Sunscreen

I first heard 'Sunscreen' on the radio many years ago. Around 3 years back an instructor at a coaching centre that I used to attend dedicated this song to the batch I belonged to. It was a thoughtful gesture from her to bid us farewell and wish us well. This was perhaps my best takeaway from that class. It does me good to go back to it every once in a while.

(Baz Luhrmann's adaptation of an article by Mary Schmich - 'Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young'.)

~

Food for Thought

There is something wrong with every seemingly perfect picture, just as there is something remarkable about every spoiled one.
~
MS

Cold Feet

My craving for winters this year is finally being attended to, a little late but nevertheless. With the sudden fall in the mercury, a sudden realisation has also dawned upon, or bounced back should I say - my abnormal intolerance to low temperatures. Despite being clad in my warmest jacket, the cold is getting to my bones. The blanket and quilt are my best friends now. With all my joints stiff, and fingers and toes crooked besides being stone cold one morning, I try to crawl out of the bed. I really deserve an award for doing that, by the way. There is no water in the bottle on the bedside table. In fact all the 3 water bottles in my room are empty. Ergo my attempts at thawing myself, with a glass of warm water, are thwarted. The kettle does not come with its own water faucet, sadly. As I make my way to the water filter, the sudden exposure kick starts the first installment of the sneeze fest for the day. In the process, I pull a muscle in my lumbar. After that, every bout of cough that I face hurts my back first, and throat later. As I limp my way back to the room, my head begins to freeze and ear begins to hurt. Lesson learnt: a lot more insulation needed henceforth. But until then, be kind to me old age!

~

the Inamorato who was. . .

I hold it true whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
~
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Tongue Out!

"My childhood may be over, but that doesn't mean playtime is.  "

~

Ron Olson

Laugh Out Loud

As a child, I was very fond of McDonald's Happy Meal toys; more than the 'meal' itself. Even as I grew older the fascination remained and, as a matter of fact, remains till date. I'd be on the lookout for the toys every week; especially for ensemble sets. One particular time, when I was in college, the Madagascar team was up for collection. Having established the background, I go in one day to pick up the toy of the week - Alex the lion.

Guy Behind the Counter: Hi, what would you like?

Me: Hi, I'd like a Happy Meal.

GBTC: Oh sure! Veg or Non veg?

Me: Vegetarian.

GBTC (putting Marty the Zebra, a toy that I already had, into the Happy Meal bag): Give me a minute.

Me: Excuse me, could you give me Alex instead?

GBTC: I'm sorry?

Me:  I said, could you give me Alex instead?

GBTC: Is there a problem?

Me: Yes, I want Alex.

GBTC: Ma'am I'm very sorry once again.

Me (confused): What is wrong?

GBTC: Ma'am, you'll have to bear with me for the time being. Alex is not here now. He'll come over only in the night shift.

The rest is history.

~

In a Fleeting Moment

The train reached the station exactly seven minutes late. That was equivalent to a millennium when she was running late for her college - which was very often. Her college was a good ten-minute walk from the station and she had to reach class in two and a half. She could never depend on her luck to find an auto rickshaw too; especially when she was in dire need of it. But before that she needed to wiggle her way through a swarm of crazy women trying to embark the train, and then run up forty steps on the staircase simultaneously dodging the nudges and pushes from the multitude of people at the station running around in all possible directions. It was a usual Monday morning in Mumbai. 

As she counted the fortieth step, she was puffing with breathlessness while trying to protect her bag and herself from the hostile passers by on the foot over bridge. Her feet were impeccably trained and before she knew they had turned toward the exit. That is when she first saw him. They were walking in opposite directions. She was barely short of sprinting, and he too moved on at a steady pace. As they crossed, she risked walking on the bridge with her turned around to watch him until he was out of her sight. He, on the other hand, was trying to grasp the world as much as he could while trying to keep pace with his master. The master callously tugged at the chain that was tightly fastened around the monkey's neck. She watched them cross a trash pile, where the master cunningly steered the monkey closer to the heap. The primate took the cue and lunged forward. Like a pro he picked up a couple of rotting pieces of food and began to nibble at them hungrily.

It was a matter of seconds, but that monkey's plight had pierced her heart like a warm knife would through butter. Her feet kept moving, but her mind remained transfixed on what she had witnessed. The next few minutes seemed to go by in a jiffy. Mechanically, she hailed an auto rickshaw (which she found after some struggle - usual story), reached college, ran up six storeys - around 144 steps - and made it to class totally out of breath and sanity, but just in time. It is important to attend class - she was instructed all the time - come what may; the world and its problems could go take a hike. She took her seat at the end of a row, but nobody noticed that she had actually stayed behind on that foot over bridge at the station.

~

A Great Chapter in History

Most of us left behind Genghis Khan in our schools buried in history books. However, there are places not very far from us where people hero worship him, still. Genghis Khan, born Temujin, was the founder and Emperor of the Mongol Empire; which by the end of his life occupied a substantial portion of Central Asia and China, and became the largest contiguous empire in history after his demise. Genghis Khan lived a life of adventures and accomplishments, and today nearly 800 years after his death he still continues to intrigue historians world over. It's actually his mysterious grave that does. I came across a very interesting write up on this issue. What I found most interesting in the article was this bit.

"... But while the life of the conqueror is the stuff of legend, his death is shrouded in the mist of myths. Some historians believe he died from wounds sustained in battle; others that he fell off his horse or died from illness. And his final burial place has never been found. At the time great steps were taken to hide the grave to protect it from potential grave robbers. Tomb hunters have little to go on, given the dearth of primary historical sources. Legend has it that Khan’s funeral escort killed anyone who crossed their path to conceal where the conqueror was buried. Those who constructed the funeral tomb were also killed—as were the soldiers who killed them. One historical source holds that 10,000 horsemen 'trampled the ground so as to make it even'; another that a forest was planted over the site, a river diverted."

Click to read the complete story of the hidden grave of history's greatest warrior.

~

A Little Note

My life is not as big as the car I drive or the mansion I live in or the jet that I might someday travel in. It is, instead, as big as the reach of my heart, as big as the smile I leave on someone else's face. As precious as the lives I touch. As kind as I am to the person who owes me nothing in return. As noble as the deed I do to the man who will never praise me for it. As significant as the difference I make to the world. 

What have I done in life, if all I did was to fulfill a duty? If I have done something worthy it is that compassionate gesture for that soul who did not see my face, who does not know my name and never will. It is that hand which pats that mute animal who longed for a loving touch more than a piece of stale bread. It is the nurturing of that sapling which craved a drop of water to survive. It is the quiet blessing of that blind man who needed a helping hand. It is the gratitude of that widow who needed a shoulder to cry on. It is that sacrifice which will forever remain unsung. 

For it is not public eulogies that I seek; what I seek is peace of mind. A content heart that knows its worth, knows that it has helped ease the world of a little pain. For like everything else I, too, am here for a little while. Before I know I, too, will be nothing but a memory. My material possessions will not define the life that was; it is how great a memory I become, that will.

~

More Tales From Meg-O-Land

Certain things in life, inadvertently, evoke the same emotion(s) in me. No matter where or when these circumstances may surface or resurface. It's the exact set of feelings rushing back, each time. The case in question, at the moment, is examinations. I have loathed studying for exams right from the time I was a child. On professing this point of view aloud, many a time in the past, I was asked how else would one's progress be evaluated on the course being undertaken. No doubt it is a necessary evil and apparently the sole method of measuring a student's progress and all the other balderdash. I have, however, never quite made peace with the concept and the whole examination ecosystem. Studying per se does not annoy me. But something in my head just goes berserk when I have to study for a particular reason. I prefer to decide what I like to read, never be told what to. More often than not, I want to read/ study something other than what I am 'supposed' to at the given moment. 

Having spent a more than significant part of my life in the education arena - receiving it, so far - I still have the same issues with it that I had as a child in school. It was probably worse back then; but I still put up my examination schedule on a post-it strip on the wall, cross out each subject the minute I am back after the exam and feel the excitement increasing as soon as half the post-it is scratched out. Also, my day dreaming is at its peak while I try to study, the entire world's pending chores coax me to finish them right away, and I never cease to  plan what I will do the minute I finish writing the last darned exam - irrespective of the fact that I almost always never really execute those lofty plans. Surely, a part of me will never grow up.

~

The Chord of Harmony

"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent. "
~
Victor Hugo

For the many things that I am thankful for having inherited from my parents, one is surely their taste in music - particular reference to Ghazals and Sufi music here. I was exposed to their culturally varied and rich taste in music at a very young age. My earliest memories of a typical Sunday afternoon in our household are not complete without the melodious voice of Jagjit Singh in the backdrop. Initially, I did not understand the intricacies and exact meaning of the Ghazals, but subconsciously developed a fondness for them. As I grew older, I began to fathom the meaning of the words and thus began appreciating them all the more. The only Urdu I know is thanks to the Ghazals I have given my ear to.  Eventually I developed my own sense of and taste in Ghazals and Sufi music. Two diverse genres, the former chronicling the melancholy of love and the latter praising the Lord and love with utmost gusto.

This is the kind of music I find solace in. It's the perfect remedy to soothe an agitated mind.  Most conducive for day dreaming and thus suits me fine! The more you dwell in it, the more it grows on you. In no time you will find it reverberating through your soul, leaving behind a strange lingering serenity. All said and done, this feeling is always better understood by a personal experience. So I will sign off with a list of my favourites in both genres. It may not be the finest pick - my father will be the best person to draw out a classier selection in Ghazals, and mother for the Sufi songs - but works for me, nevertheles. You will find ghazals, qawwalis and other sufi songs in multiple renditions.  Every artist moulds the words in his or her own distinct way; that is why I have mentioned the singers' names too, clearly to indicate the rendition I like. 

Ghazals

1. Sarakti jaye rukh se by Jagjit Singh
2. Humko dushman ki nigahon se by Chitra Singh
3. Kaise sukoon paaun by Talat Aziz
4. Kal chaudvin ki raat thi by Jagjit Singh
5. Ranjish hi sahi by Mehndi Hasan
6. Wo kagaz ki kashti by Jagjit Singh
7. Hazaron khwahishein by Jagjit SIngh
8. Jeevan kya hai  by Jagjit Singh
9. Desh mein nikla hoga chaand by Chitra & Jagjit Singh
10. Hoshwalon ko khabar kya by Jagjit Singh
11. Hothon se choo lo tum by Jagjit Singh
12. Badi nazuk hai ye manzil by Jagjit Singh
13. Tumko dekha to ye khayal aaya by Jagjit Singh
14. Chupke Chupke Raat Din by Ghulam Ali
15. Tum itna jo muskura rahe ho by Jagjit Singh

Sufi

1. Mast Qalandar by Runa Laila & Abida Parveen (separate tracks)
2. Ali More Angana by Shubha Mudgal
3. Chaap Tilak sab cheeni Sabri brothers and Abida Parveen (separate tracks)
4. Aaj rang hai by Abida Parveen & Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
5. Tere Ishq Nachaya by Abida Parveen
6. Tere bin by Rabbi Shergill
7. Bulla ki jaana by Rabbi Shergill
8. Chaandan mein by Kailash Kher
9. Afreen Afreen by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
10. Khwaja mere khwaja by A R Rehman

Happy listening (if at all) !!

~

सवाल - ए - वस्ल पर उनको उदू का खौफ़ है इतना ,

दबे होंठों से देते हैं जवाब, आहिस्ता आहिस्ता ...

~

अमीर (आमिर मिनाई )

A humble homage to the women of Afghanistan.

~

"All things truly wicked start from innocence."

~ 

Ernest Hemingway

Not my words, not my picture. The interpretation, solely mine.
~
MS

Wedding Bells

A rather uncanny phenomenon has emerged in the past few months. Initially it just got me thinking but now I may be on the verge of losing my mind. Everywhere I look, I only see people getting married, or planning to get married. My juniors from school, batch mates from my graduation college, seniors and batch mates at my post graduation institute, people who stay in my colony back in Bombay, or people whose colony I once stayed in at some point in time in life! If I were to toss a pebble blindly, it would surely hit somebody who was so busy planning their wedding that they did not see the pebble coming towards them. What is noteworthy here - and the only reason I am flummoxed - is that all these to-be-weds are more or less my own age. Some are even younger, and not strangely most of them are girls. Coming to why exactly am I bewildered; when I try to put myself in the place of the prospective brides I can't help but cringe. I was of the opinion that times are changing, and so are people's priorities. Early marriages seemed to be a thing of the past. Besides, did we really grow up so soon? Turns out I am the only one present in my party. Nothing against the newly weds and the prospective brides and grooms, seriously. Hope they have a great married life. The trouble (or perhaps good thing) is, thanks to this overdose, I am developing gamophobia.

~

I'll Have a Sunday

Monday blues hit me very hard. But working on Sundays - in my case, attending classes on Sundays - almost kills me! Sunday is one day which I consider as solely my own. I usually have a list of pending chores, leisure activities and a lot of sleep to catch up on by the end of the week. Ideally for me, the weekend should begin on Friday evening so that I have enough time to unwind, relax and then get about with all the pending work and recreation so that the next week begins on a fresh note. However, with the kind of life I lead currently and the external factors that get to decide the flow of my daily routine, a humble Sunday is all I ask for. That Sunday which evades me like forbidden fruit.

Continuous classes through the day, back to back assignments, presentations, sleepless nights - well, I am pretty much used to all these. But that does not mean that I have agreed to give up my right to a day of solace in the week. A working weekend has a very disturbing effect on the mind. It increases your fatigue manifold as you keep thinking about how long you have been working without a break.  It is not so much the physical rejuvenation that one seeks, as much as the mental restoration.

Taking a break during the week is not a good option either, because the mind plays strange games. It gives no value to an off day if it is not on a weekend. It keeps pricking you all through the next week, making you all the more frustrated. It was not a good way to end the previous week. It is a terrible way to begin the next.

~

Wicked Game

More often than not I find myself watching random runs of one of my favourite SitComs - FRIENDS. When it was my first run through the second season, a song that played in the background in an episode for a mere 7 seconds got stuck into my head. I could not make peace with life until I tracked down the track. Ladies and gentlemen, we are talking about Chris Isaak's Wicked Game.

I am yet to be as smitten by a song, that haunts you so sweetly with the melancholy of heart break and hopeless love, as I am by this one. According to Chris Isaak, who sung as well as wrote it, Wicked Game portrays a tale of obsessive love. In as little as practically two verses the song brings out a moony eyed lover, who loved and lost. A lover who is so heart broken that getting over is something he cannot face. He wants his lady love back, yet does not. He cannot let her go, and she is not coming back to him. The crazy whirlpool of love makes his heart churn and pine, making it difficult to break out of the vicious circle. 

Chris Isaak's voice has a strange drone which, alongwith the sedate music,  makes the song effusively passionate. The rather racy video adds to the tone that the song attempts to set. It may be slightly on the edge but does justice to the song. It stars Chris Isaak alongwith yesteryear supermodel Helena Christensen, set in black and white on a beach. 'Wicked Game' - the song - has featured in numerous SitComs and TV commercials. The video garnered its own share of appreciation and accolades.

There are not too many songs that make me think so much that I could write such a lot about them, and still be left with thoughts that may never find words. We have an exception here for sure. And this number makes it to my all time favourites. So what if it's all about heart break? It earns its spot.

~

Something I Came Across

The Brits v/s Americans saga has been on for ages and will, in all likelihood, continue for ages to come. The discussions range from the differences in the English they use, their humour, culinary styles, even teeth! A little while back I stumbled upon two interesting articles on the related theme. Not my own, but worth sharing. Happy reading!

Point:
http://www.bbcamerica.com/mind-the-gap/2012/05/15/10-things-americans-do-that-drive-brits-nuts/

Counter Point:
http://www.bbcamerica.com/mind-the-gap/2012/05/17/10-things-brits-do-that-drive-americans-nuts/

~

Why Light Up!

While the smoke of the crackers, already filling the air we are supposed to breathe, gave me a rash on my face and irritation in my eyes I spotted something which turned out to be rather amusing. My sister and I had taken my son for his night stroll and were scanning an obnoxious pile of waste left behind by people who had been lighting crackers in the compound some time back. As we agreed that we lived in concrete jungles surrounded by educated illiterates, we spotted a window grille that looked like it had been spat upon at by a monster. By a monster that spits out strings of lights.

What followed was ten minutes of bemused inspection of the lights that had been put up by people in our colony. We do this every year and every year it is equally amusing, if not more. The lights are splattered on random window grilles. However, what is amusing is the pattern in which they are splattered. It seems as if somebody who is artistically challenged has tried his hand at arranging the light strings and has, quite obviously, failed. As a matter of fact, he does this every year and the results are consistent. There are apparent attempts to create symmetric 'U' shapes and 'W' shapes; and it is evident that those attempts were left midway. The poor lights dangling aimlessly are proof enough. There are some who have put up lights very beautifully, in the shape of a diya or just something that does not prick your eye, besides the crackers' left over smoke. But the majority disappoints. 

One window had vertical strings of lights - in all possible garish colours - that looked like a sketch book of a toddler. Only, the toddler had glowing crayons. There was one window which had a very neat right angle of red bulbs; the angles moving east and south. That was all. A window close by had giant bulbs put up in the most eccentric manner possible. Words fail me when I think of it. One household had taken out the light strings which they had put up in the loft last year after Diwali, and they came out all entangled this year. So they decided to put them up exactly like that on their window. Such an appealing sight!

One particular window had fallen short of lights, whereas one had so many that there was not enough space to accommodate them. In addition to the atrocious patterns, some lights glow in such horrible hues that you want to cry. I don't see why it is so difficult to put up something as simple as a string of lights in a manner that atleast doesn't hurt the eye, if not soothes it. I wonder if the people who've put up these lighted caricatures have even seen what their houses look like from the outside. When you take the trouble to purchase these pieces of wonder made in China and also put them up so that your windows draw attention during the festival, why not ensure that the attention drawn is not because somebody sustained an asthma attack by excessive laughter after looking at your window but because you have really done a decent job putting up those blighted lights. I drop it here now. My sense of aesthetics and creativity, both, have already fled; and OCD symptoms are increasing rapidly. The irony is that sight of lights becomes unbearable during the festival of lights.

~

My Tryst With Quadrupeds - Vol. V : Roger

While I was in school, the summer vacations were the most awaited. I would visit my grandparents every year, and so would my cousins. It would be a crazy fortnight. A sudden tour through some old photographs brought to mind one summer where we had a unique experience.

I was in Lucknow, and the house was in utter chaos. My maternal uncle and hi wife had gone to the next block to get some tandoori chicken packed for dinner. In the process they had spotted a white Spitz, in a collar, being pursued by the street dog mafia and his minions. They rescued the little guy and tried to find out if anybody knew where his home was, but that was to no avail. They did not have the heart to abandon him, and weren't sure of getting him home because we already had two pet dogs, and my grandma's consent was a must. So the little fellow was lodged at a friend's place for the night. Later, my grandma agreed to give the little boy a home until we found his owners, or perhaps forever.

What came home the next morning was a bunch of cotton wool so adorable that all of us fell in love with it at first sight. Our pets - Tina and Snooty - took an immediate dislike to this new four legged person in the house. Tina, a Pomeranian, was the older one and considered the house to be her property, so much so that she would even brush aside Snooty - she is most likely a Great Pyrenees - who was the younger one and thrice Tina's size. Tina walked away with her nose held high, but Snooty came upto this new creature under the guise of curiosity, which was partly true. I was holding the Spitz in my arms and Snooty began, what appeared to be, sniffing at him. A few seconds later, I felt a set of sharp teeth digging into my belly and realised that Snooty was biting the little dog in my arms. I immediately held him higher, far from her reach but she was not to be dissuaded so easily. Eventually I had to take him upstairs into our room and shut the door to keep Snooty away.

My sister, cousins and I just took the Spitz as our own and decided he would stay with our grandparents from now on. In the meanwhile, the grown ups were upto their antics which leaves adult life devoid of innocent adventure. Soon after we tried convincing our mothers to let us carry him with us to Bombay or Bangalore - totally subject to who's mother agreed, if at all. I named him Roger. We made him a bed which was both comfortable as well as away from Snooty's reach. She would prowl in the corridor awaiting the slightest chance to pounce upon him. The trouble arose when we tried to feed him. He just refused to eat. We tried all possible combinations and varieties of food, but he just wouldn't eat. This got everybody worried. We were to learn a few days later that he ate curd. That was the only thing we did not try feeding him.

My uncle had already passed word around in the colony about the missing home of the dog in our custody. He also sent a message to the vet. Dr Mathur was the only vet in the vicinity and the chances were high that he would know the whereabouts of Roger. Nothing happened for the next couple of days. We tried feeding him tit bits, but he would soon starve that way. In the afternoon a burly man called at the gate. He had the vet's reference and said he wished to see the dog we had with us. After the preliminary interrogation we were asked to bring Roger to the lawn where this burly man waited. It turned out he was his trainer and Roger leaped with joy when he saw this man. All the children, including me, were hoping against hope that Roger would stay. But we had found his owners and he had to leave. The trainer told us he was called Isaac by the people at his house.

I still remember how difficult it was to say good bye to Roger. It was a teary farewell. At that moment we could have done just about anything to have him stay a little longer. Isaac's family was relieved to find him safe, and to express their gratitude they invited us for tea. We were only too happy to go over. When we met him I wanted to smuggle him out somehow; but that was not to be. His family called him Isaac, we kept addressing him as Roger. We played with that ball of fur for a while and, with a longing in our hearts, left for good. That silly thing called attachment!

~

The Written Therapy

“A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”
~
 Maya Angelou

It gives me peace and contentment alike.

In times of grief, those of sorrow and despair;

When I'm hit hard and have nowhere to go,

It puts to rest a mind in turmoil, a spirit disgruntled, a heart in pain.

It is a friend, a philosopher, a guide;

A solace, a haven - the hand that writes.

That moment of rapture, that euphoric rush,

That minute of joy, and mirthful blithe.

When tears of joy may moisten my eyes,

A feeling so special that moves my heart,

When words fail my tongue, it is here that I find respite.

And in all humility I bow to the power that empowers me to write.

To give shape to my thoughts, words to my feelings;
To take me far from the madding crowd, yet bring me closer to people;
To ease me of my discomfort, to become a vent;
To strengthen my ability, to hone my talent.
To kill my loneliness, and keep me company,
For all this and a lot lot more, is why I write.

~

Chakravyuh - Provoking Thoughts

Prakash Jha has gone a few notches higher than his already respectable standards in film making with his latest production, Chakravyuh. The movie is very well conceived and executed. It deals with the issue of growing Naxal terror in India. It throws light on the prevailing situation of Naxal activities and also gives a background of the entire movement. Chakravyuh is a tight knit movie and crisply covers a wide range of incidents, including the macabre episode of Dantewada, to give the audience a holistic view of the entire issue.

The movie boldly portrays the flaws in the system that gave rise to the movement in the first place and shows how the greed and malice of the politicos and businessmen have created a Brobdingnagian monstrosity that threatens the internal peace and order of our country. It is a classic example of a homegrown tumour which is growing at unbelievable pace. The story is so boldly told,  I'm surprised how the movie made it past the bureaucracy of the Censor Board.

The dialogues, screenplay and locations are near perfect. Abhay Deol clearly steals the show. Anjali Patil plays a convincing Naxal Area Commander. Manoj Bajpai and Om Puri have rather cut down, yet significant, roles as compared to their previous contributions to Jha's movies. Arjun Rampal and Esha Gupta, though not very great actors, are pivotal characters in the story and definitely add the glamour factor, which was not really a requisite in this movie; Arjun Rampal, however, looks as mesmerising as a Greek God.

What is most noteworthy about Chakravyuh is that it places forth the bare facts from the perspectives of all parties involved. To a thinking mind, it gives enough food for thought. This movie will not be a box office success as most sensible movies are not, but personally I'd call it a must watch. A laudable job by Prakash Jha and the cast & crew.

~

Navrai Majhi

If I get a chance to prepare the playlist for somebody's wedding sangeet, one sure entry would be Navrai Majhi - the English Vinglish rendition. I have taken some fancy to that track. I like the way it is composed. It retains the traditional feeling with the Marathi lyrics and granny's voice; and blends in smoothly the modern touch that the Hindi lyrics and the accented verse give it. The shehnai and dhol in between bring in the complete wedding feeling. The words are meaningful and create a kaleidoscope of emotions - a father's sentiments at the thought of seeing off his daughter, the excitement during a wedding, the blessings, the speculations, the hopes, and the expectations. All of this so nicely contained in four and a half minutes.

~

Escalator Antics

I went to watch a movie the other day with my mother and sister. On our way out, I spotted an interesting dessert counter placed very strategically. It was meant to attract everybody's attention as they walked out of the theatre, and so it did mine too. My sweet tooth got the better of me and we all sat down on a bench nearby to savour kulfis. After I was done, I behaved like a brat and insisted on having another one. I felt like a complete brat when my sister went and got me another kulfi. I'm the elder sibling, hello! Nevertheless, I am glad I sat there for another round of kulfi. For if I hadn't, I'd have missed a very amusing set of incidents.

Now visualise this. The bench I sat on, faced the escalators. A couple of bites into the kulfi I spot a man ascending the escalator with his toddler. The child was a replica of the father, only with a ridiculous amount of very curly hair on his head. The father's hairline had long receded. While I fixated on the similarity of the child with his father and imagined how he'd look when he grew up with all that hair the duo reached the landing. The father walked nonchalantly and his son even more. As if he had come up with a plan, the child promptly turned towards the descending escalator and moved on. The father kept walking till a few seconds and then casually glanced around only to find his son on his way down the escalator. All his nonchalance evaporated into thin air as he ran panic stricken after his child. A couple of seconds later I spot a boy in housekeeping uniform bent over the moving railing following the father and son. He had bent over with a duster and by virtue of the automatic movement was cleaning the sides and in-betweens of the railings. He looked like a corpse taking a ride up and down.

Halfway through my kulfi I see a couple ascending the escalators, again with a toddler! The couple was engrossed in some discussion. The child was on his own. He seemed to be enjoying the tow. Children seem to enjoy just about anything anyway. As the trio reached the floor, the parents were still in the midst of a discussion that seemed to be of utmost importance to the future of the world. Involuntarily they stepped off the escalator but forgot about their son. He did not know the tricks involved in using these devices of modern world, and is he to be blamed? So he just kept moving with the escalator belt and got launched off it on to the floor when it was time. It seemed as if he had been shot out of a cannon. The amazing thing was that he landed safely, and the garrulous parents, oblivious of the stunt, went on. As I turned my attention to my kulfi again, the housekeeping boy was back; still bent over, but coming upwards this time. It was a task for me not to guffaw! I finished the kulfi quickly and we finally went down. The housekeeping boy crossed us on the other escalator for a second, this time bent over on the other side with his duster. 

Some dress on the window of some shop had caught our attention, so we decided to browse a little. As I looked through a shelf of garments I suddenly realised that the shop had glass walls and I was facing THOSE escalators again; and before I knew what was going on, I see a little girl - bringing in some gender diversity in the prevalent madness - walking up an escalator that was moving downward. She did this in a very systematic way and looked like a pro. The next second I see a little boy doing the exact opposite on the next escalator. They seem to have worked up a synchronisation and as they reached the same spot on their respective escalators they began to chat. They probably had a script ready too. There was no adult in sight. Their parents seem to have abandoned them or perhaps these children had abandoned them - which could be a greater possibility given their smartness and theatrics. By the time we came out of the store the escalator kids had moved on to a different level in their game. They were now leaning on the railings and moving upward or downward sideways. They also kept changing sides very often to keep the game interesting enough. The only obstruction in their game was the housekeeping boy who was relentlessly bent over, still.

~

(nir)Aadhaar

Yesterday I spent around an hour and a half just to complete the enrollment formalities - iris scan, finger print scans, photograph etc. - in order to initiate the process of obtaining an Aadhaar card for myself. There is a makeshift Aadhaar centre set up in the club of my apartment for the residents' convenience. Given that I had no distance to travel, no incomplete forms, no missing documents and, most importantly, only 4 people in the queue ahead of me, just what explains the hour and a half spent for something that ideally should take not more than 5-7 minutes?

The delay was caused because of a series of events. There was an elderly lady in the queue when I reached the counter. She was being made to place her fingertips to record her fingerprints. The machine records the percentage of clarity, and a minimum something is essential for the record to be valid. After several attempts, the lady had to finally give up and her application was processed with just 5 or 6 fingers' prints. There was some similar problem during her iris scan. The scanners were so talked about before the Aadhaar movement had begun. Unfortunately, they are not sophisticated enough and thus not sensitive enough to scan the prints of those whose bodies have borne the wear and tear of time. The gentleman just ahead of me was mocking all this, saying the lady's old age had wiped off her finger prints and made her iris un-scan-able. It was annoying after a while but it was no point asking him to stop and think if this happened to his own mother, because the lady was, in fact, his mother.

The Aadhaar process is infested with numerous loop holes which can be easily amended and eventually make the process flawless and much less time consuming. To begin with, the software that has been designed to record data is not compatible with Indian names and titles. One can type one's name correctly in English, but be prepared to find it distorted or misspelled in Hindi. My surname will appear in a way that I myself will not be able to pronounce. I can, in fact, type in Devanagari script without any difficulty here on my blog. Why was it such a huge task to design a proper software, I fail to fathom. Besides, my surname is not something which is unheard of that it becomes so difficult to type correctly. I'm not so miffed just because it was my surname in question. A lady named Amrita spent 15 minutes trying to get her name spelled correctly in Hindi. This is neither an understandable nor excusable error in India. The enrollment form that we fill out initially is not required at all. We might as well feed in all pertinent data online and then verify it at the time of processing alongwith our identity proof. It is a sheer waste of paper. The receipt that we get is printed on normal A4 sheets and then torn in half manually; one is retained by the enrollment in-charge and the other given to you. Why couldn't they be provided with perforated sheets? The enrollment in-charge struggles with a foot ruler to tear of the receipts in two halves. The finger print and iris scanner are not too sensitive, as illustrated by the elderly lady's case. The photograph is taken just for the heck of it. You may not look like yourself at all. The icing on the cake is the fact that will take anything from 3-10 months or probably more for the card to arrive. 

I am not too sure what purpose the card will solve. I felt a surge of insecurity creeping in as my bio metrics were recorded. I wouldn't know if someone misused them. I have not got my bank account synchronised with it. From a much hyped programme with a humungous fund earmarked for it, that had the likes of Nandan Nilekani and Wipro Technologies associated with it, I expected something better.

~

Doctor Calling!

This one goes out to all those people who believe in self medication, and/or not going to the doctor at all in order to seek remedies for common or uncommon maladies. There is a reason why medicine is a separate and dense branch of study, which further breaks out into multiple sub-branches so as to cover, in detail, every aspect of the human anatomy. We may have a lot granny's homemade cures for a lot of things, and they are effective too. The trouble begins when we start experimenting with medicines instead of kitchen ingredients.

I do not place blind faith any medical practitioner per se, and it is always a wise thing to take a second, probably even a  third opinion regarding a given medical condition; but self medication is a very unsafe practice. Sadly, a very common one too. I have known a few instances where people have adopted this fallacy, and eventually said goodbye to the world. Makes me wonder, was it really worth it? Life is a precious gift. Do not treat it so callously. A lot of people take it as a strike on their ego to have to visit a doctor for something which is not life threatening. The fatal consequences of self medication arise out of inappropriate drugs administered for seemingly harmless issues.

It is important to understand that there are some people out there who have dedicated their life to study the complexities that reside within our body. They are not just qualified on paper, but have also been thoroughly trained and have gained experience throughout the course of their work to treat what is not right in the human body. If you have any regard for yourself or for your near and dear ones, value your life. Do not self-medicate, and dissuade others who may do it. Also, do not let anybody prescribe medicines off hand to you. Nothing infuriates me more than people who impose their unqualified prescriptions on every one they set their eyes on. Every disease and ailment, and thus every medicine correpsonds differently to a set of symptoms and also affects different people differently. The after effects too differ in nature and magnitude. Just because you or someone you know were treated for some disease with a lot of exposure to various drugs, you do not qualify as a medical practitioner of any sort.

~

At Home

Spontaneity seems to be the new permanent thing in my life. That explains a trip back home planned out of nowhere. This was an unusual week where I had almost no classes, so without a second thought I flew home. I was in time for the Navami Darshan, after two years. I have never been to Calcutta during pujo, or otherwise. From what I have heard and seen on TV, the city assumes an amazing form. However, for me, Bombay during Navratri is very special. Dandiya and Garba are more popular here than Durga Puja, but the city lights up brilliantly and it is a wonderful span of 9 days. Being Navami, the last day of the navratras, it seemed that the entire city was out on the roads. It took me nearly an hour to get home, which is double of what it takes usually.

Telepathy is a strange thing. My son - to the world he may be my pet dog, to me he is my child and much much more - had sensed something, as he does every time I return home. He had not left the sight of the door since the time I had left from my campus in Nagpur. After crawling through the traffic for so long, and in the meantime having fought thrice and laughed like a maniac all through the way with my kid sister in the car, I finally reached home. He could not wait for the door to be opened. If he could, he would have darted straight out of it. As my mother struggled with him to open the door, he came rushing straight into me and I also spotted our resident cat hopping with little concealed enthusiasm. She would never openly confess, though, that she was happy at my arrival. The next thing I knew was that my son was talking animatedly to me in his own language, which I justifiably claim to completely understand, and we were on the floor, face to face. I couldn't help welling up a little when my sister said that this was the happiest they'd seen him in a very long time. I just stood there and watched him going ballistic with our cat who also was in the prime of her excitement with all the activity. I had to sneak out a brief second to wish my mother who was beaming at the chaos. It was the best homecoming, as it is every time.
~

A-maddening Spiderman

For the first time ever I walked out of a movie - midway - today. Amazing Spiderman was screened tonight on my campus. A lot of people, including me, were quite upbeat about it. We planned to finish all our meetings before the screening began - yes, we have late night meetings here. That's our way of acting all important in a B-school (kidding!). Anyway, so dinner and meetings were hurried away and then began the much awaited movie. I had heard some trash reviews about it but I thought just how much could somebody spoil a Spiderman story. Guess it was too early to have my hopes pinned up optimistically. No surprise then that they fell flat on their faces!

After what seemed to be an hour and a half, I checked my watch and realised the nuances of the Theory of Relativity. Only 45 minutes had passed, and the movie seemed to slower down with each passing frame. In another minute I was told that the run time was 140 minutes. It is not in my basic nature to walk out of a movie in between. So I persuaded myself to sit through a little longer. In another six and a half minutes my patience gave way. The amateur special effects, the juvenile antics of the so-called Amazing Spiderman, and an absolutely disgusting lizard monster made it impossible for me to take it any more. Another annoying thing, Irrfan Khan (extra R inexplicable) stars in the movie as a villain. He added the comic factor. I do not know who directed that movie, I'm not even going to find out. But he did a wonderful job messing it up. Marvel should adopt a more thorough procedure before handing out the rights. They can surely do better.

I'd consider this movie, perhaps, at par with Saawariya. I had slept off in less than 15 minutes into that outlandish piece of motion art that Sanjay Leela Bhansali insisted on calling a masterpiece. I don't think I can handle the multiple nightmares. It's taken me an hour of crazy banter and three bars of ice cream to get over the trauma. I'm just glad I did not pay for it.

~

Something Bookish

When I am old, I think, children of the neighbourhood will call me the crazy book lady. I cannot figure how and why I find myself in the possession of so many books all the time. By the time I get to being the crazy old book lady I do not know how exactly book-wealthy I will be; but I know for sure that the heir to my books - I will explicitly give them away in my will - will be one hell of a lucky person. At the moment I am in a very makeshift phase in my life where I am living in one small room in a hostel. Yet, you have to see to believe how many non-academic books I have stacked up here. The academic ones are no less though. I do not have a book shelf to fit them all in, so I have turned the window sill into a  make-do bookshelf.

Every new book I read adds value to my life. However, quite sadly, I have been very irregular with my reading lately. I've been so unjust to MacLean. It's taken me weeks and I am still not through his Puppet on a Chain. Princess Diana's biography by Sarah Bradford also beckons me. I wish I could have a job where all I had to do was to read, and watch movies, and sitcoms too.

It was my birthday last week, and thanks to my dear friends it rained books on me. I will, thus, get to my favourite task in sometime - signing my name, the date I got the book on and the place where I got it at, on the first page. This only brings my books closer to me. I have received more than half a dozen titles as presents. Makes it slightly easy for the one who is gifting. Not that I resent this. I would prefer a good book over a typically girly gift any day. I could live in a library for all it's worth. When I am at home, it is pretty much like that though. There is seriously no count of the number of books in my house. The trouble will arise when I it's time for me to move back. My parents, sister and I have our individual book collections. We have our own shelves, but now we find each other trying to sneak a book here and another there in various nooks and crannies on each other's shelves because we are so out of space. When I get  withhome a huge carton of books, it is a possibility that I may have to camp in the lobby just so that my books have a shelter above them. Exaggeration, of course! Everything said and done, there are two must-haves in life. Books, and friends who gift you books!

~

Latest on Loop

Now here is one song that I cannot seem to get enough of. It is a beautiful blend of meaningful lyrics and soothing music (it is definitely 'inspired', but nevertheless). KK's melodious voice carries the song along very well. There is another rendition where Shreya Ghoshal get to sing a verse. I do not really like that one as much as KK's version. But good work.

Though I feel somewhere that 'technology' interferes too much with the final presentation of music these days. It refines the output to an artificial perfection. The music that we got until a few years back too used technology for enhancement, but somewhere a raw originality was retained, and it definitely added charm to the song.

Nothing else about the movie interests me, but Abhi Abhi from Jism 2 continues to play on loop in my room. Either my neighbours also like the track or my speakers aren't doing a good enough job of disturbing them at this time of the night.

 

~

I Have Arrived

This one comes a tad too late, but better late than never. It was day zero and the most prestigious job on campus awaited its claimant. My feet flurried along with the swarm of hundreds of others that morning towards the auditorium. I had been very anxious the night before and was too on the D-day, but all through it was a strangely positive disquiet.

It was one of those amazingly 'right' days, where everything just falls in place. Carrying nothing but eerie aplomb, I gave it my best shot and left the rest to the guide who was directing the show all along. After a  few hours - that seemed like ages - of restless waiting, I finally heard what I had wanted to. I had achieved what is perhaps the most awaited milestone of a student's life. My first job. Additionally, this one came with a lot of frills. Hello Asian Paints! 

Glad and satisfied as I may be, this was made possible by a bunch of people who are in various parts of the world right now; a bunch of people who came into my life at various stages and have made a major contribution towards what makes me what I am today. I am not taking any names here, but I owe this to my family, teachers, mentors and some friends - all the people who have touched my life and  made a difference. I thank them for having faith in me, and giving me all that they did. And of course, the innumerable hand shakes and the laudations I received will always be cherished. With my confidence in myself reinstated and sang froid intact, I will now enjoy the last lap of my student life. And 26th Spetember, 2012 you are one date I am going to remember.

(the picture above, courtesy : Harshad Lunavat, batchmate at IMT-N. Brilliantly done for Sankalp and I, after we made it to AP. Thanks!)

~

For F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

If we were living in the sitcom F.R.I.E.N.D.S, it'd be Ross Geller's 45th birthday today. What a strange co-incidence that I just watched the last episode of the final season of one of the most loved sitcoms of all times. It took me less than a month to complete the entire 10 seasons, and I am just so sad it had to end. Like a good friend, F.R.I.E.N.D.S was my perennial companion all this while. I have lost count of the number of nights I've fallen asleep to an episode playing in the background.

All good things come to an end. Not always to make way for something better though. It is true that life goes on, no matter what. And there are some things in life that nothing can replace. The wonderful times, memories, tears and laughs stay with you. F.R.I.E.N.D.S is one such thing for me. I never knew I could get so attached to a bunch of fictional characters in this way, especially those that are not in a book. The only gang on celluloid that comes as close as this in my radar of affection is Sheldon Cooper and friends from the Big Bang Theory.

Even though I know I can just pick out any episode and watch it whenever I want, thanks to the technological advancement of modern age, I have a strange feeling in my stomach. The kinds one gets when you lose something, and especially after I know how it ends. Nevertheless, splendid job David Crane and Marta Kauffman. Thank you!

~

Well . She . Is

Priyanka Chopra has to her credit her own international single now. Social networking sites had been fairly abuzz about it since its release. Today I finally gave it a hearing. Incidentally, I happened to read a few comments from people who'd heard it before I did. I shouldn't have.

The poor woman's attempt has undergone autopsy and biopsy all at once. The song has invited censure of a very severe nature. Some listeners have criticised her 'fake' accent. The song has an apparently stupid 'concept'. Autotuning is what makes her sound so American - and why did she try to sound American in the first place -  but the quality of her voice is not really anything to talk about. Technology is what has made the song whatever little it is. Compared to the US/ Brit pop singers, well, she is paltry. The song features Will.I.am, but he wasn't used well. Why does she pronounce certain words the way she does?

Priyanka Chopra can now take a bow. So many people have paid attention to the minutest details of her track. Who gets that kind of attention these days? And all the people who've had so much time to criticise the lady, get over your jealousy and go get a life! Take a break fellows. Just listen to it and let it be. If you don't like it, don't listen to it again. Even if it is shoddy, somebody definitely put in some effort and a lot of money into it. Everything in the world does not need to be dissected and criticised. There must be way better things in life to dedicate time to. The song per se may not be a lyrical wonder, but as far as I am concerned it gets a thumbs up.

~

The Sound of Music

"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music ."

~

 Aldous Huxley

What is it in music that touches one in a way nothing else can? It spares nobody. From a martinet to a wonky hippie, everyone relates to some genre of music. Perhaps one of those rare forms of art that one can indulge in even without having any prior or specialised knowledge in the field. The connection is automatic and one never knows when and where it'll happen, let alone why. Music has the power of bringing people together - even though everyone may have a different interpretation of the same thing. The takeaways may differ but all of it is strung through a common thread.

Music will be your companion at all times, in any state of mind, at any time of the day (or night). You blend with it, and it embraces you as its own. Like that friend who needs no words to understand what you are feeling. No questions asked. No opinions thrust. And more often than not just the apt expression of your emotions. It just goes on and takes you along.

Peace!
~

My Tryst with the Quadrupeds - Vol. IV : Bovine Beauty

Last Sunday, my classmates and I embarked upon a little tour of a village near my institute. This was part of our course work for Rural Marketing. We were required to spend a day with the village folk in order to catch a glimpse of their lifestyle. In the process, I met a lot of four legged fellows. But the one that took my heart away was a calf named Soni.

I have seen a number of cows, bulls and their calves in my life, and some from very close quarters, but never has any bovine offspring caught my attention the way this one did. He was not only the smallest calf that I had ever seen but also the most beautiful. As I continued to gaze at him, he turned 24 hours old.

Soni's mother was away, his father was working in the farm, and he was all by himself in the shed.  I wondered how he must be feeling? Just a day into this world and he was left all alone. He could stand on his feet and walk around right from the time he was born. Can we even imagine this in case of human babies? In retrospect, I wish I could read his thoughts. Did he miss his mother? What did he think of all the people around him? What did he understand of what was happening around? 

Going back, in the excitement of the moment I could not resist petting him.  He was so petite I could almost carry him in my arms, though I did not. He had fleece like fur, and was quite literally as white as snow with little brown spots; a lot like baby Bambi with the exact contrast colour combination. I had never before touched a cow or it's child. I had had my own apprehensions, and in the next few minutes those apprehensions were about to vanish in thin air. A little hesitantly, I stroked his back. He seemed scared initially, but calmed down after a few strokes. I too got comfortable, and cuddled him playfully. I had merrily forgotten that we were there with some work at hand and could have sat there all day. But that was not to be. With the indignation of a child I left the shed unwillingly.  I stroked his beautiful face one last time and went on.

~

Meg-O-Land Madness

A movie called Rockstar had a ridiculous song in its album that went "Sheher mein hoon main tere..", meaning "I am in your city". Nothing ridiculous about the idea as such, but the composition in its entirety is. My rather wacko alter ego takes charge sometimes and makes me listen to this track - on loop! Why this random thought strikes me now is because in one particular late evening lecture (details withheld obviously!) I took a little walk on the path taken by the song writer of the afore ridiculed song and came up with an original ridiculous composition. I wouldn't dare to call it a poem.

At the blank white wall I am compelled to stare,

Not daunted by the professor's glare,

Given a choice I'd rather be elsewhere,

But you don't always get what you want so here I am in class, rocking on a chair.

The coffee I had has done me no good,

I was promised it'd ward off my sleep,

Yet I find my drowsiness digging in deep,

I suppress my yawn not wanting to be rude.

As the minutes pass my concentration continues to dwindle,

My eyelids hurt as though being pricked by a needle,

Why did Rowling invent the Bard called Beedle?

Now the only rhyming word I can think of is swindle!

One of those occasions when the sleep deprived me gets high on caffeine,
All senses beginning to drain.
My distractions definitely evident, as attentiveness I cannot feign,

And wouldn't care come storm or rain!

The wacko alter ego - break dancing now - tries to hi-5 me. I pass, with a straight face. Let's play JLo and Pitbull for consolation, we concur.

~

The Art of Deception: Stealth Marketing

N.B. - The following is an award winning article, written in January 2012 for Mark Darshak - the  marketing magazine of NITIE. Publishing it here as it might interest a few souls out there.
Co-authors: Kaavish Kidwai, 2012 pass out from IMT-N, and self. 

Stealth marketing can be described as a covert form of marketing where, neither the marketing intentions behind the campaign are obvious, nor is the identity of the marketer revealed. One of the first instances of stealth marketing was actually a psychological experiment.  During the course of a movie, the Coca-Cola logo was flashed on the screen for a fraction of a second, such that it went largely unnoticed by the conscious mind but it had registered in the subconscious.  During the interval snack break a steep increase in the purchase of Coca Cola, compared to the daily average, was noticed.

Setting up third party websites, profiles or creating seemingly anonymous videos is a great way to create stealth marketing campaigns online where easy and cheap resources offer a plethora of opportunities to catch people’s attention.  Marketers often have their own people comment or post as a consumer for products on review and discussion forums.  From posting glowing reviews to a movie that has taken in mediocre reception from the critics to posting favourable and satisfied opinion posts about a newly launched technological gadget, marketers indulge in various forms of unethical stealth marketing online.

A big risk in some of the bolder stealth marketing campaigns, where the customer is not supposed to realise that he has been part of an elaborate set up for a marketing campaign is that it may generate negative feelings about the brand/product.  Basic human psychology states that a person does not like to feel cheated or being at the wrong end of a scam/prank.  The ideal situation is to leave the consumer feeling he has had the upper hand in an encounter.  But Viral Marketing campaigns, some of which are often judged as stealth marketing campaigns, are different.  Here, part of the allure is to try and guess the source of the marketer/promoter.  When the customer is gently lead towards the answers with clues he or she may actually feel smart and better about himself or herself for having arrived at the right answer.  In this case, long or repeated exposure to the campaign actually helps in conditioning the consumer towards the product/service and its attributes and features.

The situation is actually analogous to men sitting in hotel/restaurant bars in Las Vegas.  They end up striking conversations and having a great time with attractive women. It is only next morning that they find out that they have actually availed themselves the services of an escort which leaves them embarrassed or feeling foolish.  The strategic placing of these escorts is in fact an instance of stealth marketing.  Casinos use atmospherics, pheromones and periodic releases of pure oxygen to create a sense of light-headedness and euphoria that keeps the customer engaged at the gambling tables in spite of losing streaks.

Stealth pop-up windows have been associated with many websites where a window to an alternative site pops up in the background, often noticed by the customer only when the main window has been closed. Online engagement and use of planted trained salespeople to engage in one to one conversation helps develop a personalised target and approach but on the flipside, the more personal a tactic the more is the sense of indignation one feels when the truth is revealed.  Stealth marketing is often dangerously personal.  People are hired to move and mix among oblivious throngs and crowds of people publicly using the products and exclaiming about their benefits and features.  The rest is left often to the “Keeping up with the Joneses” Syndrome or else the hired salespeople might casually strike up conversations with members of the crowd and introduce the product into the conversation.

The flattery aspect is tapped in when an attractive or comely person shows apparent interest in an average person and strikes up a conversation.  Though the person feels better, what is worse is the sense of betrayal if and when he/she senses the deception.  The sense of understanding and similarity of wavelength can lead a customer in but more is the sense of being wronged or feeling cheated when it is revealed to be a gimmick.

Product placement is often a variation of stealth marketing where the personality and traits of the characters are carefully chosen before having them endorse the product in the course of the movie or episode.  This forms a subtle subliminal connect with the audience who feel the need to acquire those products.  The subliminal context is that using those products will imbue the consumer with the traits of that particular character.

Spreading exaggerated or misleading statements and opinions or targeting oblivious people psychologically through subliminal or reinforcement techniques are unethical aspects of stealth marketing that many marketers indulge in. They view it often as damage control or a perfectly normal phenomenon, but anything that violates rational thinking or free will cannot be termed ethical.  On the other hand, stealth marketing also offers opportunities to engage customers dynamically and play on their ego or induce a feel good factor into the equation that leaves them with a slight sense of elation.

For more you could  visit http://meghnasinha.wordpress.com/ 

Tales from Meg-O-Land!

Why is it that all the brightest of ideas strike us when we are supposed to study? What happens when we have time at hand, and are out of things to do? Why is it that all our pending work and ignored hobbies beckon at such a time? The books lie open on the desk, but we set down to cleaning out the drawers. The newspapers are more interesting on that particular day. All the forgotten music on our playlist becomes so enticing that we just can't help playing it on loop. And all this even before we have logged onto Facebook! What happens after is history. The movies and Sitcoms that have been there with you for months are suddenly irresistible. All dormant ailments re-surface. Every temptation is yielded into. Socializing seems an essential ingredient to survive. In the meantime, how about getting the room cleaned? All that work sure works up an appetite. How can one concentrate with a rumbling tummy?

I have personally employed a million ways of procrastinating while studying ever since I was in primary school. My mum sure had a tough time getting me to sit straight without getting distracted. She succeeded sometimes - after she confiscated my Walkman, took away the TV remote, stashed away all newspapers and magazines out of my reach, got the computer's password changed, locked my book shelf, hid the video games and comics, made me sit in a room without mirrors and drew the blinds over the windows. A few years later, she would also switch off my mobile phone and make sure my bed was piled up with something so that I couldn't make myself comfortable there (read: doze off) - lazy me would never bother to clean up and instead, many a time, I slept on top of those piles of whatever it may have been; waking up with a stiff neck. Today, she would switch off the wi-fi and take away my laptop. Ma I think you need to pay me a visit, soon.

~

The Mess in My Room

A swarm of newspapers strewn wantonly, a heap of footwear that has accumulated over a week - slippers, stilettos and sneakers, so-called elitist business magazines sprawled on the floor - unread. Three travel bags partially unpacked, or partially packed should I say? Huge heaps of clothes on the chair, on the bed and in the cupboard whose doors haven't been shut in weeks. The medicine box lies astray on the bedside table with its lid in some other corner, the multi-vitamins and antacids scattered in disarray. The bucket in the way prevents the door from opening wide, the toiletries lounge all across the length of the room, everywhere except in the basket they're usually kept in. The pillows and the comforter seem like they have fallen on top of each other after a wrestling bout. Of the three mattresses on the bed, one has almost slipped down. The dustbin is not visible under the million scraps of paper and chocolate wrappers it holds. All this and a pleasant zephyr welcomes me to a room that is supposed to be my home. My abode. This cubby hole which is my own. Where I can come back whenever I want and just be. No judgements, no permissions, no pleasing anybody, no social conventions. Just I, me and myself in our world, with our whims.

I create the mess and I clean it. I live in it, and it thrives with me. My mind creates the chaos, and I try to de-clutter. It is not lethargy of the body, but of the mind that does this. Day in and day out, I stare at the hodgepodge litter around me. It is no different from the state of my mind. Maybe that is why, it prevails, for longer than it should. I don't want it to, but it does. In spirit and in being. However, nothing in life is permanent, change being the only constant. Ups are followed by downs, and sunsets by sunrise. This mess too shall clear and it won't require the Labours of Hercules to do it. But as every cycle in Nature has its life cycle, I believe this one does too. In the hope that a spic and span room too awaits to house its occupant in peace, I begin to clean up.

~

Lachrymose Musings

You don’t know why you do it. It’s only meant to hurt. A kind of pain that is neither easy to express in words nor easy to bear. The after-thought lingers, of what could be. Of what you wanted it to be. Of the memories, of the times. You live in two worlds – looking happy in one and actually lonely in the other.

Self-tormenting has become a habit it seems. Every little reminiscent fragment is precious. It brings back so many happy memories. One more pain inducing than the other. With the lull that stays within, you promise yourself never to go back the same alley. But the promise is meant to be broken, not once but each time. It is a cord that refuses to break. A bond that refuses to weaken. A dent that refuses to be mended. A crack that can never be fixed. You know you will go back; you want to. It kills you on the inside, but you have grown used to that pricking of the wound. It just refuses to heal, and you personally are of no particular help anyway. There are no regrets in life, only longing. And yearning. And of course, the refusal to move on. A sour conflict between the heart and the mind, resulting in heartache and then headache!

Overcome with sweet melancholy, you wish it never happened. Why did it, if it was never meant to be? Why leave behind something in your heart forever when it's not going to remain in your life at all? Anguished and desolate, you sleep over it. Loneliness is your constant companion. Oh heartbreak, you wretched thing!

~

Awaiting a New Dawn

N.B. : Sending out greetings to all natives of India, Congo, Bahrain and South Korea on their independence day, before I unleash an acerbic tongue.

The past couple of weeks have evoked the feeling of nationalism among most Indians across the globe. Television channels, print media, social media, shop windows, malls and all other means of mass reach around us adopted the patriotic theme for this fortnight. The omnipresent tricolors may be a great change from the usual for the creative minds that design the signage. I only wish the patriotic spirit of this country was as ubiquitous as the colour scheme that springs to life in the months of January and August.

On the one hand we glorify our freedom fighters, the political leaders and businessmen who shaped the fate of India many years ago. We recall their contributions on a couple of specific days in the year, and hand out little mementos to their family or probably run a few snippets of clippings on air. Simultaneously, on the other hand, we have riots erupting in various parts of the country. Women being molested by mobs. Village heads beheading young couples in the name of honour killing. A castrated government shying away from demanding the release of a hapless PoW from our neighbouring country.

We have no idea where the economy is headed. An active union minister is suddenly granted the position of the head of the state, and an otherwise incompetent nincompoop replaces him. And this is one of the most crucial portfolios we are juggling around by the way. Why are we paying so much of tax? And where is the promised upliftment and development? Why are the masses famished? What happens to all the welfare funds? Why do RTI activists meet with mysterious gruesome ends? 

An Anna Hazare raises his voice against corruption and in turn faces ridiculous allegations which eventually dilute his entire movement and blur his vision. We pay a hefty education cess and thousands of government schools are only empty structures with false names on their roll; a way to extract official funds. Politicians are shamelessly fleecing the public in all ways possible. A brash woman holds an entire state at ransom. Not very far away, another state head alleges his own political ally of being a radical extremist. What is it if not a mockery of the world's largest democracy?

As a nation we have lost the essence of unity, dignity, honesty, respect and integrity. Since we were officially declared independent by our former rulers, we observe the rituals on the 15th of August. However, a little introspection will put us to shame. Not getting into too much detail at the moment, but I will leave you with a little food for thought. The recent London Olympic furore about the 6 medals that came home is proof enough of our shoddy system in place. 65 years of independence we celebrate and 6 medals - no gold, mind you - leaves us awestruck. This is what the true Indian mindset is. Being servile. A certain Pandit somebody, who is credited to being the architect of 'modern' India, in reality only laid the foundation of a meek Indian. A feeble individual who harasses anybody who is slightly less powerful than him but will never once retaliate when being oppressed. The kind of reaction we saw from our government when we were ruthlessly attacked by terrorists many a time only substantiates this.

In a country where one cannot expect to get any sort of official (read: government related) work without paying bribe, where educated people struggle to get their names on the electoral roll, where votes are bought by distributing liquor bottles, where the government just does not care for the people it represents, a complete sense of apathy prevails and the poor common man struggles to make ends meet, it is still a long way before we can justify our Independence day celebrations. 

 - A Disappointed Indian