Behind The Words

Long ago, in Bangalore, I had joined a writing workshop called ‘Still Waters’. Back then, writing was the last thing on my mind. The  idea was to make friends and emerge from the comfort zone of solitude in a new city. On the first day, when we met in the conference hall of hotel Ramada, I was visibly nervous. The other ten participants were working professionals, amateur journalists and literature students. On the second day, after informal introductions, we were asked to write a short story of less than thousand words. The prompt for all of us was similar – Meera, the protagonist wants to see the world but her aunt is an obstacle. Meera overcomes the obstacle, learns to dance, and gets to fulfill her dream.

An otherwise simple task was noteworthy on two accounts.

First, I was amazed by the fact that we approached the same story in ten different ways. With a common prompt, I thought our stories would end up being somewhat similar. But I was in for a big surprise. Despite a similar outline, our stories were diverse in terms of the treatment, setting and narration.

My Meera, became a part of an international troupe and performed next to the Eiffel Tower on a moonlit night. A college student’s Meera joined Summer Funk dance classes and visited several countries via exchange programs. Another Meera, performed Bharatnatyam in the back drop of an ancient temple in Bali. A working professional’s Meera fell in love with jazz and reached Venice after murdering her aunt. Despite diverse perspectives, we all arrived at a common goal. A happy ending.

 This made me wonder how our social milieu, our upbringing, our age and our culture impacts us in the way we treat the subject. Given that I am most comfortable in writing about what I know, I write from my own perspective. Most artists follow the same rule. So it is rare for a woman to write about a murder mystery or a man to write an emotional drama. Nonetheless, excellent work of fiction has emerged when writers have explored the alien.

Second, the ten of us were asked to e-mail our stories anonymously. So while we were reading and rating the stories, we had no clue about the author of the story. Funnily enough, despite not knowing each other we could easily guess who the author was. Except for one. This reticent professional on a sabbatical had introduced explicit sex in an otherwise staid story. When it comes to writing,  shades of our personality reflects in our words. Or maybe not. There are exceptions. I write humor and satire, and I am anything but funny. Or witty, or clever. Perhaps, I am so dumb that when I write serious, I appear a bit funny. Perhaps, it is because I enjoy watching and reading things that are funny. So clearly, being a funny person and being a funny writer are two separate things.

And yet, we do leave traces of our personality in our words. Unintentionally, of course. More so on social media. We create a certain image about our upbringing and our thought process when we interact on the internet. I interact with several virtual friends on a daily basis. When I meet them in real life, they turn out to be exactly as I had imagined them. We need not be mind readers, but it appears that creative writing can reveal several aspects of the writer’s personality. Written words are more transparent than we give them credit for.

What do you think?

(Related Link: Can You Guess The Gender Of The Author?

Anshul a discerning reader and a prolific blogger could read the logical mind of the author in the anthology, Mango Chutney.She turned out to be a student of mathematics from IIT-Delhi. Read Here )

What Grinds Your Gears?

“Do you know what grinds my gears?” If you are familiar with the TV show ‘Family Guy’, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Hosted by Peter Griffin, this segment was about a fictional news caster who is about to be fired. The news caster rants about ‘how life sucks’ causing the program ratings to skyrocket. It went viral in the internet meme world because the images made people laugh about the trivial yet irritating things in everyday life.Well, some folks also call them the First World Problems. 

Like other irksome things – including Whatsapp forwards, Candy Crush requests and telecallers from Phokat Mahindra Bank, we now have advertisements on YouTube. Most YouTube videos begin with an advertisement that can’t be skipped. If I really had to watch advertisements, why would I watch YouTube?
 

What really got me writing this rant is the  FM Radio. To maintain my sanity, I rely on my AUX cable  while driving. But when I forget the AUX cable, which is quite often, FM radio is my savior. Not many moons ago, radio was almost 70% music, 15% ads and 15% jockey blabber. Which seems like a dream because now it is something along the lines of 20% music, 35% ads, 35% jockey blabber, and 10% people calling in to share the traffic woes. Which is absolutely insane! And I’m not even addressing the relevance of radio stations asking people to call and talk about the traffic while driving. More so, when the cops are waiting to pounce on anyone using a mobile while driving.

So, when I don’t get a song on one channel, I obviously keep switching channels in search of a decent song. But all I get is advertisements along with blabber. And by the time I’ve made my third rotation to get a song, it turns out to be the same song I heard on the previous channel.

Switch on a radio channel, and chances are that John Abraham wants you to buy your dream house hundred kilometers away from Raj Nagar Extension. Who wants clean water when your kid can enroll in the MS Dhoni cricket academy? And who wants electricity when you can live peacefully next to a car racing track.Then we have " Haan mein Arvind Kejriwal bol raha hoon...." telling me for the nth time that his quitting the Delhi govt was akin to Lal Bahadur Shastri's stepping down as the Railway Minister. Seriously, is there any comparison?


The commercialization of the things that were sacrosanct has now reached a point where you don’t know where to look for unadulterated entertainment. In times of cold arithmetic, even hospitals have jumped the bandwagon - “Attack the Attack with Fortis” says my radio.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I get to hear, “Come, make your future with IIT Tirupati.” Or, “IIM Odisha creates history. Remains No 1 on all parameters.” Quite possible, now that IIPM is not in the race. 

(This rant is penned by GG, a young Arsenal fan who drives to work.)

Wings of Courage

Book Review

Author: Sanjay Kumar

Price: Rs 250

Genre: Fiction

Publisher: Notion press

Several renaissance men and authors have provided perspectives of an ideal nation. Given that such books are comprehensive and non-fictional, they appeal to niche readers. 'Wings of Courage' by Sanjay Kumar is refreshingly different, as it tells the story of a young man’s quest for a more humane and a more compassionate country.
Saksham, a young idealist is distraught by the malaise of inequality, population explosion, lawlessness and corruption. During his stint with an NGO, Saksham gets to see the poverty in and around the slums of Delhi. After his escapades with the police and politicians, he decides to join the police force to bring about meaningful change. Professor Sudhakar Sen, a wise philosopher and his girl friend Sneha, help Saksham to develop wings of courage to fight against powerful politicians, corrupt policemen and ineffective judicial system. You feel Saksham’s sense of helplessness when he says, “It kills me inside when I see things so badly messed up, and yet, no one seems to care: like the problems will go away on their own if you take your eyes away from them.”
Several real life events of Nirbhaya rape case, hit and run case, and sting operations, which made the headlines are woven in the story. The conversation between Saksham and Almighty is insightful and thought-provoking. It here that you venture in the fearful alley’s of Saksham’s mind. The voice of Almighty guides Saksham to be resilient, by constantly prodding that giving up without trying is cowardice. Towards the end, the reader is reminded of the movie, Rang De Basanti as the book negotiates through a sting operation involving a powerful politician, Robin Badri.

The prose is simple and keeps pace with the story that tends to plod a bit, before it picks up towards the end. There is a touch of philosophy, a dash of idealism, a bit of excitement and some realistic camaraderie between Saksham and Sneha. Given the topic, there was a danger of being didactic, but the author has tried to let the story do the talking.
If social change intrigues you, and you wish to do something about the problems plaguing contemporary India, ‘Wings of Courage’ will pique your interest. The highlight for me is in knowing that  debut author, Sanjay Kumar walks the talk. That Sanjay writes with a deep sense of involvement comes across and touches the reader. Sanjay Kumar is a graduate from IIT Kharagpur who is working towards the vision of an ideal nation through his writing and actions.

You can order the book here.

Modi Diet

Google Images

Modi’s fasting fusillade has created a firestorm. For once a section of feminists won’t sneeze at women who will observe a fast this Karwachauth. As you watch Modiji conduct business meetings, address rock concerts where he’s wowing fans and rattling off Star Wars quotes, destroying Nawaz and his detractors in the path to attain God like status - you know that you can stay without food for a day. Looks like Star Wars quotes were written with magnificent Modi ji in mind – ‘Never tell me the odds’, ‘I think I just blasted it’, ‘I find your lack of faith disturbing’.....

The Pied Piper of Ahmedabad cooked a raw meat of his critics on a gentle fire of abstinence to inspire all those who wanted to learn a thing or two about self-discipline. So Bachi Kakaria rightfully said, “Modi did globally for the Navratra fest what Ekta Kapoor had done domestically for Karwachauth. However many ‘Kem Chhos’ Obama mouthed, on people’s lips it was Modi’s grueling regimen that abjures even the sabudaana gruel that lesser fasters slip in.”

After watching Modi ji survive, God bless him, on hot water, I am engulfed by pangs of guilt. You see, fasting doesn’t come easy to me. Not without the basic minimum diet of fruit and milk. And yet, despite the fruit and milk regimen, I resemble MMS by the end of the day – comatose and indifferent. Part of the reason why I am unable to survive fasts is because I never fasted as a kid. Except for one ritual where fasting was more fun than a strict regimen. You know the one where you enjoy boiled potatoes with rock salt, fruit chaat with chaat masaala, tea with ginger and a big glass of lassi with lots of cream. So naturally, the arrival of October fills me with awe and admiration for those who stay without food or water, and yet have the energy to dress up in bridal finery looking all lovely and breathtakingly gorgeous.

Moreover, for me, traveling and fasting never go hand in hand. I mean, unless you have food or a glass of milk at night, prior to the early morning flight, how do you go? You know what I am talking about. We Indians have a time for going. If we miss the date, the entire day goes for a toss. Don’t balk at the thought. These are serious concerns. What if you have to take psyllum husk (Isabgol for the uninformed) for smooth evacuation? Is husk allowed during a fast? What if you are unable to find the nearest Les Cabinets after drinking lots of water?

Regardless, all the future PM contenders will never be able to beat Modi ji unless they can observe his strict form of penance - a fast for nine days for thirty-five years on both Navratris – autumn and winter. Our Amethi boy has to match this ritual – no sabudaana lasagna and no kuttoo ka pasta. Not even at dusk. Not even if   devoted party men insist.

So this time, with Karwachauth looming large, Modi ji is going to be my inspiration. May the Force be with me! And for the daring Congressman who said this about the Madison square crowd, “If you give free food and free tickets, anyone can gather a crowd,” here is a quote from The Phantom Menace-
“Fear is the path to the dark side…fear leads to anger…anger leads to hate…hate leads to suffering.”
 Take that!

(For the bhakts, don't kill me. This is called appreciation. Because every time I appreciate Modi ji, some netizens throw egg on my face without reading the article! Alas, such is thy devotion. And for the Congressmen, well, times are bad. Not easy to find fault with the man. Err, phenomenon. Right Tharoor? )

Watch Jon Stewarts hilarious take on Star Wars Quote by PM Modi

Media Carnival

Courtesy Twitter.com

Most India media houses have stationed their top correspondents in the US to cover Narendra Modi’s maiden visit as the Prime Minister of India. NDTV’s Barkha Dutt talked to excited women playing garba, Rahul Kanwal from Headlines Today spoke to the students at Columbia University, Bhupendra Chaubey from CNN piqued our interest about Modi’s probable gift to President Obama and a nostalgic Maroof Raza from Times Now enlightened us about Muhammad Ali’s first bout against Joe Frazier at the Madison Square.
It is like a big social carnival bordering on hysteria with media men talking about everything except the strategic give and take. While we know what we want from the US, what was expected of India is not discussed enough. If India wants US to be stern with Pakistan on terror, is India ready to send soldiers to fight the war against ISIS? 

To read the entire article on The Hoot, click here.

Tape That

Object-ification?

Just when I was about to bury my old tape recorder, Aamir Khan resurrected the gadget in the trailer of Raju Hirani's yet to be released movie ‘PK’. Dismayed by its strategic presence, women and Karan Johar wanted to snatch the tape recorder from Aamir’s hands. To find the hidden truth. Why else? After all, there is something called scientific temper - the refusal to accept anything without examining. That’s why.
The last time a tape recorder captured our cinematic imagination was when the recorded voice of Rajesh Khanna stunned a grieving Amitabh - Babu Moshai, Zindagi aur Maut To Uparwale Ke Haath Hai.

Like other tools of popular culture, the tape recorder was a rage in the early eighties. Its demise compels me to play the somewhat broken record of my memories. I am not sure why, but the tape gets stuck around my red Sony Walkman - a birthday gift by my father. It was an era when Japanese gadgets from Aiwa, Sony, and Sanyo were synonymous with quality, whereas goods made in China, well, stayed in China. A Sony Walkman dangling around the neck was in tune with the times. It meant that all was well with the world. For the Apple fed generation, Sony Walkman was the grandfather of the present generation iPod. Given that street dancing became a popular trend in America those days, it was rightly called the Boom Box, a ghetto blaster or a jam box.
It was fascinating to be able to record your own favorites in one cassette that played in a loop for hours together. Of course, you could switch on the radio anytime, but listening to your favorite songs was pure delight. The only irritant was buying good quality cassettes. Those with ample pocket money would go for HMV or Sony cassettes, but the humble ones blessed Gulshan Kumar’s T series. Among other things, the tape recorder imparted an important lesson. Like warning me to never, ever sing in public. I remember recording a few lines in solitude. After listening to my own voice on tape, I realized that if I wanted to keep friends, I had to stay away from singing.
What amplified the fun was the fact that the tape recorder allowed the freedom to carry your own music on a road trip. You could tap your feet to the beat of George Michael’s ‘Faith’ or sing along ‘Walk like an Egyptian’ as the scenery flitted by. 

All in all, tape recorders were the coolest thing that happened to music until the arrival of the revolutionary IPods. Revolutionary, because you could store as many as 40,000 songs in your pocket with a storage capacity of 160GB. Like Sony, Apple changed the way we listened to music. Even as I write, fans are mourning the quiet death of iPod Classic, after a brief life span of seven years.

In a world dominated by technology where gadgets are becoming smaller and lighter – the demise of the tape recorder was expected. It is now time to listen to music on the Apple Wrist Watch - a ‘wearable device’ unlike the tape recorder or the iPod. Of course, the watch will tell the time among other things. Only, you can’t use it as an effective undergarment. Or maybe Aamir can. For all I know, or care, Aamir’s wife will be the right person to talk about it. 

This post is also on Huffington Post.

Full Circle

Short Story

26 July, 1980.

With scores of students living in the college hostel, a chance meeting in the nearby market was inevitable. Mahesh Thakur heard them mutter ‘Matty-Matty’ in hushed tones. Sharing puffs, they were idling near the corner paan shop. Waiting for his wife to complete the weekend ritual of vegetable shopping, Mahesh felt uneasy. Oblivious of her husband’s unease, Maya wiped drops of glistening sweat from her forehead with the free end of her sari. Unmindful of the stares, Maya fumbled with her purse even as her eyes exasperatingly looked for Mahesh. Spotting him in the corner, she asked, “Change for a hundred?” He passed on the soggy ten rupee notes to his wife and glanced around restlessly. “Hurry up. It’s getting late.”

Maya hurried towards the two-wheeler parked near the vegetable kiosk and the contrast was obvious. While an obese Mahesh struggled to balance his scooter, his lissome wife’s effortlessly perched on the pillion. Mahesh then kick started the Lambretta, which refused to buzz. When repeated attempts failed to ignite the engine, a student came forward and offered help. Mahesh smiled sheepishly and thanked the boy whose name he didn’t remember. And then it happened. One of the boys commented, “Beauty and the beast,” followed by stifles of laughter.

Living on the campus premises, Mahesh was a Professor of mathematics at The Benares Hindu University. A metaphor for his name, size and subject, Matty was the jocular term coined by his students. Lately, after his marriage and the birth of his younger daughter, Mahesh remained largely withdrawn - dour and uncommunicative.
Who cared if he was a brilliant mathematician? None of the problems in his life added up.
Returning to a quiet home, Mahesh found refuge in voluminous books adorning the wooden shelves of his study. Picking up a book randomly, he flipped the pages. When he tried to deliberate, words shimmered senselessly on white pages. He tossed the book on the table so hard that it fell on the ground. Unable to focus, he entered the kitchen and saw Maya storing vegetables in the vegetable basket.
"Where are the girls?"
“They are in the park,” replied Maya. 'Playing with friends."
Mahesh peered out of the window. Children were playing in the neighborhood park. A father and son were bonding over football. His heart cringed. Then he glanced at his wife. She appeared even more attractive, kneeling, sorting vegetables with a tendril of hair falling on her peaches and cream complexion.
What good is her beauty if she can’t give me a son?
On an impulse, he dragged Maya to the bedroom and forced himself on an unwilling wife.

*

Their third child this would be. A mother at forty-two, Maya’s mind hovered in hopeless circles. The tedium of changing diapers, sleepless nights and preparing gruels - all seemed daunting. With Mitali, fifteen and Naina, ten, her worst fear was most dreadful. What if it happened again?
Mahesh, on the other hand found himself liking his wife more when she was pregnant. During pregnancy the hour-glass figure made way for a more matched couple. Approaching full-term with a protruding belly, Maya waddled around the house and the girls. On purpose, Mahesh avoided accompanying her for the routine check-ups. The doctor echoed Maya’s thoughts, making him feel like a monster that had impregnated his wife for selfish reasons. “You have two lovely daughters. It's not wise to go in for a third caesarian. There are no guarantees……”
Mahesh had no patience or time for senseless sermons by another woman. He knew that his seemingly submissive wife rebelled secretively. Perhaps it was Maya, who prompted the doctor to sermonize, to make him see her own point of view. 

Mahesh was immersed in a book when Mitali knocked on the door.
“Daddy, I need help with the homework?” 
"Go ask your mother,” Mahesh said.
“She is at the doctor’s.”
"What is it?"
"This numerical, I dont know how to solve this, " said Mitali.
“This is simple. Why can’t you solve this?”
“I tried. I’m not getting it. My teacher taught us in a different manner.”
“Who’s your teacher?”
“Mrs. Sharma.”
“Your teacher is an idiot. Tell her, I said so."

These female teachers are useless.

Increasingly, Mahesh spent his days at his desk, correcting papers and reading books. Each night, he’d take a break from reading and imagine cradling his son, playing with him for hours at stretch. He felt at peace when he thought about someone who’d take care of him when he was frail and old. He could recall every day he’d spent with his own father during his last days. He had seen his father become a cripple before his very own eyes - lose hair, appetite, voice and finally the will to live. After his father’s demise Mahesh had become increasingly insecure about his own future.

  *

It could be any day, the doctor had said. With fifty percent attendance and students throwing chalk in all directions, he taught half-heartedly. When the chalk throwing and giggling continued unabated, he decided to leave.
This generation is hopeless, does not have any focus, direction or clue of their future.
 
Alighting from the rickshaw, Mahesh felt an urge to visit the ‘Kashi Vishwanath’ temple. Hundreds of devotees jostled for the sandhya aarti next to the sanctum-sanctorum where the chiseled marble idols smiled benevolently in bright satin outfits embellished with brocade and jewels. The evening prayers began with fervent chants by the priest clad in a saffron dhoti with multiple sacred threads of rudraksh around his neck. The blinking lights around quaint statues added to the aura and the mystique. The fragrance from the sandalwood incense wafted around - strong yet pleasing. The sound from the conch shell echoed in the air and the chants grew louder, reaching a fervent pitch. Mahesh stood there with folded hands. One amongst many.

Mahesh was lacing his shoes when he noticed a foreigner being accosted by a bunch of beggars near the temple. Tuesday being the holy day for Lord Hanuman, beggars, lepers and hawkers thronged the temple premises hoping to get free savories offered as prasaad. Spotting a soft target they pounced on the foreigner anticipating generous alms. The foreigner was visibly shaken by the sudden onslaught of grimy faces, poking and nudging him. So infuriated was Mahesh, that instinctively, he ran towards the aggressive louts with raised hands. With a menacing look, Mahesh hushed the motley group away and escorted the dazed foreigner. As they emerged after collecting their footwear, the tourist offered, “Smoke?”
Adjusting his thick glasses Mahesh said, “I don’t smoke.”
They continued walking through the narrow crowded lanes lined with several kiosks selling betel nuts, varieties of tobacco, supaari and paan. Carrying a book, ‘Benaras: City of Light’ by Diana Eck, he was from Spain, on a research visit to pen a book on various faiths. Absorbing every nuance and every detail, the foreigner trudged along.
“What does ‘Kashi’ mean?”
“The word ‘Kashi’ originated from the word ‘Kash’ meaning to shine. According to the mythological legacy, this is the place where Shiva and Parvati stood at the beginning of time. And ‘Vishwanath’ is referred to Lord Shiva, the Ruler of Universe,” Mahesh informed. Avoiding the stray cows lazing languorously, the foreigner asked, “So why do Hindus wish to spend their last days in this city?”
“According to the scriptures this holy land is capable of offering ‘moksha’. If your son performs the cremation rites, you are liberated from several cycles of rebirths.”
“What happens when you don’t have a son?”
“Then,” Mahesh shrugged his shoulders, “you continue to suffer the pain of repeated births and deaths.” 

*
It was like all hospitals. A place of hope and yet a place of hopelessness. Mahesh shuffled his legs frequently sitting on plastic vinyl chairs in the waiting area. A nurse in wimples swished past. When another seemingly young expectant father tried to initiate a conversation, Mahesh snubbed him. Anxious, he was in no mood for social niceties. When the silence grew deafening, Mahesh heaved himself up and went up to the nurse.
“How long will it take?”
“Please be seated sir. It could take several hours.”
“It’s been two hours?"
“Your wife has a history of caesarians and abortions. We are doing our best,” the nurse said in a firm voice.
History of abortions? I know about only one!
After prowling restlessly in the waiting room, he saw the lady doctor wiping her hands with a small hand towel.
“It’s a girl,” blurted the doctor in almost a rehearsed manner, “Your wife is sedated. But you can see the baby.”

He trudged out of the hospital for a breath of fresh air. It was stuffy. Thunder muttered at some distance, but not a leaf stirred. Hoping to feel the drops of rain, he spread out his hands. When none fell, he walked towards the corner shop. Asking for a pack of cigarettes, he lighted the cigarette and inhaled a deep puff.

*
As Mahesh trudged towards the lecture hall, he saw his students sitting on the staircase, idling behind the huge pillars.
This is place shouldn’t be called a university, it’s a fish market.
“Apna Matty is a daddy,” whispered one.
“Again? How does he do it?” said another. ‘I mean with that paunch?”
“With a wife like that, anyone would be tempted.”
There was a loud burst of laughter. They saw him approaching. Shameless duds. If I had a son, he would never behave like them.

Returning home, he found the infant alone in her crib. With a splitting head-ache, Mahesh entered the study, drew curtains, hoping to stop the mid-day sun from penetrating his thoughts. But the sun still hit the window with all its might. A note on his desk said, ‘Going to buy milk’. Mahesh decided to correct the answer sheets to distract his mind. His stooped silhouette was bathing in sunlight, as he corrected the answer papers. 
That is when he heard muffled sounds of the baby. The howling sustained, denting his concentration. When the howling continued, Mahesh heaved himself and reluctantly peered at the crib. It was the first time he saw her. Wailing with all the energy at her disposal, the frail bundle was throwing her clenched fists and delicate legs in the air. Briefly, he felt an urge to cradle. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to fuss over the baby, cuddle her or do anything about it. Clueless, Mahesh retraced his steps towards his study and closed the door.

*

A storm is lashing the city with all its might when Mahesh is  wheeled in the hospital.  Both his elder daughters got married and settled abroad after Maya passed away. Mahesh now lives with his youngest daughter. And just when all the years of silence were making way for some communication, Mahesh suffers from breathlessness due to blocked arteries.
Lying on a stretcher, he is sweating profusely in the emergency ward, next to the maternity ward where his daughter was born. Moments come back to him in swirls and glimpses - some connected, others disconnected. The universe hums with inane rush and murmur of voices but Mahesh is unable to grasp any.
She wields a stethoscope slung around her slender neck and holds her father’s case file. Later that evening, after the surgery, she plans to visit the temple her father had visited all these years.