tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128386872024-03-05T15:38:25.805+05:30All HailBlog with pictures on sundry stuff about something , nothing. Whenever.All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-47198489929711925082011-08-24T12:26:00.000+05:302011-08-24T12:26:52.277+05:30O Captain! My Captain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div closure_uid_emg9fg="236">Whether we are over-ANNAlyzing or not, the fact remains that this movement is being fueled by the heart. The mind only follows. Either I get that or I don't. </div><div closure_uid_emg9fg="236">Difficult to argue with an angrily beating heart.</div><div closure_uid_emg9fg="240"></div>And memories of cowardice.<br />
<div closure_uid_emg9fg="242"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_emg9fg="243">The editorials, the conversations. Nothing comes close to the one decisive thump that says Bas, bahut ho gaya.</div><div closure_uid_emg9fg="244"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_emg9fg="245">While I discuss, I cogitate, I criticize and I wonder what damage The A Team could potentially do to the constitution, where was I all these years when crores drained out of the system by creamily smiling Fat Cats looted us and robbed the poor in a so called bloodless crime? Impotent, seething and cowed, too small to stand up alone. Whatever the A Team has done and whatever damage they might do, I will stand on my desk and salute this man, his team and this time for giving us the courage and platform to speak. Even though it was always there.</div><div closure_uid_emg9fg="292"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_emg9fg="257"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/O_Captain!_My_Captain!#The_Poem">O Captain! My Captain..</a> </div><br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-29459715805917896952011-08-24T12:21:00.000+05:302011-08-24T12:21:58.933+05:30Over Anna-lyzed?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div closure_uid_wiu2w="223">I'm bombarded by edits, responses, essays and <a href="http://clearvisor.wordpress.com/2011/08/23/why-i%E2%80%99d-rather-be-anna-than-arundhati/">rebuttals</a> on the Anna phenomenon. And I hardly watch the news, so I am not going down that road either. </div><div closure_uid_wiu2w="223">Arundhati Roy, hereafter referred to as the Mind of Small Things wrote incisively in her <a href="http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/lead/article2379704.ece?homepage=true">Hindu Article " I'd rather not be Anna"</a> Manu Joseph made a telling point in his new York article on<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/18/world/asia/18iht-letter18.html"> India's Selective Rage over Corruption</a> . Both made me cringe- as both were targeted at the general public, the so called middle class, the Us. While many points rang true, and made my toes curl, overall, I think, who the hell are you ? </div><div closure_uid_wiu2w="223"><br />
</div><div closure_uid_wiu2w="223">Its like these guys, while certainly making cogent points, are contemptuous of the 'voice of the people'. I agree this may not be the way to go , but shall we go into a gigantic huddle, frozen in time and space for the next decade, while they and the govt figure it out? On our behalf? </div><br />
<br />
<div closure_uid_wiu2w="270">They ( The People) don't understand the finer points , they sneer, and while that might be true, it is plain stupidity not to recognize that the rampant, almost institutionalized corruption that The People suffered and chafed under , has brought up a Roaring Tiger that has opened its mouth wide, and said 'Enough'. So what if it isn't following the rules and hasn't read the fine print? Its roaring.</div><br />
Looks like the govt has to figure out how to ride the Tiger or be devoured by it. Not a happy situation, since we ARE the govt but there it is. Deal with it. It certainly isn't pleasant negotiating in a hostage environment with your back to the wall, but perhaps its only then, one can plumb deepest as to what one can truly give up. <br />
<br />
Or give in.<br />
<br />
--------------- <br />
<div closure_uid_wiu2w="223"><br />
</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-40136163680394528262010-09-19T12:04:00.000+05:302010-09-19T12:04:53.772+05:30Carrying HatredA kindergarten teacher has decided to let her class play a game. <br />
<br />
<br />
The teacher told each child in the class to bring along a plastic bag containing a few potatoes. <br />
<br />
Each potato will be given a name of a person that the child hates, so the number of potatoes that a child will put in his/her plastic bag will depend on the number of people he/she hates. <br />
<br />
So when the day came, every child brought some potatoes with the name of the people he/she hated. Some had 2 potatoes; some 3 while some up to 5 potatoes. The teacher then told the children to carry with them the potatoes in the plastic bag wherever they go (even to the toilet) for 1 week. <br />
<br />
Days after days passed by, and the children started to complain due to the unpleasant smell let out by the rotten potatoes. Besides, those having 5 potatoes also had to carry heavier bags. After 1 week, the children were relieved because the game had finally ended....<br />
<br />
The teacher asked: "How did you feel while carrying the potatoes with you for 1 week?". The children let out their frustrations and started complaining of the trouble that they had to go through having to carry the heavy and smelly potatoes wherever they go. <br />
<br />
Then the teacher told them the hidden meaning behind the game. The teacher said: "This is exactly the situation when you carry your hatred for somebody inside your heart. The stench of hatred will contaminate your heart and you will carry it with you wherever you go. If you cannot tolerate the smell of rotten potatoes for just 1 week, can you imagine what is it like to have the stench of hatred in your heart for your lifetime???" <br />
<br />
Moral of the story:<br />
<br />
Throw away any hatred for anyone from your heart so that you will not carry sins for a lifetime. <br />
Forgiving others is the best attitude to take! <br />
True love is not loving a perfect person <br />
but loving an imperfect person perfectly!!<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-44898266196837655462010-07-24T20:54:00.003+05:302010-07-24T22:27:43.069+05:30A break in the weather<style type="text/css">
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<div class="flickr-frame"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinday/694963014/" title="photo sharing"><img alt="" class="flickr-photo" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1122/694963014_baf3d7b0d9.jpg" /></a><br />
<span class="flickr-caption"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinday/694963014/">A break in the weather</a>, originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/kevinday/">Kevin Day</a>.</span></div><div class="flickr-yourcomment">A superb photo stream by Kevin Day<br />
" My friend the dead tree"<br />
Both poignant , and full of hope. <br />
It walks through time sof day, seasons, the artists moods, and the cycle of time. <br />
And every time its different.<br />
Teaches us something while I scroll through.<br />
<br />
I love the series. Absolutely love it .</div><div class="flickr-yourcomment">Catch the rest of the stream at <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinday/694963014/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/kevinday/694963014/</a></div><div class="flickr-yourcomment"><br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-43271460812429246082010-07-05T21:50:00.002+05:302010-07-05T22:32:49.786+05:30Memories in Brine<em>‘The clock talked loud. I threw it away, it scared me what it talked”.</em> ~Tillie Olsen, Tell Me a Riddle<br />
<br />
<br />
I finished watching Marley and Me on TV a few minutes ago. Apart from the sudden scrabbling for paper tissues towards the end, I was reasonably stoic about this lovely tearjerker. To dog lovers like me, they really should give an advance warning sign (just like they do with PG and A ratings to general viewers) saying ‘Waterworks Just Ahead’. <br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaY6ENv74YccE-MDsVyeOuGex8NKhkm9WPBAHYAK9ZWqibAHLpTnRJQglrPXQtTPTJCwzc9QEjmrXayFNGZ4JK3bDgBaSpId3-Ax9e6XcNfBwzlgS3cr_apYI1H0s8dcXDG6Wnwg/s1600/Marley+and+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaY6ENv74YccE-MDsVyeOuGex8NKhkm9WPBAHYAK9ZWqibAHLpTnRJQglrPXQtTPTJCwzc9QEjmrXayFNGZ4JK3bDgBaSpId3-Ax9e6XcNfBwzlgS3cr_apYI1H0s8dcXDG6Wnwg/s320/Marley+and+Me.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It’s the last few minutes of the film. John Grogan, the chief protagonist and author sits with Marley, his tempestuous, loving and utterly mad Labrador, as he’s put to sleep, and talks to him about the life they had. Marley has travelled from barmy child-in-chief of the house to an older, wiser brother as Human Child 1, 2 & 3 are born. Time then passes in a happy haze, and the kids are now older. Marley with a loving life and his growing family is now ill, dying. Somewhere in that gentle, murmured conversation, something strikes a chord. ‘Remember when, when you came home for the first time? You were so naughty Marley. Your fear of thunderstorms, your eating up everything in the garage including the wall? There are a lot of memories in there, aren’t there, boy? Maybe you don’t remember all of them -things tend to all run into each other don’t they?’ Marley’s boot-black eyes look at John’s in a moment of complete connection and understanding. Yes, in a full, happy life, memories do tend to ‘run into one other’.</div><br />
Seeing the whole movie telescope into that few minutes of a flashback between the dying dog and his human made me remember that after a while, things truly tend to run into each other. You try and remember school graduation, or the winning of an award, or the time of pure happiness holding hands, and gazing into a caldera in dreamy Santorini. But in some giant accordion press of time, incidents and anecdotes just tunnel into each other. You don’t remember timelines, exact dates and milestones. But when you do, you catch your breath; you can only remember how it made you feel.<br />
<br />
At which point do you turn around and discover with predictably bittersweet sadness, that these are memories, and they clearly belong in your past. At which point do you notice, while you are counting the beads of day in the chain in your hand, that there are likely as many such memories behind you, as there ahead of you, and that most of the happiest ones are, in all likelihood, those from the past. At what time do you discover that infinite just got mutated and boxed, based on the pain in your knees as you ascend stairs n, or the fact that happy yawn and stretch as you awoke in the morning, is replaced by a desire to turn in for another 5 minutes, or get out of bed, feet dragging, duty bound only by a grumpy bladder or a time clock at work.<br />
<br />
I always wondered when the ‘now’ would be a future memory and would do everything I could to hold that moment, into something that I would truly, intensely remember. The Good Old Days were in Present Tense. Sometimes I wonder if photographs are our frantic albeit futile need to preserve, freeze and stretch such moments in time. We rarely go back and revisit those photos, although it is clear that most all of them are preserved, however mixed up, in some curdled brine in our minds. We stir it up, and one or the other come up, reluctantly, and not always in great condition. There nevertheless.<br />
<br />
There are times I long to catalogue the moments in my head. Pedestrian or otherwise, I wish I could write or record every single thing I’ve experienced. I envy bloggers, diarists, story writers who are able to experience and comment simultaneously. What a filofax to look back on, maybe embrace...<br />
<br />
I wouldn’t mind even an old fashioned file with thoughts labelled under Love, Magic, Sad, Food, Life, and School etc. Like Miss Lemon’s much touted perfect filing system in the Poirot series, I too want to be able to docket, file, and cross reference all the wonderful things in my life. I want to be able to slide open that creaky filing cabinet , with a sense of purpose , knowing with certainty that I will find exactly what I want , and where I had kept it last .<br />
<br />
In my head , I see that room with the warm lighting , and I see the cabinets on the left, But in the darker , smoky section in the far side of the room, I know my eyes are really quickly scanning to ensure that are enough filing cabinets to hold what is to come. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Sometimes I just don’t know. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaBUOzX9luVLSQpgyYPbM3wSH9xLPKCAtgV7ag0Dd30BBakqXsUiNowy3oE8xpgtMPABce0w1VMN_lSC9xRj6tB6Oc0MkUyxTe9UMoQeuwqbBU6Uos-n3-54wyDIhkLkXE9z9RQ/s1600/Trees+in+Lace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaBUOzX9luVLSQpgyYPbM3wSH9xLPKCAtgV7ag0Dd30BBakqXsUiNowy3oE8xpgtMPABce0w1VMN_lSC9xRj6tB6Oc0MkUyxTe9UMoQeuwqbBU6Uos-n3-54wyDIhkLkXE9z9RQ/s400/Trees+in+Lace.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">(Copyright)</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-4697427068329768532010-06-19T20:21:00.017+05:302010-07-05T19:44:45.636+05:30TwilightTwilight. Twilight people <br />
There are people who love it, those who come into their own at this time of day.<br />
Not me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlEU6CEJdO952WCPum2GXaHsifu4Xu6OR7zNLLvmNrFbdwt3Rcfe3kVvZ7y0gX0R-5xccIBqtpGXaQFQFKfs-M7ubYkMOiDQI84mkMrwurqiA3BffMzS55kubN0KczEzjBES2bJQ/s1600/Twilight+Still+light.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlEU6CEJdO952WCPum2GXaHsifu4Xu6OR7zNLLvmNrFbdwt3Rcfe3kVvZ7y0gX0R-5xccIBqtpGXaQFQFKfs-M7ubYkMOiDQI84mkMrwurqiA3BffMzS55kubN0KczEzjBES2bJQ/s320/Twilight+Still+light.bmp" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I look outside my French Windows when the sun is still bright. Fading but still light. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I can see the trees, and between the branches and leaves, I see patches of light. That light is very precious to me. Spent, leaking, leaching into another time but its still day. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Daylight means that light is for real, its worked hard and ensured that the world has spun in a particular way . </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Now that this view is trapped in a picture window on my left, I keep glancing at it.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> Keep looking at it , as if once I do , the fading, dampening of colour , much like sweat darkly staining a blue shirt , will arrest. And then slowly , mauvely the colour fades out .</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I keep watching – the patches become smaller , and the electric light is now reflected on the glass of the windows, and superimposed on darkening , increasingly menacing sky. There is no thunder and lightning , but there might well be, to portend the end of a day, a death of a promise. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The fear of an inexorable cranking forward grows within me - of something, time , space, whatever. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And an inner small voice is shouting under its breath, as loud as it can, to stop , stop, but no one can hear . It ought not to hear . </div>It’s the oldest march, and it goes on , and it goes on. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Walks over small ants, elephants, giants and choked screams like this. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcPcjGr51dO12fnwS5xkniWEWNzE5SnWAOZlc_-7w-vYdNHSjUhLCQC-lXqWj1F1qkuJANX-aBNXqrCma4dzSzL5sm9lRC23OA_6GaorHcUs30lFnrYEEOVcia4n-JKEJD87xdQ/s1600/Twilight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcPcjGr51dO12fnwS5xkniWEWNzE5SnWAOZlc_-7w-vYdNHSjUhLCQC-lXqWj1F1qkuJANX-aBNXqrCma4dzSzL5sm9lRC23OA_6GaorHcUs30lFnrYEEOVcia4n-JKEJD87xdQ/s320/Twilight.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Outside the light darkens, and now the incandescent light in the room has won. As the principal source of light, artificial is victorious over natural. Like today, the victory of modern times. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Its never simple . <br />
Like with all serious, inward moments , the grunge of the everyday intrudes. Outside, there are two blue and white bath towels drying on the balcony railings. An element of the ludicrous creeping in justwhen the soul is testing a silent scream, a touch of the circus in the middle of a eulogy. <br />
<br />
Life always does that . <br />
Just when its scratching inky stains on paper to communicate portentous tidings to the world, letters start to form, meaning takes shape , someone squishes tomato sauce on a white , white paper. <br />
In the shape of a clown’s smile, twisted. <br />
<br />
There are Twilight people. There are people who feel the stretching of nerves, the spreading of arms and adrenaline when the light darkens inexorably outside. I don’t know what it is that does not allow me to celebrate the end of a day. <br />
Is it about hope that falls away , and hope that decays?<br />
<br />
<em>And then darkness fell.</em><br />
<br />
Those words always scared me. <br />
Do I therefore love the sunrise and the promise it brings? Do I love the spreading fingers of light?<br />
Yes. Somewhat. <br />
<br />
Bu that goods train drones in the distance , chug chug, groan groan, unceasing , inexorable. <br />
It stops for no one, be it light or dark .<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-43066795601586180882010-06-11T22:27:00.004+05:302010-07-05T19:45:28.872+05:30Of Men and Memorials<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVSsPLfQtWE1jKhrHLHlZBCCe_0FdFMlN92WCRQJn1NHq_naFUK1YotPi_OG8sTe_UGje5xcNFW-jA_vceJVzHdGAyfJH5oYp2mkuit4TQsofbAveYw8H3F3GjubPlRmKCZ_Neg/s1600/IMG00492-20100531-0755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVSsPLfQtWE1jKhrHLHlZBCCe_0FdFMlN92WCRQJn1NHq_naFUK1YotPi_OG8sTe_UGje5xcNFW-jA_vceJVzHdGAyfJH5oYp2mkuit4TQsofbAveYw8H3F3GjubPlRmKCZ_Neg/s320/IMG00492-20100531-0755.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tdHa-f4Bbg2mDHuzl9znj9mr4yYGLD1eXfX8kmqFSJtqtcbZMCBizlLarMrRRxaoiIIc7zhLWL7kgIAmvCv5xah40i1d3pt-DCq1GyeUfTuBPz41PF6zWKe_tnfovlhtg3U09Q/s1600/IMG00489-20100531-0753.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tdHa-f4Bbg2mDHuzl9znj9mr4yYGLD1eXfX8kmqFSJtqtcbZMCBizlLarMrRRxaoiIIc7zhLWL7kgIAmvCv5xah40i1d3pt-DCq1GyeUfTuBPz41PF6zWKe_tnfovlhtg3U09Q/s320/IMG00489-20100531-0753.jpg" /></a></div>There is a lot of back and forth on the Indira Gandhi Park and the Memorial.<br />
<br />
Today there was an eminently sensible , pragmatic and well written <a href="http://bangaloremirror.com/index.aspx?Page=article&sectname=Specials - Views&sectid=36&contentid=2010041220100412175835965b8f6e34f">perspective</a> by dear friend and columnist V Ravichandar in Bangalore Mirror. Ravi is admirably both able to look at this from a macro perspective as well as the civic viewpoint to look at this dispassionately.<br />
<br />
However, on this issue let me categorically admit that I may not have the pristine perspective that Ravi does. As one with a vested interest- I do live close by- let me still tell you what bothers me about this effort. Let me establish a couple of things first One is that I used to be a frequent walker in this close by and beautiful park till lethargy got the better of me .I do want the lovely park to be let alone. Second, that I think that many things that Rajeev Chandrasekhar has done from both his personal and ABIDE persona have been commendable. He is one of the few with a strong leaning towards and representation for, the Armed Forces. More power to his elbow. Third, that I have only the facts as mentioned in the papers, but have neither reached out for not double checked the plans, details on Foundation etc. Maybe there is more there, and I should do so. Fourth, the etiquette on a Memorial of this nature coming up in Military land. Apparently bad form to have it anywhere but civilian land. India Gate at Delhi for example. <br />
<br />
NIMBY is an interesting and sobering thought that Ravi gently reminded me about today, tongue in cheek and just a little dryly. NIMBY- Not in My Back Yard, you won’t. So all this is laudable and great, but please not in my backyard. I remember a chat with a senior Traffic Cop who mentioned how frustrating it was that neighborhoods would keep petitioning to shift the Bus Stop opposite their flats or home , a little further down the road. But where would it eventually go? It had to go somewhere. Perhaps opposite mine? <br />
<br />
The background is this. With the constant pillage of the city – to widening of roads, to the Metro, all good for us, required, reminiscent of tightening belts, analogies of omelet and breaking eggs; in short every little homily that has set our teeth further on edge, here comes another. And this time it’s optional. I think we are bitter with seeing uprooted trees and a stump where there was green, where there was history. And whatever be the motivation, it cannot bring back the green sap that now dries like old blood in dark dead wood. There is anger of a people who have kept quiet over one more green corpse, bowed their head when we were told this was good for you. There is a cloud of betrayal hanging over our heads for all the history and life we chose not to protect in our city, because they had no voice. There are very few of us who have not felt the pain of standing down, of sitting still. Fanciful or not, this is the background. <br />
<br />
And here are my thoughts.<br />
<br />
An Army Brat myself I was so moved, when the statue of the Unknown Soldier unexpectedly came up a few months ago at the entrance of the same park. The uniformed, handsome young man stood looking out at grassy parkland shady paths and cool trees, perhaps a tiny reflection of the martyrs heaven that he was in right now. I am not ashamed to state that I stood there a full minute , tears in my eyes, unplugging my iPOD from my ears on that cool morning, looking up at the simple but proud bronze statue, and the engraved plaque mounted on the raised platform with a mixture of love and respect. Wondering on what his dream were. Why my fight was his fight. My body inadvertently snapped to attention, and my throat tightened in thanks for this wonderful gesture towards a thousand soldiers who selflessly laid down their lives over decades. Some names we will never know. I have military friends whose widowed mothers still believe their husbands will return sometime. I know about the Unknown Soldier, but only a little. <br />
It was a moment. We could have stayed with that. <br />
<br />
The motivation is excellent. Bangalore will have the first such memorial after Delhi. Laudable . and excellent intentions Who is this Foundation ? Why by a private citizen? That park is a happy lung space in crowded Millers/Palace /Ali Asker Road. This is going to make access stringent, rarified. There is a move to set up a memorial, but no one talked about a Motivatonal Hall of 11000 sft. Really, whom are we motivating? And is this ( mind you we are all getting cynical, and seemingly with good reason) really a Trojan Horse?<br />
<br />
Even some military men are embarrassed about this controversy. A memorial yes, but all this encroaching of public lung space? NO. Before we know it, we as private citizens will have no access to this place, and I may bring my Dad’s Service Id card for admission. Exclusion, as always. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDNDTV7V-WevbrZiqvokTGtNkGR_l94Xe7Q-lZwBKjrd3Uuf2MEsfiNsA204SfAxE57Hvgz-v_CScZhl9RTxoY5KxCIP5bQHwtTka6bEBzNqFN9vb547KEzu7Gu9tkSwrBKjpxA/s1600/IMG00493-20100531-0756.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDNDTV7V-WevbrZiqvokTGtNkGR_l94Xe7Q-lZwBKjrd3Uuf2MEsfiNsA204SfAxE57Hvgz-v_CScZhl9RTxoY5KxCIP5bQHwtTka6bEBzNqFN9vb547KEzu7Gu9tkSwrBKjpxA/s320/IMG00493-20100531-0756.jpg" /></a></div><br />
And d’you know where that is going to be ? I saw concrete marker stones being laid out. Right in the center of the park, In a bower of ancient, bending, gnarled and blindingly green trees , a quiet and serene spot , that is the park’s cynosure. So much so that walkers like us are not allowed by park attendants to hang out there lest we spoil the grass or something. We walk around the periphery, grateful to partake of such effortless beauty, such casual grace . And in all the 16 acres of space, in the periphery, sides, why was this central space chosen? Why a closed structure? Why here? What ownership will the Foundation have? There are millions of beautiful army spots. There are dozens of Memorial Museums within Army HQs like MEG, ASC etc that clearly have the history and salute our heroes. <br />
<br />
I know its not a zero sum game, but before we commemorate their noble deaths, lets focus on their living lives. Let’s focus by not buying them sub standard equipment, boots, planes, tanks and ammo. Give them the material to succeed when they are alive , and attempting to protect our country and us; not a Memorial – so that its more accessible and convenient for us to bring out a hanky to mop up our salty tears when they go to their deaths. <br />
<br />
Large edifices can only try but rarely take away public guilt. Putting aside the murder of the Hariyali aur Raasta , which is no quid pro quo for those brave lives, let the politicians instead turn their attention to ensure that not one military life is lost more than necessary. Truly and with their hearts .<br />
The Unknown Soldier would salute you. <br />
<br />
That would be a Memorial and a half. <br />
And then let there be memorials galore.<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-4040935801309051342010-05-30T22:14:00.000+05:302010-05-30T22:14:42.674+05:30Drifting Forward ..Drifting forward.<br />
Questioning , endlessly searching, analysing , opening folds for answers. <br />
Wondering if its time already to mourn happiness. <br />
Wondering is the best in life is far far behind you . You will never know.<br />
<br />
Its when the glass is almost full, that one can think of holding that moment and other past times back. <br />
A continuum, a train, a speeding turtle. <br />
<br />
And time to think . <br />
A time where we curiously cut into our own hearts, just to see how it beats , barely pausing for anesthetic. <br />
Because we dont ever want to be numb. <br />
<br />
But we all get there , one day. <br />
<br />
One day.<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-46741373835110947542009-10-25T09:29:00.008+05:302010-07-05T19:46:17.168+05:30The Best Things in Life are Free...<a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3201/2438632688_cc46c99f9d.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3201/2438632688_cc46c99f9d.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 332px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 500px;" /></a><br />
<div>There is the loud but muffled sound of fireworks from somewhere outside of my room. I ignore it for as long as I can, and continue to work on my laptop, but later walk over, mildly irritated but curious, to the French windows, and draw the curtains.<br />
<br />
Through the clear glass of the windows , and the mosaic of the dark trees that partially cloud my vision, I see the sudden vision of man-made stars - red, green and yellow- explode in dizzying, orchestrated , rainbow slow motion across the dark sky. I am entranced, and I open the windows fully to drink it all in. They fall slowly, dim and fading into the yawning shadows below. The whistling sound of the Skyrockets and Catherine Wheels pop away in a distracted, distant manner, while the marvelous fireworks opera across the sky continues to unfold. As I lean on the balcony railing, pinching myself for being invited at short notice to this unceasing, gracious magic show across my horizon, I am joined by my maid. Equally entranced, we wait breathless, wondering when, if ever, this pageant will stop. And it slowly whittles away, this star parade , it goes lower and lower to the ground, and what felt like a display for the Gods , is now clearly in ant territory.<br />
<br />
The best things in life are free, I tell her, translating clumsily into Tamil, straightening up from the balcony. Her eyes linger at the now dark, unsmiling sky outside. She nods quickly, I think she understands. She has dinner to make, so she scurries down towards the aloo-methi on the stove with, perhaps like me, memories of magic and residual sparklers of light fresh in her mind.<br />
<br />
Its true isn’t it ? The Beatles might disagree when they sang:<br />
<em>"The best things in life are free<br />
But you can keep 'em for the birds and bees<br />
Now give me money, (that's what I want) that's what I want."</em><br />
I think that the joy of health, love, friendship, happiness cannot be purchased by money.<br />
Capturing the ‘moment’ that future memory is made up of, is rarely chargeable.<br />
The snuggle , and warm toes that belong to the extra 2 minutes under the quilt just after the alarm has rung, is difficult to explain , or put value to.<br />
The scent of cool, yet rain warmed earth on an October early morning ranks among my best things, and I don’t remember if I have paid up a ticket for that.<br />
Then there is finding strange animal shapes billowing in the clouds on a still sunny day , and smiling at the rabbit with a crown, or the disintegrating snowman on a train that you see.<br />
And have I counted the recognition of the soaring music of an old and beloved ballad?<br />
Or the sudden illumination of a dark room with an electric light or candle?<br />
Or the joyous heartbreak of a fragrant flower?<br />
The snuffling sigh of your pup as she turns to cuddle deeper into the crook of your arm.<br />
Going to bed with the comforting weight of an unread book tented on your chest, chasing away the worrying thoughts that are a frequent prelude to slumber? ?<br />
The sudden redolence of a steaming cup of tea in the early morning?<br />
Strolling through a roadside art festival, with creativity and colors spilling in exhilarating bursts around you?<br />
What about the ripples on a transparent puddle of needle sharp rain?<br />
The sudden sniff of the aroma of comfort food when you walk into your home – rich and fragrant, redolent with the promise of fulfillment?<br />
And the changing patterns of sun-dappled green in the trees crowding outside your window? The desultory yet wise conversation about life and living with your dad?<br />
The inexplicable but deep connection with yourself that comes as your bare toes connect with green grass?<br />
Re-reading an old classic, and smiling with a satisfied sigh at the predictable happy end?<br />
What about the explosion of vanilla aroma as the oven door opens with a baking brownie inside?<br />
The moon looks down at me in silvery splendor – she belongs to no one.<br />
<br />
A giggle with a friend, or the smile of understanding on a shared memory is priceless, and stored away in a happy pocket of the mind. The arm around the shoulder or the warmth of your loved one’s hug brings a sense of completeness – one of the best things that you again don’t have to pay for . Unless your coin is love and affection.<br />
<br />
While we might mambo to Madonna’s ‘Material Girl’ , I admit I prefer waltzing to Frank Sinatras version:<br />
<em>The moon belongs to everyone,<br />
The best things in life are free.<br />
The stars belong to everyone,<br />
They gleam there for you and me.<br />
The flowers in spring, the robins that sing,<br />
The moonbeams that shine, they're yours, they're mine.<br />
And love can come to everyone,<br />
The best things in life are free </em></div><div>(First published in Bangalore Mirror) </div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-32521431664115432492009-07-10T12:42:00.006+05:302009-07-10T13:08:07.235+05:30Jacko<a href="http://tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:5zNiJtDIpbbxaM:http://sheknows.com/graphics"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 93px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 124px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:5zNiJtDIpbbxaM:http://sheknows.com/graphics" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://www.tlcreativedesign.com/michael-jackson.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 430px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://www.tlcreativedesign.com/michael-jackson.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Said a colleague passing by ‘By the way, you do know that Michael Jackson died this morning, right? ‘ </div><div><br />I <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span>’t</em> know. I am shocked. I spend a few minutes trying to figure out why I suddenly felt so sad. I haven’t heard his songs for ages. It’s the passing of an era I guess. Moreover, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">MJ</span> seemed ageless, not time bound. The sweet faced young boy, with ‘Don’t Stop Till you Get Enough’, is replaced over time with a strange mutating creature, and his songs are cleverer than his personal life. Michael Jackson moved from music to mime, from a beloved boy rock star to a strange clown-liquid faced person in a time bubble. Bubbles the Chimpanzee, pet Llama, amusement park and all. </div><div><br />I sat up nights watching the iconic Thriller videos when I was a teenager, and the music is still in my head. I watched him with Paul <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mc</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Cartney</span> with the incredibly sweet, teasing duet ‘ The Girl is Mine ‘ as well as the darker ' The Way you Make me Feel’ with its sadistic overtones. And the poignant ballad ‘One Day in Your Life’ which was a favorite of (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">surprisingly</span> !) my mother’s . ‘We are the World’ was another. In the incredible ‘Black and White’, where one face ironically merged with another, she looked with increasing dismay at the rapidly changing landscape of his color and nose . ‘He is such a handsome boy, why is he doing all this to himself’, she would ask me. I shrugged- his plastic surgery was his vanity and a joke, and I never thought about the fear and fragility that may have motivated him. When was he 50? I recall this ageless wizard when I was in school and college, at work and in growing older. But he was always Peter Pan. In Never never land perhaps, but never a number. </div><div><br />He was a genius, clearly one in a lifetime born, used to fame and the spotlights right from a 5 year old. Clearly meant for spangles, spotlight and then stardust. Who can forget his songs, that signature vocal hiccup, his path breaking <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">entertainment</span> on MTV, those eye-popping dance moves , which went from dazzling and fresh to strangely robotic and cruel , but no less brilliant <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">nevertheless</span>. I remember that incredibly sweet, almost shy, little boy smile and that high falsetto voice, that progressed to the peculiar lip gash smirk and the Michael-I’m-Barbie face. One day he became the sad clown under the circus top, and while other clowns rode their bicycles over him, or pretend-hit him with a paddle, he blinked and cried , but we all still laughed and clapped at his antics. </div><div><br />We owned Michael, and he did us justice. He lived his life in front of our eyes and his world tours and live shows <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">demonstrated</span> his unsurpassed ability to entertain. He became <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">increasingly</span> eccentric as he grew in that glass bubble, and we watched him distantly amused and enchanted at the same time. I admit I wanted Never Never Land too, but I am not sure about either the nose or the time capsule. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Increasingly</span> his isolation, wild spending, and later child abuse charges, and clearly eccentric star status lent him the mystery that finally degenerated into the tawdry.<br /></div><div> </div><div>Apparently when the news of his death flashed, the ‘volcanic’ nature of the searches were such that Google was inundated and Twitter and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Wikipedia</span> did briefly crash. </div><div><br />This iconic, delusional, flawed yet gifted pop star lived his life in the glare of 80 million eyes. There was nowhere to hide, even in the most painful of times. </div><div>The spotlights stripped him naked and shriveled. </div><div>He lived, he loved, he fell apart, and pulled himself together, he grew , he shrunk, he performed, and he paled , he sang his heart out , and then he withered .<br />He tottered, rose, and fell in our gaze. </div><div>Many times. </div><div><br />He was a soap opera unto himself , and I wondered if he knew that when he woke up in pain that day in LA , thought about his graying, flawed life, injected himself with Demerol that afternoon, suffered a cardiac arrest and died. Even his death was Reality TV at its best. </div><div></div><div>His daughter Paris broke down at the Memorial for her Daddy, the best Daddy in the world, and suddenly the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">kaleidoscope</span> shifted for me. The voyeurism and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">TRP</span>’s became real, personal, and a bit too much. I turned off the TV. I had forgotten that he was also a person, and not just an entertainer. I forgot that even if we all felt like we owned him, as he lived his life and times in front of us; he actually belonged to a chosen few. Those who loved him and lived with him. The real Michael , however tortured - Daddy , Brother , Son , Friend . </div><div><br />He moved voluntarily from the music stage on to a mounting board, this brilliant, dazzling butterfly . As one of those gawping 80 million who were captivated by his talent, read his antics with increasing perplexity , poked at his scabs, stood on judgment , and still loved his music, its sad to let go this fragile, fluttering butterfly impaled on a pin. </div><div><br />RIP, Michael. </div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-28279357722698481662009-06-06T13:29:00.001+05:302009-06-06T13:35:02.718+05:30Down the Drain..Abhishek’s drowning has become a symbol of all that is indifferent and uncaring in Bangalore. The buck that passes, the shoulders that shrug, the pen that slides over paper, and the defensive voice that says, ‘gothilla saar, its not my responsibility’ . The child was 5 years old. He was walking in the safest place possible – holding his mother’s hand. And then the heavens opened up. The mother who has let go her child’s hand for a minute because she slipped while on slick road in a raging rain , is never going to forgive herself or forget . It was just a second. And she never saw him again.<br />Can you imagine a child being sucked in to the subterranean hell under the road, in a vortex of powerful eddying waters in a drain, filled with plastic, rats and garbage? One moment, the heavy raindrops are falling on his face, and he is probably huddling closer to his mother. The second moment, he slips and a yawning chasm swallows him up, while water fills up his lungs , and he never sees the dark sky again .<br />But perhaps Abhishek and his mother took grave risks. They should not have been out, walking on a Bangalore road. Insurance companies will now shift Bangalore as high on the risky cities list. They should have crept indoors in a nuclear shelter the moment that it rained. Instead they did what most others would have done. Like the security guard, and a couple on a scooter who also drowned that week. Drowned while doing the simplest thing in the world. Going- back -home.<br />So we now must be careful . Not while serving the country on the border , mind you . Or testing new fighter jets. Skydiving . Being a trapeze artist. Being on an oil rig. Being a fire fighter or a policeman.<br />We have to be afraid all the time. Doing any of these things:<br />Standing . Sitting. Walking. Getting into a car. Crossing the road. Farming our land . Being in a bus.<br />Are we going to look surprised and confused , be unprepared every monsoon , every summer , for drowning , electrocution, road accidents? Every time. Every single darn time? Sorry. No can do. Even rats learn by experience. And cockroaches.<br />This happened because one underpaid employee or unconcerned malcontent decided to leave home early , closed his eyes , yawned , walked past unfinished work, and just didn’t care . Chose not to care. Left early to grab a coffee with friends. Had a cigarette break with colleagues on the chouraha. And did not cover a crater on the road, close a drain , or disable a live wire . Just that once. A human life is too expensive a mistake to say, ‘Regrettable . But its part of the game’. ‘It happens’.<br />It’s not.<br />Its manslaughter, plain and simple, and whether it is the department or the person is culpable, let them own up . Its dereliction of duty. If an army person leaves his post during the war, he is tried and court -martialed for desertion. And what happens to our fatcats at the BWSSB or the Bangalore Corporation, or the BEST? I am tired by people telling us to get involved. Could the government be active in doing just what its supposed to do ? If I did their job, I may neither be able to make a living, nor deposit taxes to pay their salaries. The government will sit back happy while citizens like me , a part of the so called community partnership come in on Sundays and cover drains, plant trees, fill up road craters while they find more to criticize and even less to do .<br />The Government has to do their job, and nothing less. As a citizen, I demand a minimum level of infrastructure , and safety , and nothing less. I am tired of the word ‘the authorities’. ‘The evils of government are directly proportional to the tolerance of the people’ said Frank Kent. So its time we should get really intolerant. For the authorities, doing a job cannot be that hard. If they are paid a salary, and get a pension, why are they always finding excuses?<br />And what about us? Its about time we should take some control of our own lives, and demand what Abhisheks mother lost out on . A simple measure of basic provisions. Of safety, security and dignity. And public servants and the authorities better take care of ours as well. That’s what they are paid to. Twice over. Paid over the table, and sometimes under it.<br />Little Abhishek paid twice over too.<br />It’s a shame.<br />Shame.<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-9175729083614788262009-01-02T15:30:00.005+05:302009-01-02T16:11:27.476+05:30God Rest your soul , young Varun<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgczB2wVjTBazIlblMnWD32vccWExP9gYvsBWII3xv3CxexQe45znmoe1G8LQiwN6uNPGoiJBTDGejyqomXIuQONIDO1umMFCQi7vMsY87nWQv5VJfmjtv5xai9tb9qb8LKpxVw/s1600-h/Varun+Nobbay+n+Esha.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286643729381889346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgczB2wVjTBazIlblMnWD32vccWExP9gYvsBWII3xv3CxexQe45znmoe1G8LQiwN6uNPGoiJBTDGejyqomXIuQONIDO1umMFCQi7vMsY87nWQv5VJfmjtv5xai9tb9qb8LKpxVw/s320/Varun+Nobbay+n+Esha.jpg" border="0" /></a> Varun was a few days old when we first saw him. Ela and Bryan’s first born lay in his baby bassinet, at his grandparents house at Rest House Crescent, all crumpled, bright and fair, legs kicking, looking at us with faint interest in his beautiful brown eyes . A lovely baby, even given my bias being his mother Ela’s childhood classmate, friend and therefore by definition, his fond aunt. He was the second baby born in our close knit group, and I recall us bachelor girls crowding around a flushed, tired but proud Ela-Mom in some excitement and wonder. I think we just stopped short of prodding him to check if he was for real. They were great parents Ela, Bryan, and with a phenomenal infrastructure and extended family and grandparents. No wonder Varun flourished and bloomed as he did.<br /><br />And then he grew. The sisters Veena and then Esha came along, each cuter than the other , beautifully mannered , with that happy heart , confidence and great charm we took for granted in the family . Varun was a great big brother , and his sisters quite obviously adored him. We watched as a tiny lil fellow stood out in sports, elocution and was so popular with his friends and classmates . We just didn’t know how much. I remember meeting him at age 13 at Kadambam on Manipal center for a dosa breakfast where he had come in after a cricket match at school , all sweaty and happy , and he walked right up to us , smiled with that delightful gap toothed smile we remembered so well, and said hello . A teenager typically would cross the road to avoid his parents’ friends ( I completely understood - they are so un-cool ! ) , but there he was ,as well mannered, fun and affectionate as always.<br /><br />Years pass, we see him on and off. We read about his cricket and sports in the papers, and raise our eyebrows. He’s doing well, our Varun, we say to ourself. The next time we met that I particularly recall was when he had a small cycle accident with his sister and was at Lakeview Hospital with broken leg and abrasions . Eyebrows raised , and wryly smiling in teenage embarrassment , but tolerating with some good humor the ‘ almighty fuss’ that people were making , including his normally matter of fact parents. They are a lovely family, just perfect, and you see their love and easy togetherness in good times over Christmas and birthdays , but it shines through particularly when there is adversity .<br /><br />The last time I saw him was last Christmas, when I was amazed how much young Varun had grown. There he was at home passing around the cake and eats , and generally being a terrific host in addition with his phenomenal height , great looks and easy manner , this was one handsome boy ( despite the fashionable and horrendous goatee that all teens seem to sport these days ! ) . And a right grown young man. Centered, rooted, matter of fact, and yet such a cool dude. We could talk as grown ups, and I was amazed that the transition had happened , and when my husband Raj and I drove home, marveled at this whole new person we had met , and secretly congratulated Ela and Bryan in our mind for raising such a fine young man. And I knew she would be even more proud of him. He was in Law School at Pune, and Ela -Mom was just starting to worry whether he would be okay away from home. He was.<br /><br />Until now.<br />It is so sad to speak about this gorgeous young boy, the collective son of our entire group, in the past tense. Its intolerable cruelty to think a single minute in a <a href="http://www.3dsyndication.com/ShowArticle.asp?id=DNPUN10425&i=1">car accident </a>changed so many lives. Varun deserved to be spoken in the Present Continuous, in the very least. In fact, he deserved a Future, at the very least. I cannot bear to think that he stands in our minds, frozen in time , 19 going on 20 , and that we will never attend his graduation party , check how his first interview went , his first job, demand a treat from his first salary , congratulate him and the family on his marriage and family , not see him watch his sisters walk down the aisle one day , or be an uncle to their children or organize a slap up party to celebrate his parents golden anniversary . Or see him live to experience and conquer the world as he so obviously meant to do. That’s heartbreaking, it just is.<br /><br />He would have been twenty years old on Jan 16th this new year , this little crumpled baby I saw nearly two decades ago, in my friends arms . I have no words to share how tragic this loss to the world is. However there is another side that can comfort us . Kahlil Gibran said ‘When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ‘ And its the truth , its our delight that we all weep for now, because its past .<br /><br />Ela’s worst ticking off to me was entreating me not to ‘fuss’ ( the most scathing word in the vocabulary, I think ). Her children grew up happy and confident with her no fuss, lots of love approach as well as Bryan’s sneaky pampering. ‘‘Priya , no fuss now . No drama queen vibes, if you please".<br />You will have to excuse me this time , Ela , Bryan. You have your son to mourn and grieve, but we too have a young boy who we treasured , loved and will miss. We feel your pain, and we will fuss this time, with your permission. He deserved fuss, love and so much more.<br /><br />He deserved life.<br />And the world at his feet.<br />Not a mound of earth.<br /><br />God rest your soul, young Varun .<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-43638358412846129882009-01-02T15:22:00.003+05:302009-01-02T16:22:05.178+05:30Happy 2009 and some meanderings2009 has been a year of much moment. Or perhaps at year end , we feel that because there is a logical beginning and end to much joy, sorrow, graying and achievement. We know some of the highs and lows of the year past. We stood at ineffectual candlelit vigils, or just ached at being emptily, but proudly Indian after the pain of 26/11. We discovered resources and togetherness in a nation. In recent recessionary times, we saw how flat the world was when companies and pillars collapsed, jobs were lost, and prodigal sons returned with empty hands from their promised land. But we still went to the moon, stood proud with nuclear powers, we still remembered it was good to be Indian, and be a citizen of the world.<br /><br />Perhaps we need to desperately put a retrospective diary to a time span thats whizzed by. And being pretentious and measuring is one of the ways we do that. We need to look at endings before we start a real beginning, dont we? "Everything has been said before, but since nobody listens we have to keep going back and beginning all over again." Andre Gide.<br /><br />Here is Day One: January 1st 2008 brimming with optimistic resolutions and spring in our step, and as moments start avalanching one to another, we flip pages right up to Day 365 . Here is December 31st 2008 now, while we wearily sit down on the nearest spot, catch our breath , to count both our love, our scabs and our laurels. We want all the stuff we felt, saw, experienced, rejected, to be neatly boxed in, examined one last time, retracing both the joy and un-joy, before its sealed away in a mental attic. It is our natural book keepers mind, looking at the accounts and ledgers and anxiously trying to balance the figures. It doesnt always add up. Its not always neat. And yet we tie the last bow, and put away the books with some regret. Its now some one elses problem. Perhaps the Great Auditor on High.<br />Nothing wrong with that.<br /><br />"He who chooses the beginning of a road chooses the place it leads to. It is the means that determine the end." Harry Emerson Fosdick . I hope we always remember to choose the fairest, kindest means to our goals.<br /><br />As we chew the end of the pencil, and inhale the crisp new smell of a fresh notebook, we can gaze at the promising emptiness of the sheets with anticipation of things better, happier, more intense than what we may have known. I wish for good things, and if there must be anything else, I pray the learning from it gives you anchor and lights up your path. I pray for enjoyment of the present, the stuff that future memories will be made of , and treasured . Og Mandino spoke eloquently of the mix of joy and sorrow, of opportunities and learning when he said "I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars."<br />So , in the new year , I wish you and your loved ones a year of wonderful beginnings , of great joy , of many deep breaths , of many celebratory moments and successes , and of shining light, yet some stars to find.<br /><br />All the best to you and yours in 2009 ..<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-62886716522005577732008-12-03T21:05:00.005+05:302008-12-03T21:34:03.812+05:30ComingTogetherAm watching a TV channel showing the spontaneous coming together of thousands of Indians at Gateway of India. Quiet, t<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">housands</span> of candles, no single <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">organiser</span>. Just a coming together of very sad, grieving, angry people. Sharp minds who took a stance on what they wanted from the new India. When they said <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Jai</span> Hind, the voices had a different resonance . In my heart too. For the first few times, I feel ownership of our Indian tag.<br /><br />What do our politicians feel when they see this outpouring of grief, this rejection , disgust , hatred and condemation of their presence . I hope they remember we are Indians - expressing what we feel . And for us, they are Enemy No 1, the one they are trying to get us to hate is jsut slipped to Enemy No 2.<br /><br />As my husband said just now, I once again feel proud for a second, to be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Indian</span>. After the Ultimate Cleanser Raj Thackeray ruthlessly divided us, an external tragedy has now united us. Maybe I am swayed easily , but since its on the good side of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">continuum</span> , I want to .<br /><br />I am glad I am .<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-70965119230846787352008-12-01T20:37:00.007+05:302008-12-01T21:38:12.433+05:30Bring out the Muzzles - their bark is worse than their byte.Our Boys with the Z Security really stooped to conquer.<br /><br />We all know the politicians' shoe sizes now.<br />Their foot is so often in the mouth , that we wonder whether we should shift the mike appropriately. Foot in Mouth Disease is alive and well.<br /><br />Apart from the Patils and the Deshmukh pearls , here are some fresh jewels:<br /><br />Shri Naqvi , VP at the BJP is appalled that people, who should be going down on their knees to praise the politicians in this glorious times, are saying otherwise. Outraged at the way we are following western tenets, he rants, "They should not say ... "politicians murdabad". Who is instigating these women groups to hold such protests? Why do some lipstick-cladded women, wearing jeans are protesting against the politicians on the streets of Mumbai'. "There is a clear attempt to divide the country and break the trust of people in India's democratic fabrics. That's why such protests against politicians are taking place", he further added (wearing shirt, trousers and a jacket) . Being sadly guilty of a candlelit vigil myself, I am absolved , because I wore neither lipstick nor powder. Oops - does deodorant spray count ? Shri Naqvi, please advise appropriate future dress code and locational preference. We must know. We must .<br /><br />And Shri Kerala CM Achutanandan , greasy smile intact , but stung by my new hero Mr Unnikrishnan 's feisty response , says " If it were not for Sandeep, not even a dog would have visited that house ' .<br />Tch tch , Mr CM.<br />I love dogs , so let me rephrase that insult for the future . "Not even a politician would have visited that house ' . Mind it.<br /><br />And the conversations are endless. Everytime they open their mouth , we help them buckle their shoes. Your bark is worse than your sound byte, Neta-ji . Muzzle up. It's safer . For you and for me. More for you , I think .<br /><br />Rest in Terror, Mr Politician . Your time has come.<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-14796621731952326802008-12-01T08:33:00.003+05:302008-12-01T08:45:30.476+05:30Stay OutMajor Unnikrishnan's father had reason to throw out the politicians. They came , like vultures, to pick over the carrion. A little late , but there was always a sound byte possibility.That slap on the their face found many echoes. A dignified man in his grief till then , the father finally crumbled - in righteous rage. <br /><em>Shame on you . </em><br /><em>I am not fodder for you. Or media mileage. My loss will not be trivialised. </em><br /><br />That's what we all say .<br />We are not grist to your mill. Don't trivialise what happened.<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-40416781502701644052008-11-30T14:45:00.005+05:302008-11-30T16:14:19.349+05:30Clueless in the Capital ..Heads have started to roll now.<br />Shivaraj Patil steps down, dapper as ever . He is relieved , in more ways than one.<br />Who's next ?<br /><br />The Capital does a quick count in their party of who is expendable, and who will ' understand ' and be a good soldier , and starts damage control from the PR perspective. (Elections around the corner , do not forget . ) Pakistan ministers starts playing a rapid volte face to save-face as they realise implications of what has happened . I love their strong , passionate 'politician' voice. Mr Pratap Rudy says it is too little too late ( yes, I see that he reads the newspapers ) and that the entire cabinet should resign . Hmm. Naturally I can believe that is a completely unbiased comment , not issued in the politicians self serving cant . Right ?<br /><br />I have a suggestion. We stop paying our taxes , until the government delivers. We are entitled to liberty , free expression under the Democracy. We are also entitled to live free and secure , have food , water , a roof over our head , and medical care . Guess what the government is NOT doing?<br /><br />So here is the thing . When I go to a hotel , Taj or the Darshini around the corner for a cup of coffee, I pay them, and guess what , they give it to me. Sometimes with fancy napkins , a warm smile , and a great CRM system , or a brusque ' Strong kaapi bekaa? .<br />But I get that coffee.<br /><br />However, we are <strong>not</strong> getting it .<br />We are not getting roads , systems, security, good equipment, ability to fix a creaking machinery. But what we are getting is the warm politician handshake , and a thanks for our custom. And if we are waiting for the coffee , with our tenner in our hands , and it is just not there , why are we still leaving our money on the table?<br /><br />Mahatma Gandhi brought in Civil Disobedience .<br />Lets admit we are a trifle more materialistic as a civil society today , and smart enough to know the one place that will hurt the government .<br /><br />The first movement we need today is Economic Disobedience.<br />We want KRAs to be actioned , and deliverables evaluated regularly. We want a monthly assessment ,and we want results and explanations. You work for us , not the other way around .<br />As individuals and corporates , we pay Advance Tax, Income Tax, Service Tax, VAT , Sales Tax, Fringe Benefit Tax. Far too many taxes . And I have no idea where it goes.<br /><br />When did you last see it work for you ?<br />So:<br />Does this sound fair ?<br />Does this sound like a plan?<br />Lets start. Dig in our heels.<br />Lets tell them, and lets start.<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-40957804425972688662008-11-29T23:14:00.002+05:302008-11-30T22:29:47.886+05:30War on Terror? I just wear my black arm band..‘It is not burning there’, says a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">protester</span> to the journalist , pointing to his head .<br />‘It is burning here.’<br />Pointing to his heart.<br /><br />Maybe that is the problem. We are burning in our hearts, while what we should be doing is coldly thinking with our minds, what we collectively should do next. I am sure our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">netas</span> are polishing their next impassioned speech, working on a well-worded rebuttal on why they were inside, hiding. Lets use the time to plan what we need to do as citizens. We have a larger enemy. The enemy within. Not just terrorists or extremists . But the larger system that has sold us down the river. And laughed all the way to the bank. But not now.<br />No Sir, you will not be laughing now. Not now. Not ever.<br /><br />And we sit in front of our TV systems, as the war ends. We are breathing lighter now. But the fact that its over means less than it should. Its not over , and it will take some time , and some results, before it will be. We watch the story of gritty survivors, unusual heroes, and some who have just crumbled in their grief. And I feel for you. But everywhere, and within me , I see anger . And yet I sit in from of my TV set, like all of do almost compulsively , and mourn.<br /><br />We need to hold people to account. But how ? Get the powers that be to leave ? Should we withdraw from our citizenship , should we secede from our democracy ? You are right , we cannot . So we are still being held at ransom. Our politicians tell us about the number of terrorist attacks that have been foiled , that we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t know about . ( I hear the subtext . ‘ You ingrates’ is what he is really saying ) Oh dear, say I , were we supposed to curtsy and thank you for just doing your job? I wish you had told me that before . I should have been more polite , known the rules, and sent you thank you letters. We are formulating answers , says one, with a straight (honest-trust-me- I-am-like-your-brother) face . What do the people want , anyway ? You are right , I have no clue what we want . But I think it’s their blood.<br /><br />Politician A , a well known, and smooth gasbag at Delhi speaks with ponderous finality on what needs to be done. The barbs from other panelists are beginning to unsettle him, though. Feeling the Hot seat , Mr A ? Strident Ms J comes in on the TV screen squealing like a cut pig, furious with the media for giving the public a platform for expressing their hatred for politicians. She is right , maybe. Ms J , how does it feel to be part of a an endangered species? Do you feel you now need reservations for your kind ? Do you hate the feeling of insecurity ? Of being backed into a corner , back to the wall ? Do you ? Well then, welcome to our world . Or do you want to up your Z class security to 20 additional , hard working, bleary-eyed 24/7 Black Cats ? Think about it . Your neighbors will be SO envious.<br /><br />Perhaps I am behaving like a reluctant rabble <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">rouser</span> . I am not apologizing just yet. I am normally collaborative, diplomatic, trying to see the common ground . But I talked to my colleagues and friends today with passion and frustration and rage. With a request to not wipe the slate clean, and move on. Robots move on. We are people need to do something . And I tried . I set up a small group to do a peaceful sit-in at the Gandhi Statue at MG Road. We got police permission, which was surprisingly easy. Time slot of 4 pm to 5.30 , no preparation, no need for press, armed with black arm bands, placards and lit candles -and us. (Close to 5 , we had the addition of a political party protest armed with flags, posters and an agenda, so we did not overstay our welcome, and we left ). It was a drop in the ocean, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">didn</span>’t change anything , depending on how you look at it . It did not take away the pain , and the anger . But as we lit the last candle for those who senselessly lost their lives, and left it on the stone wall at the Gandhi statue, and as the flames sputtered and stayed , I went away a percentage point lighter .<br /><br />Mr <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Karkare</span>’s wife restored our dignity and belief by declining an ex <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">gratia</span> compensation of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">crore</span> for her husband’s brutal death . His teenage son had a painful yank into adulthood today , as reluctant and lost , he conducted his fathers last rites. I think we did too.<br /><br />Mr <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Karkare</span> , Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Sandeep</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Unnikrishnan</span> , that doorman at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Taj</span>, and all the others who turned up for work that fateful day , just like the rest of us did , and died for no reason , we salute you . God bless your soul and your families.<br />I wear my black arm band for you , and I grieve.<br />Rest in peace .<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-30336139417906759932008-11-29T13:22:00.000+05:302008-11-29T13:24:05.020+05:30Enough is EnoughEnough is ENOUGH<br />It seems to be a night without end. More so because its being played out in 4 camera angles on every TV channel.<br />Its Die Hard 4, if it were not so tragic.<br />From Day 1, all I have been filled with is a seething sense of rage. I sit like many of us with my fists clenched , and no where to go. I can imagine the politicians pouting and preening before the mirror , practicing the perfect sound byte for the cameras. This is not the usual Priya, sanguine and optimistic. Like many of us though, I am filled with helplessness watching tragedy unfold, but also a growing sense that we need to do something about it this time. But what , but what ? But we must .<br />Lets put our heads together . Not just vote . We need to do more. I refuse to be Collateral Damage .Or let my fellow Indian or overseas guest be Collateral Damage either .<br />There are people dead , there are people who were minding their business who suffered and died agonizingly. Our brave forces went in and did the clean up for the mess that the system created . They did it with their duty . And what is your duty , Mr Neta. To us ? To your caste ? To your bulging wallet ? But people DIED. I am sure it didn’t stop our politicians chewing on high energy dry fruit , drinking a glass of milk , and ensuring their white clothes were starched and ironed to perfection . So yes- maybe we as the public need our whipping boys, but hey you Neta in the crisp cotton, walk right up . You'll do .<br />Your sacrificial lambs were the police , the firemen, the RAF , the NSG , the commuters at CST who went in and took what you should have . Responsibility for being an Indian citizen. It does not always come with a bullet in your back, though .. For them , it did.<br /><br />Who takes responsibility for this ? Lets find you excuses, Mr Neta . Poor ones. For example, do you want Taj and Oberoi Trident, to admit to a security failure? They pay the taxes , dammit , they deserve to be safe, not to ensure security. But they did what the Netas didn’t. Put their neck out , saved people, ensured sanity , and stood their ground. A Taj GM did his job, handling his team , frightened customers, in a burning building at siege. He did his duty with all his heart when his own heart was breaking . While his wife and 2 kids burnt to death in the most agonizing way possible.<br />And where were you ?<br />A frightened woman who gave birth at the Camas and Ableless Hospital between explosions , talks about her son coming into a loud world filled with blasts and mayhem, taking his first breath in his new world with not a sound or cry. When he grows up , she whispers , I will tell him he is made of steel.<br />I close my eyes - that statement just tears me up .<br />And where were the political might , the systems , the awareness that could have avoided this horrendous, catastrophic situation ? Staying indoors. Come right out , now that it is nearly over , you cowards and useless flotsam. We have no use for you anymore.<br />I have anger at against the terrorists who tore us apart for the last three days. Helpless knotted rage. But I have even more anger and rage against the politicians, the system and the in-fighting , posturing of this waste of DNA , the politicians, who not only weakened our system , brought us to our knees , but colluded to ensure we stayed there.<br />Wear the black arm band today .<br />We have a lot more than the helpless , the dead , the injured and bereft to mourn<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-62732394032153580432008-10-02T16:42:00.001+05:302008-10-02T16:44:26.731+05:30My Saffronart - Manasjit Datta<a href="http://www.saffronart.com/fixed/ItemDetails.aspx?iid=25181&a=Manasjit"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://www.saffronart.com/fixed/ItemDetails.aspx?iid=25181&a=Manasjit" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://www.saffronart.com/fixed/MyGallery.aspx">My Saffronart - My Gallery - SaffronArt</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-7990074875515320192008-05-27T17:07:00.001+05:302008-05-27T17:13:20.783+05:30BALL PEN BANDITS - A First person account from one of the Dreaded GangNever find a pen when you want one? Me too.<br />Where do they go to ? I look at working spaces as areas packed with dozens of invisible , mythical elves maliciously and magnetically gathering up ball pens by the armfuls, leaving defenseless souls like me with just an iPAq and stylus.<br />I need you to answer this question, hand on heart. It’s in the public domain, so I cannot guarantee siren-screaming carloads of policemen will not be hotly following your trail. Perhaps it’s categorized as misdemeanor and not a grand felony. Who knows, maybe they will just send in the rookies.<br />Right, let’s get down to it. Have you ever purloined a pen? By happenstance, glue or intent ? Confess. Well, ( deep breath here ) , I have. In fact , among the two pens nestling right now in resplendent plastic freedom in my capacious handbag, and playing a constant hard to get, let me admit, with my head hanging in abject guilt, neither is mine. There - I said it . I am one of the accursed ones -a Ball Pen Bandit. It’s the blight of the modern generation, the fast city life that we lead, the resultant lack of moral fiber and upstanding ethics. The expensive ones I have had last a day ,but the Rs. 5 plastic pens have done time of nearly a week , and in one instance ( it was a fat little red Kingfisher Airlines pen ) , it was almost an entire fortnight that we were together .<br />No , no, don’t worry , I watch all the detective serials on TV, and I have kept two of my lawyer friends on stand by , since I am aware , everything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. My young lawyer friend just called to check whether there was any incriminating evidence. I said, yes there is, and it’s in the bag. I think he thinks it’s a gun, and I have finally lost my marbles and put a bullet through the pesky Car loan Telemarketer or my much hated Kitchen Designer . It’s tough, he knows, and there is provocation enough from these people, but still, a person in my position ought to be more careful , he says. . Get rid of it, he mutters inaudibly. But I’m still using it, I counter, so why should I ? Is it loaded, he asks? Why else would I carry it around in my purse, I shrug. That’s the whole point isn’t it – it should work in case I decide to use it. He says he is coming right over, and not to move or say anything till he reaches there. He asks me quickly if he and I are okay , and if I feel he has ever upset or irritated me in any way in the past . I am little flummoxed , and when I vociferously deny that ( he is such a great guy ) , he seems to be oddly relieved .<br />Let’s start at the very beginning. As a child, I moved from short sharp, pencils to leaky fountain pens and then regular ball pens. And then like Art Buchwald, after pens vanished within a blink-second of being with me, I started believing in the Ballpoint Fairy . After I lost my fathers two Parker ink pens, and one Mont Blanc in quick succession , I found that he would make a sign of the Cross , and start sprinkling Ganga-jal when I approached his study table to write something . A little over the top, I felt . I remember when the shiny Black and Gold Parker pen that he had kept safely since his graduation in early 1820 . It was ‘lost’ at my 10th Standard Board exams (no doubt to another smooth practiced Ball Pen Bandit), after which he has lost all faith in me . Not a single pen will you get from me ever again , he thundered, profoundly affecting my impressionable 14 year old mind, and possibly wrecking my delicate mental equilibrium forever . My surviving 1840 vintage Parker Pen will now be willed to my elder nephew, some one who is a darned sight more careful then you , and knows how to value important, sentimental things. Or possibly, even to the Battersea Dogs Home, he adds . I quaked. (Or is it I Quook?)<br />I wonder whether there is a movie script here. Richly defined characters, lots of early trauma , random pens, and glimpse of dark soul. Maybe they can get Vidya Balan or Chitrangada Singh to play me in the 70 MM version. And Amitabh Bachhan to play the Pen Proud Father (PPF). Well really , The Bachhan and the PPF do share a rich baritone, and both do thunder at you so beautifully . A potentially delightful display of righteous wrath.<br />Somehow all my pens get lost. It’s not surprising that the most expensive pen I bought was Rs 25 because it wrote in both blue and red. My shrink tells me that these initial incidents had a profound effect on me , and having suffered this horrible loss, I never fully recovered , and although I have fought the urge desperately, I have succumbed to the final ignominy of this abuse ,and became willy-nilly one of them – an inadvertent but definitive Ball Pen Bandit. We had a wonderful intervention when a group of nearly a hundred people helped me confront this horrible truth. The Ball Pen Bandits Anonymous (BBA ) is a little known Group. We value our privacy, and keep a low key profile. Bangalore Chapter Meetings are held in the football stadium behind the William Penn Store in Koramangala. Sometimes the current Group Leader exhibits his show of strength to his flock by a simple trial by fire. He strolls through the 10000 square foot Stationery store, lined with every writing instrument available, and even whistles a tune. We do notice that this brave, brave man trembles uncontrollably after he returns, and gulps like a fish, but the thunderous round of applause after his triumphant return is a big motivator for him and all of us. Good people, these.<br />For the first week of therapy, I had a BBA Buddy who went ahead to every place I went , and recommended that they lock up their plastic pens. We have therapy sessions once a week, but she is clever this shrink – not a single pen on the desk when I walk in . Not one. The attendance register at my office now has the ball pen tied and knotted with string to the spine of the book. When I sign the roster, I have tried a discreet tug , now and then, but darn, my colleague at the front office , she’s good too, I must admit . Very good.<br /><br />Well, I must go. The young lawyer is here now and has just asked me to sign a document ad attest a copy of the shrink’s certificate . He pushes paper and pen toward me. It’s a Kingfisher Airline Ball pen, one of my favorites. And such a steal. I vaguely put it away in my bag after we sign off. He sighs, but knows it goes with the job, and gets added to the bill.<br /><br />(First published in Daily Mirror , Bangalore )<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-82261232362810906502008-05-19T23:20:00.004+05:302008-05-19T23:50:40.176+05:30Mobile Addiction – New Age Ball and Chain<div>I rarely read about a newly found disease without being convinced I have an early version of it . Nomophobia refers to the fear of being without your mobile . Its a goner ,I thought - I have it for sure . The UK Post office has coined this one ( NO MObile PHOBIA ), so you can send the congratulatory mails off to them , while the rest of us poor saps wonder whether (a) we do have it , (b) just how bad it is and (c) do we have to go to sanatorium in Switzerland for a cure .<br />I read reports on cell phone radiation and its harmful effects on the brain. Apparently prolonged mobile usage worse than smoking or exposure to asbestos. In my case , and considering my extent of mobile usage , its probably like smoking asbestos ! In fact I think the infinitely more dangerous situation is stepping out of home ,and discovering the dark reality and definitely greater evil that you have forgotten your mobile. Brain damage ? Pshaw - a mere nothing. Maybe the stem cell research guys can help us grow a brain back from the medulla oblongata onwards in the next few months . On the other hand , no mobile ? That’s a possible paralytic stroke , or asthmatic attack I would wager , no less. Tch, difficult choice , this one.<br />There is a space between my ears where my brain was earlier resident , but that’s been charred to smoke by now. The sizzle I thought I had is now really the sound of pale gray matter being deep fried on a mass of radioactive waves. The radiation from my blue tooth ear piece , coupled with my advancing years has clearly put paid to my earlier hopes of a life term membership at Mensa. Ironic really , when you think of the mobile supposedly helping you do your work better , optimize performance etc, How then how do you explain standing around with an idiotic simper on your face because you are talking to someone important , and when they ask who is calling , and I have forgotten my own name . Today I referred to a visitors colleague as Tinku , when his name was actually Tarun. I talk about a Shanta when I mean Sheila .My colleagues well used to these strange twists of names , immediately join up the dots , and nod . In fact, kind souls that they are , they say they actually now prefer Tinku, an indication of their solidarity and nay, supportive acceptance of that airy-gap-between-the ears. I am grateful for their unselfish support in these trying times . There are some times when asked a tough question like How are you , or How is business, I am forced to pick up my mobile , google the phrase , and possibly double check my answer by sending a text to a friend, and then reply monosyllabically with great triumph – ‘Fine’. Very often I am even right . The Marvels of Technology, I tell you .<br />A casual reference to getting some rest for the wicked , and attempts to prise away the mobile from my claw like fingers are met with strong defense . Nothing can part us . As smoke continues to discreetly billow out from behind my head , and an increasingly vacuous look clouds my countenance, the mobile remains crooked against my arm, for all the world like a favorite teddy bear . The opposable thumbs so valued by primates, are evolving into claw like structures more suitable to super fast texting.<br />The Significant Other once made serious attempts to get me to go cold turkey , and carefully ‘lost’ the mobile one weekend . However even his stern heart was wrung by my pathetic but determined attempts to connect up the TV remote , the Worldspace receiver antenna and a piece of plastic, and try and then desperately attempt to make a call with this contraption from the balcony. Apparently there is a discreet sanatorium In La La Land where these desperate addictions can be attended to , but it requires time , and patience . However relapses are common and the sage specialists rarely give guarantees. Strangely, their visionary recommendations of Tree – Houses for all, Jungle Drums or ESP as an alternative method of easy and instant communication have not been met with much acceptance .<br />So it’s a choice between brains and convenience, and (Maggi 2 minute noodles fans will bear me out ) convenience always wins. However, the human spirit never gives up . I have overheard discussions on range and costs of jungle drums , and just yesterday , saw the Significant Other downloading ‘Communicating in The Amazon Jungle in Ten Easy Lessons ‘( trainer drums come in free ) .<br />Until then, the mobile gets heavier , and is starting to grow roots at my wrist . </div><div></div><div>(First published in Bangalored Mirror, My Views )<br /></div><a href="http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.greatdreams.com/oz/ozTrpCross.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.greatdreams.com/oz/wizard.htm&h=348&w=464&sz=45&hl=en&start=1&sig2=4KloGRFPwPR1G62COk_U6w&tbnid=Iv_TUj-l3PET-M:&tbnh=96&tbnw=128&ei=EL0xSKvROofw6QOLrvC7Dw&prev=/images%3Fq%3DGoogle%2BWizard%2B%26hl%3Den%26rls%3DGGIH,GGIH:2006-50,GGIH:en"></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-2198819826153217202008-05-19T22:48:00.005+05:302008-05-19T23:05:44.964+05:30Tales of Kings and KindnessOnce upon a Time, a Kind and Gentle King traveling through the forests was accosted by a group of skinny mendicants who wanted to know where the river was, as they were very thirsty . As he walked them to the river, they attacked him . The dacoits, for that’s what they really were, beat him up, and stripped him of all his wealth- his coins, gold and jewelry. The gentle royal let them take all they wanted and when they were about to leave with their booty , bruised and battered, he asked them for one favor. Delighted with their booty , they readily agreed . ‘Do not ever share this tale with anyone outside’ .’Oho’, they sniggered , ‘so you don’t want it to be known that the great king himself was robbed in his own land , do you ?’ ‘No’ , he replied , ‘its because I don’t want them to feel that kindness could be repaid with betrayal and loss. They will never take pity on another fellow human again. And where will that leave all of us ?’<br />Cut to the Modern Ages. Read yesterday’s news paper. A man who has had an accident in front of a good Samaritan , who then takes the apparent accident victim to the nearest hospital finds himself surrounded by six thugs who take away everything he has got . Its reported – and parents tch-tch and say he should have been careful , not to get bamboozled by these goonda types. A man at Mekhri Circle flyover helps out a poor chap trying to change a wheel and gets jumped by the ‘ poor guy’s friends , loses his cards, mobile and cash , and gets his arm broken when he resists.<br />We all sat in school and on our parents laps and heard how we must love my neighbor, that we must be kind to our fellow men. That’s all very well , but there is an urgent undertone now - first assume the other guy , bandaged or bloody , is not first armed and dangerous. Else wait for the next car to come cruising and let them be ( snigger snigger ) the good Samaritan. I mean you can be kind , but you don’t have to be darn stoopid !<br />It seems sometimes, the law itself is against kindness . Moral and legal obligations seem to be quite different from place to place , and person to person. The first question is of course whether we need the law of the land to define what kindness is. Apparently it does matter. The French Criminal code makes it a crime not to help someone in need of assistance when help can be provided at no risk to oneself. Common Law under which the English and American systems are part , says the law cannot compel active benevolence . When the law compels a person to act in a certain way, it limits that person's liberty, and it does so more severely than if it simply tells a person not to do something.<br />In India curiously, a person who kills another in an accident is held for manslaughter whereas if the victim is only injured , its attempt to murder . So for the accused, causing death impacts him less than injury – strange. Till 7 years ago I think people were scared to even take an accident victim to the hospital as they could get needlessly involved in a long drawn police case . The law later passed absolved good Samaritans of any problems, and things became relatively easier .<br />Kindness seems odd to mandate. We all know instinctively what must be done in case there is an emergency or assistance required , but somehow get better at responding to that kindness in a group. All alone, and no one to count who’s standing, there is an increasing reluctance to lend a hand -Both for our own safety and the inability to showcase one’s kindness to an audience. My kindness is limited to time spans that I am free , and also to the typical convent school education that we have had , stepping aside for an older person in the elevator, helping someone to pick up scattered belongings . But this isn’t selfless. I also feel irritation when someone I have assisted at a department store to pick up all their bags , does not even acknowledge the gesture with a simple thanks.<br />I am no angel, nor am I the King. We need the barest of excuses to give up kindness. . I deeply feel what he says when he wants the innate desire to help to be protected at all costs. One day it could be you and me out there , and that is an awful argument to use , and a selfish point of view, but nonetheless true. And what do we want to have done unto us? Do we want our neighbour to cruise by, assuming I am a potential murderer and thief and that by helping , s/he is only causing himself inconvenience and pain ? I do what I can, but I do try my best . I hope I do not become so hard as to walk away when it matters.<br />Despite the headlines, I still hope that you and I can continue to depend on the kindness of strangers.<br />(First Published in Bangalore Miirror - My Views )<div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-73151464485387335042008-03-16T21:41:00.002+05:302008-03-16T21:49:35.459+05:30Just Another Day<div align="justify"><br />Too much made about these Days, I hear – Father's Day , Valentines Day , Women's Day . Possibly .</div><div align="justify"><br />I read with interest articles on why on earth we need a special day for women . Much of it true. Another drop in the ocean, another way to be able to make a noise , albeit for a short while.<br /><br />But here’s what I think . I too don’t believe that one day doesn’t suffice to celebrate or address women of this world. Maybe 365 would do . For the urban , privileged, the off the cuff reaction is ‘ C’mon. Why all the fuss, hey why don’t we have a Men’s Day too ‘. (Well for one, men don’t need the leg up.) It seems a little indulgent , maybe a tad self conscious – to go to seminars and walks and events to celebrate women, ourselves. Or then again, maybe not .</div><div align="justify"><br />Women Leadership and Empowerment , albeit from a corporate perspective, is an important issue with me. At several of these events , there are women who are listening , who haven’t realized that other women have similar experiences , problems, concerns, and they grow stronger with that knowledge They talk to the experts, listen to role models, they pick up advice , and many go back , validated , relieved , empowered, a trifle more centred , and happier . They know how much better off they are compared to many of their rural, poorer sisters who have not the luxury of discussion or debate, just the fight for existence. .<br /><br />At one event , one young woman spoke impassionedly about the guilt she feels. Guilt when she walks in through the door after work , and looks at her husband , child and mother in law. Time away from them is time she cannot justify , but she is economically independent . 50 other women respond as one. They know how she feels , all of us do . And she has to take ownership for her own life and space in the modern world, and she has to stop letting other push her buttons. A 50 year old woman is keen to get to work , but she did a year in an NGO before she was married, and its been 25 years since then . Who will employ a 50 year old, she says and her perplexed husband is asking her why work NOW . So is she , but she thinks she wants to , but she doesn’t know why . A few hours bonding with other women present , and she is stronger , and she realized she is ‘allowed ‘ her time in the sun, and now, she now knows how. If just these two women felt stronger , better , I think it would be worth it . And if the woman’s husband just feels like he should order in dinner to treat his wife for the day as a token , maybe that isn’t such a bad thing either .</div><div align="justify"><br /><br />Of course its foolish to have just one day dedicated to Women ,and maybe we should legislate 365. Of course it doesn’t make all the ills women face go away , it doesn’t address the sickening issue of female feticide, the appalling fear in which many women live, the abuse and fear some face. Marketing promotions, special offers at supermarkets, pubs, boutiques and shops may undermine the importance of the event , and convert into a gigantic circus, but its superficial-ness does not take away that it is well meaning , it’s a spotlight , provides a platform, its gets focus on women’s issues . While we may pick up the candy floss, we also need to get the structure and foundations right . Lets suppose we are able to address 3.6 % of the issues faced by that one day and its resultant conferences , seminars and boring speeches, the centre stage that it brings women. Oughtn’t we fix all the 100% at one shot , and isn’t this all tokenism , you might say . The fact that because of the one silly day you and I look differently at our maids, our friends, and perhaps some of the less fortunate, is a tip of the iceberg . However, I think we should step back, be a tad less churlish and let that 3.6% percent happen. World Hunger Day hasn’t stopped Ethipia, but maybe its made a dent . That’s good. </div><div align="justify"><br />There are dark places in this room, and there are some corners smoldering with age old neglect and fear that is fetid . Here is candle that is lit in this near corner, flickering shadows off the ceiling . Yes, we absolutely do need to light up the whole room, harshly expose the whole space , scrub the fungus off the walls, pull down the smelly walls perhaps, Surely extinguishing that one happy candle in the room isn’t quite going to save the world . On the other hand, on the off chance that it might, perhaps we could just let it burn . </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">My views – lets get the electricians , fix up the fluorescent tube lights, lets clean up -but in the meanwhile , there’s no need to blow this candle out. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12838687.post-76410826130968488562008-03-16T21:38:00.003+05:302008-04-04T08:13:46.375+05:30Rani , the Traffic Dog<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisW9OVnmbdmqwMv7CeMtTwHSyROoB4aRFx4xytkt4b0IRw03RT8Oz5hKf95tMHpCR7FUbhzok0dnvTRZIAkuUkZYe_vKR23F8nyJ9fhmZ4INbx2PhLe8YFMqR_c_NbM4pnPAdZnQ/s1600-h/Rani.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185213920444594786" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisW9OVnmbdmqwMv7CeMtTwHSyROoB4aRFx4xytkt4b0IRw03RT8Oz5hKf95tMHpCR7FUbhzok0dnvTRZIAkuUkZYe_vKR23F8nyJ9fhmZ4INbx2PhLe8YFMqR_c_NbM4pnPAdZnQ/s320/Rani.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>There she is on the mid right of the picture -a small dot curled up under the traffic umbrella, if you can spot her .</div><div> I first saw her crossing our road soon after we moved home. It was just past 8 am . She sniffed at , but ignored the biscuits I had scattered for her , but moved on to the traffic signal . All the school traffic, crisscrossing cars , pedestrians , I was a little worried . She curled up near the traffic umbrella, right at the middle of the road . And then returned to pacing , much like a mother waiting for her carousing son to return home. Not overtly anxious, and seemingly in control , but intently listening, ears straining, to any sound or sight that signified the return of the prodigal. Her tension was palpable. Up down up down. And then 8.30 am the Traffic Policeman arrived . She greeted him with relief , but with restraint and dignity , and promptly settled down at his feet , as he started his day guiding traffic , and went to sleep . The anxiety was now history .<br /><br />That was my first introduction to Rani , the pragmatic High Grounds Canine Traffic Mascot .<br /><br />She is an indeterminate furry tan , triangular ears, black nose and swishy tail. She doesn’t look like anything special , just your average ,well maintained street dog . But she’s a dog on duty .<br /><br />I watch her nearly every day as I get to work . The routine is the same , day after day . If her informal owner is a little late signing in , she moves up , and waits discreetly outside High Grounds Police Station , and then accompanies him at a safe distance to his place of work -wherever he is stationed that day . There is no great moment or display of canine affection , even a bark or lick to signify pleasure or belonging . I watch the daily routine from my car , waiting for the signal to change to green , always a little worried that she should not come to harm. With the ease born of long experience, she moves across busy traffic , crossing effortlessly , almost casually weaving through whizzing cars, but anxiously picking up pace if she sees the uniforms moving elsewhere . But quietly and efficiently , she is never more than two feet way from one or the other pair of khaki clad legs. I think Sundays and late nights are her worst times. Neither is her Traffic Cop in chief there , nor the Second in Command. She goes off to curl up somewhere , I am sure , but have no idea where .<br /><br />But I know she back on duty at 7 am pacing the road , more focused than an attendance register . I have never again attempted to feed her after her several dignified rebuffs, and I know they take care of her . One day , after I found her missing for over a week and asked one of the policemen on duty – who though initially taken aback , immediately suggested I should adopt her ( yeah right, but has he met CJ the killer spaniel !) . I asked him her name , and he looked nonplussed – "Er um , no name as such , but I think we call her umm ..Rani’ . Good, now I have a name, I thought . Rani was back to duty the following week, this time with a bright red collar , but that too mysteriously disappeared a week later , and I must say she looked a little demoted in rank . She has got her own beat , she is sensitive to changes in traffic lanes , which traffic island is the shadiest in the afternoon heat . Rani is one cool dude .<br /><br />One Sunday afternoon, the bossman caught us for a traffic offense. We didn’t know that a traffic light had been introduced that day on an earlier free right , and the policeman chased us down to stop. I looked at him appalled , while he licked his pencil to start writing the challan. First , I was in the right , I thought ( I wasn’t , but I didn’t know that ! ) and second , this was Rani’’s boss man , and therefore , our friend by canine relationship. "But the rule is new – you know its been implemented today. Moreover, ( as if he ought to know, and it was the final argument ), I am Rani’s friend. How can you book us? ". Now its his turn to look completely taken aback . CJ my spaniel , bent on protecting me, adds to the ruckus by perching at the car window, screaming choice canine abuse at an impassive Rani , who looked at her stoically , but still moved just trifle closer to boss man . The policeman is unused to large, voluble women jumping out of cars , claiming friendship with his dog . Bosses yes, DGPs, sure , Goons sometimes, Ministers maybe, but a dog ? That’s a first . His mouth and eyes widen appreciatively, and he waves us on . I think he will have an interesting anecdote for his colleagues and wife that evening ! Rani gets up , and pads after the Bossman , who is now chasing down yet another hapless culprit .<br /><br />The picturesque High Grounds Police station has just been torn down, the traffic rules have been radically changed , there is mayhem at peak hours. I think Rani is confused , her job portfolio has changed , and sometimes I see her skittering away when a truck bears down on her , but the sight of familiar pair of khaki clad legs settles her down.<br /><br />So when you see the familiar sight of a standard issue tan dog, alertly lying at a traffic umbrella on Palace Road , ensure you follow all those constantly changing traffic signals. Rani the Traffic Dog is on duty.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">All Hail Blog</div>All Hailhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12167245489765843307noreply@blogger.com5