and sat down on the chair. He saw a letter sit on his desk, posted to him. He opened it and when he read it, he could not believe his eyes. Inside was a conformation from a local publishing house that they were going to publish his stories the coming month. That meeting with O’Henry from two years ago played out in his mind and he remembered the words of his idol. “Follow your heart” he had said. Daniel had followed his heart and found his way. His joy was unbounded. He lied down on his bed and shouted at the top of his voice to let the world know of his accomplishment.

His stories did get published and did decent business. He got paid his part and for the first time in his life, felt complete. Right about that time, another of O.Henry’s books came out. He bought it with his first earnings and read it in one night.

He had struck a deal with the same publisher now and started to write another book. He took his time when it came to writing. He read about the place and the environment he was going to write about, thought over the story many times in his mind and then only did he start writing. He sketched each and every character clearly in his mind, gave himself ample time to develop each one of them and then only did he pen them down. This long process obviously took him much time, sometimes months and this time he married on the insistence of his mother. His wife, Jessica, was the daughter of one his father’s friends. It was the beginning of a new episode in his life, as some would say, but he knew that episode had already begun when his first stories got published. This, was just another custom he had to follow for his parents and the society.

Another set of his stories got published and they started selling as soon as they got to the book stores. He was becoming successful and ever more engrossed in his writing. He bought a house in one of the more elite areas of Chicago. Now he was a professional writer and the next step for him was to move towards greatness, he thought to himself. He wanted to be remembered like O.Henry would be. For that, he had to write more and he had to write better. He knew it better than anybody else that his journey had just started.

CHAPTER 4: WHEN REALITY STRIKES

In the winter of 1895, a son was born to Daniel. He maintained writing as his sole profession and his first love. As was his habit, his readers had to wait a long time before each of his books. He still took his own time when it came to writing but the publishers didn’t seem to mind as his books were sold-out within days.

Years passed and his son now started going to school. It was the life he had always hoped for and now he was living it. One day, when he was in his room, reading a book, Jessica came to him. Even after years of marriage, he still remained a mystery to her. He was not very affectionate and never discussed a problem with her. So, she did feel a little apprehensive going to him, but now she just had to talk to him. Daniel was lost in his reading and took sometime noticing her presence. She told Daniel that they had been running a little short on funds lately. The news came as a shocker to Daniel who never gave any thought to money. He found it hard to believe. After all, he was a pretty successful writer now. But as it turned out, this success wasn’t enough. Jessica explained to him that their needs were growing as their son had started to go to school and they were still paying off for the house they lived in. At their current levels of earning, it would become hard for them to get by. She implored Daniel to take up some side profession just to make some extra money but Daniel knew well enough that he needed all the time he can get to write and besides, this was the only thing he was skilled at.

After she had left, Daniel stood near the window of his room that looked straight down the main street and searched for answers. For the first time in his life, Daniel realized that his readership wasn’t really big and that the publishing house he had a deal with didn’t pay him well enough. For the first time he had to equate his love for writing with money. It broke his heart but there was nothing else he could do. He could not move to a larger publishing house as he had a deal with this one. So, the only way he had left was this. He had to write more, get more books published in less time. He closed the window, sat down and gave out a sigh.

CHAPTER 5: LOST

Daniel started writing more but found it hard to do so. He had always needed time in writing but now time was one thing he did not have. He had to get money and get it quick. He knew that if he started writing hastily, the quality of his work will go down. He had to compromise his soul but there was no way out. Their expenses were growing and now he was considering moving to a smaller house. He talked it out with Jessica and they agreed to do it. The pressure on Daniel was growing. He had stopped reading altogether and wrote whatever came to his mind. He didn’t have time for extensive study on his characters now. The sales of his books started going down gradually. He quickly finished off another book and got it published. The sale of this one did not compare to even his previous sales. He knew the reason why.

On days, Daniel felt as if his soul had been taken away from him. All that was left of him now was a shell capable of laboring day and night for the sake of money. He felt the artist within him die a slow death. He had never looked at writing as a profession, had never worried about money but now with a family to support and ever growing expenses, he wrote for money.

Daniel considered going to larger publishing houses. On one such trip, he went to New York to meet Michael, the owner of a publishing house. Michael told him that he had heard about his work, even read two of his books and that he appreciated his talent. Daniel saw a ray of hope here. A deal with this publishing house would land him in prosperity, taking away all his woes. They talked about writers in general, how a new crop of writers had come up in recent times and what the turn of the century had in store for them. Daniel, then, came up with his proposal. Michael heard him with unfading attention. Daniel felt the heart throbbing in his chest, just like he had felt it when he was about to meet O.Henry. After Daniel was done, Michael told him he would be pleased to sign a deal with him and that it would be a pleasure to publish his books but he already had a deal with some one else at the moment and so could not publish Daniel’s work. Daniel felt his heart beat quicken. He had all his hopes pinned on this one and rejection here meant that he would almost go broke. He persuaded Michael but to no avail. Michael said he wont be able to help him at this moment of time. Daniel felt the earth slip beneath his feet. He had no where to go. It would take him time to write another set of stories and he didn’t have enough money to support his family through that time. Daniel stood up to go but something inside him pushed him to ask the name of the writer who had virtually put him out of business, who had ended his last hopes. Michael looked at him and said it was Mr. Porter also known to his fans under the pen name of O.Henry. Daniel came out of his office, stood outside on the pavement and laughed, as tears rolled down his cheeks. How ironical it was that the man who had been his idol, his inspiration was the same man who had just ended his life. Daniel felt his entire life rush before his eyes, that meeting with O.Henry, his first published stories, everything.

Daniel returned home the next day. He found a lock on the door of his house and a letter kept there. He opened and read the letter. It was from Jessica. She had left the house with his son to go and live with her father. Daniel was filled with rage and despair, anger and hopelessness, all at the same time. He opened the door, went inside and locked it.

Daniel stopped writing altogether. He worked at as a manual worker in a factory down town. The urge to write had died within him. All he wanted to do now was to write a last story. A last story just for himself and then he would never write again. And so he began. He would write his story in the nights after he came home from work. He had lost all hope of ever resurrecting himself as a writer again. He wrote this one out of despair, out of angst, out of agony. He thought to himself that how writing had been his greatest love, the sole purpose of his life and how he had lost everything. May be that was life, he thought. It promises you everything but the raw you deal you get in the end is never worth it.

Daniel was almost finishing his last story now. He had nothing else to write except for one thing. Yes. I have nothing more to write except that this was my last story. This was the sum of my life and I have written everything I wanted to. May be greatness is reserved for a chosen few and I am just one of the many who come and perish without as much as a whisper.Anyways, I, Daniel O’Connor, shall write no more…..

Is this

Is this the
End of Days
The time to say
Our good byes...

Is this the
End of Romance
Tunes of love
To which we dance...

Is this the
End of Sanity
The engineering knowldge
That we have, in plenty...

Is this the
End of Bonds
Chains of which
Forged in love...

Is this the
End of Time
With moments frozen
And wishes come true

Is this the
End of Game
The hours come
To play never again..

Is this the
End of the Road
Wandering away
Are we nomads again

Is this the
End of the rhyme...
While my hearts cryin
'M jus tryin to be fine...

Is this the
Ennnnd.....

Random Rambling: Part 1

Life is interesting, isn’t it?

Just for fun, let’s be the spider looking at the web of life and take a look at the mesmerizing big picture. Its amazing how we are all part of this huge network of resources, skills, relationships and emotions. Each morning, you, I and every other moving creature gets up to play a part in this huge interconnected ‘grand system’ of seemingly independent ecological, biological, social, emotional, financial and economic systems. Each of us, unique in our own way, spend our lives in trying to become indispensable and the most important ‘link’ in the set-up we lovingly call life. Let's snoop into things for a while.

Consider my Dad, a scrupulous banker. Everyday, he goes into his office, checks financial dealings, passes cheques, grants loans, and safeguards and redistributes public money for the greater good of the public themselves. And for his services, he gets a small percentage of this public money to take home every month. Consider his client, the enterprising hotel manager. Mr. Manager buys veggies, cereals, fruits and drinks from the market; picks, mixes and matches parts of some of these, which in some very specific combinations would manage to excite our taste buds. For feeding the public, he takes as fees from the public themselves, certain fixed amounts which would go to buy toys for his kids and jewellery for his wife. Consider his customer, the profiteering stock broker. This guy channels ‘public’ money from one part of the system to another part and makes an amount of money proportionate to how well he manages to do that. Now, consider all of his investors, the software engineer, the jeweller, the social worker, the policeman as well as the drug dealer. All of these guys work or feed on some part of the general public system, process matter, information or some damn thing from the system and gain from the very same system in one of several forms. In other words, no matter what profession we pursue, no matter how much money we make, no matter who we cheat for a living, we will always remain ‘public servants’, serving the ‘public’ within the system in one of a hundred trillion ways. And our rewards are nothing but the position we get elevated to in the system itself ! Does this seem like random rambling ?

Corollary 1: Our fate is tied to the well-being or misery of our fellow brethren!!

Let’s look beyond the economic implications of the above statement. We are all, yes, all of us, hanging on one side of this powerful divine systemic pulley, one pulley for each of us, the other side being pulled down by the rest of the system. Our perceived well being is nothing but how well we buoy ourselves and go up by making sense of rules of the system and manipulate its working for our own benefit. Some creatures have a headstart, already half way up at birth. For others, it’s a long and hard journey upwards and sometimes, try as they might, they go no way but down. Some use force, break the rules of the game and put everyone in trouble; some move too fast and crash into the wheel; while still some put their feet on both sides and enjoy their stay ! But try as we might, simply and obviously, we, the living organisms on the earth, can never let go of the rope !! Got the point ? ( You have super-human intelligence if you didn’t :-)

In simple words, very few of us are different from the billions of trillions of crawling, flying, swimming and walking organisms inhabiting the earth who do nothing but eat, fuck and die. Ah! What the hell !! “Sorry to interrupt you; I am the author’s sub-conscious mind. Dude, I am going to make a mark in whatever I do. One day, I am going to be a rich, strong, powerful and influential CEO. I’ll have the world at my feet ! And unlike others, I’m not plain ambitious, I’ll work smart and hard and make sure my dreams come true !”

Hey ! I heard you. Yes you can and yes you will one day CEO be. But my point stands vindicated ! You will one day work on outsmarting regulatory mechanisms for consumable market commodities and take company profit to dizzying, unfathomable heights, setting new standards for marketing management and inventory stabilization. Huh? How are you very different from the roadside tea vendor..? He too works smart and buys tea from the cheapest ration shop halfway across town, smuggles it in the backside of the tourist bus, bribes the patrolling cop for a coveted spot outside the rail station, prices his tea depending on the number of competitors around, ensures that the tea brew is at the right temperature and of the right composition irrespective of the rate at which tea flows out from the kettle. And just like the CEO, albeit at a different level, doesn’t he make a hundred times more money than the beggar besides his stall ? Or moving from the lateral to the time scale, neglecting the possibility that you are an incarnation of Jesus Christ, how are you going to be different from the millions of people who lived and died before you ? From times immemorial, people have always tried to understand the laws of nature, we’re doing it too. Ten thousand years ago, people must have fought for pigs, farm lands and wooden spears; today we fight for oil, technology and world domination. You grand dad must have complained about how things were going from bad to worse and reminisced about the good old times. You are going to do it too !! We are all pawns in this unending game, patiently waiting to be promoted to be king, and though one day some of us do make that ‘mark’ we aim to, we still remain on the divine chessboard. No matter what, absolutely no matter what, the system is static, unchangeable, and immutable as ever. Meanwhile, the pulleys stay, laughing at the jokers tugging along on both sides.

Corollary 2: We are all the same in our quest to be different. (Thanks to XXX for bringing this to light)

Thought for today : Where is your place in this system ? What are going to be your moves on the chessboard ? In simple words, if you were to die today, what would you do to leave a ‘mark’ and make the universe remember your DNA ?

P.S.: Go ahead and comment anonymously if you think the CIA is going to hunt you down for your blasphemous response.

(This new blogger on the block loves to have a different take on everything from Sonia’s accent to Sania’s serve. His articles would frequently look at the ‘big picture’ of how ‘things’ work and the relationships between the self and the universe. Coming soon, Random Rambling: Part 2)

leMmme cRy..

i need to cry
leave me alone
lemme cry
lemme cry

donnt wipe my tears
donnt fight my fears
leave me in dark
i need to look bac
y m i here????

searchin for something someone near...
tell me things unknown
i m lost n rotten
frozen ,forbidden ,forgotten
yea leave me in daaaark

i need to cry
lemme cry

dont stab at my bac
load ur guns n blow me apart
see me in pieces
lemme cry

yea i m a bad liar
donnt giv a damn,i dont care
put me behind bars
unforgotten those scars

i need to cry
leave me alone

my end z a world away
stand apart watch me on my day
leavr me alone
i need to cry
lemme cry.......................

whEn loVers part..

It's not what i meant
that this silence should cause
perturbance to your days
was not my idea of how to spell
love to you. i just fell...

That this monologue should need
more than one person's lead,
speaks more about the lines
that once divided yours n mine..

And still, silent we remain
as days melt into untold pain;
Those words gonna drown us someday
please donnt lemme swim astray..

That this stubborn solitude
should look to your eyes rude -
pardon me, dearest, i forgot
i lost the battle, against speech i fought.

a wiNter

One winter far far away
in the blue hills,
wrapped in the timid measure
of an unkempt light
we waited,speechless.

Listening to the rustling leaves,
the whispering rain,
the mourning thunder,
and our quiet heartaches,intent.

Your ocean body carelessly
painted my sand skin
with your unbound froth.

Long since, I have stopped
rummaging the dreary sky for rain
for I still walk sopping wet