Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Will tomorrow be a yesterday.
Moments to live, are so few
Those were the days we hardly knew.
We laugh, we cry
We love, we hate.
Meaning of life
Ever uncertain as fate.
Feet still pursue
Hope seldom dies.
Caravan moves on
As the crow flies.
Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find –
Strength in what remains behind.
Sometimes in life you don’t find reasons,
Some moments in life aren’t forgotten,
Sometimes you loose hope …
When time rolls by you try to forget
What holds you on …
Some people in life are part of you
And when you let them go,
You never lose them.
You find them living in you.
Monday, August 28, 2006
It is as if nature conspires only for this one moment. It is as if He is so busy with making lives uncomplicated that there is no room for any considerations. He plans it to every tiny detail. To make it happen. Everything has to come together at that very moment. Some friends should be in the city for you to be out. Family should be away from the home for you to return home to do the care taking. The phone lines, the numbers will not work so you can’t spend an extra minute and let that truck pass by. The destinations where you drop your friends have to be exactly at the distances which He wants them to be. The short cut which you are told that day was planned by Him years back. You step out of the car to hug your good byes as if you know its coming. You check the tyres to make sure they will take you to ‘the destination’. The truck driver applies the brakes the instant you are not looking. This is His moment, your rendezvous with reality.
It is so easy for Him to plan this, to do this. He plans for all, even if you are a non-believer.
The guys who took him to hospital say he shuddered for a while before resting for the last time. He must be fighting Him. He was a fighter. He never let others have it easy when it was he against them. That’s why He needed a concrete mixer; a simple truck would not have served His motives. When they were taking him out of that steel trap, may be he was telling Him to go back, trying to reason out, trying to fight back. “I am a non-believer why have You come for me” “She never let me stay away for a weekend and she do believe in You” “What about the girl” “The wine, Hillu is yet to come” “Majnu ka Teela is to be kept for all these majnus” “Oh come on, not a road accident”. These questions, these pleadings, He has heard all this before, He is used to it. He hesitates, sometimes a little, sometimes a while longer for the father, the mother, the brother to say their good byes. Today He is in hurry. May be He has plans for others as well. He doesn’t even have time to answer. Plus this one is a non-believer.
There are many ifs and buts in all of our minds, all of us, who were with him that day. What if we had done this and what if we had not done that? But He was too smart for all of us. He still is. He will always be. His is the job to make it uncomplicated.
It was during our facha skit that I got to know Dhupar better. He was the best fit Prabhakar we had amid the mess of characters which we were trying to put up. The six years from then on were always full of dear Ugly.
Ugly wasn’t the type of guy who would have asked for things to be simple. He was this power house of the weirdest kind of energies. Since the day I met him for the first time he would always stand out among any numbers. Any kind of group it be. He was the barman, he was the DJ, he was the kind who didn’t even spare his boss. He would be the best person to teach you how to spend the minimum possible resources in the maximum way. Volvovirgo in his own words was a two-stroke amid all of us four-strokers.
Ever ready to help, he was always there for you. Dhupar always had his own unique ways. “Unpredictable yet dependable”. Cigarette is not good enough for this kind of driving; he said when he and I were riding Mogoo’s bike to Chandigarh from Delhi. That night he burned bidis.
He was a highway man. One of the rare engineers from our batch who really had the passion for engineering. Roads, bridges, transportation were essential part his being. He found passion, fun, career, friends, life on highways. It was on a New Year eve and it was on a highway he was trying to win his girl. Highways took him. He is still a highway man. He will always be.
Saurabh Goyal was going for his job interview. Ugly and I were sitting in Ara lawns. As Saurabh passed I shouted “Good luck”. As Ugly was about to follow I stopped him. I always thought his good luck was not so good for others. Saurabh got the job. We always laughed about this and kind of believed in his unlucky good-lucks. He took me to meet Saurabh on that last day. I said him those star-crossed final good byes.
The woods were burning. He lay peacefully. I wanted him to get up and say it’s too hot in there. I wish Tolkien would send a King to raise this dead for us. He didn’t. The boy was enthusiastically throwing the powder on the pyre, to keep the fire. He was the Aragon releasing the dead from that age old promise. “Be at peace”. Some times the water in the eyes defies you. “All the tears are not evil”. And I sang for a love of my life, our beloved Abhinav Dhupar, Dhupar, Ugly, Toon, Launda, DJ, …, and above all Rishi.
Home is behind
The world ahead
And there are
Many paths to tread
Till the edge of light
Until the stars
Are all alight
Mist and shadow
Cloud and shade
All shall fade
All shall fade…
‘Hardy Singh where is my son?’
“In a better world, uncle. In a better world, Sir. In a better world…”
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
My first day here at this place and Wasim took Manik and me around for orientation. According to the company policy you have to take a safety orientation of the place where you are supposed to work. Reason: If you get crushed/hammered/any other of million scary things that can happen around here, you can not tell that the devil never warned before hitting. Essentially it means know what the place is, what the work is, what the hazards are, who all are the people around, where you can get all the help you need and all that you actually need to know about the place. They also tell you that the beach is around the corner and also that on the next corner awaits Tsunami. Well, we can leave some corners unexplored.
“Now the most important part of the orientation” said Wasim after the round of the place. “This is our little canteen and she is Lakshmi”. Lakshmi lookes like any other girl I had seen in this part of the country. Short, slim, dark and a traditional outfit. “Lakshmi tea please”. I finished the cup of tea at my galloping pace and never even realized how important this small little ritual is going to be in the near future.
Lakshmi, tea, coffee, sugar, milk, no, yes, one, two, half makes up most of the conversation that involves Lakshmi. Yet she serves people from many nationalities and makes all the kinds of teas and coffees possible. Every one likes all her coffees/teas. And everyone understands that even though she only understands Telugu a polite thank you is always welcome and greeted with a smile.
It’s a small steel container which substitutes for a kitchen and an electric kettle is the all in one oven and teapot. She is the heartthrob of all around here. In absence or even in presence of any other girl (which by the way is very rare) it’s Lakshmi who takes all the flirting that happens around. Of course she doesn’t understand what the guys say but she knows that no one means any harm.
As the place runs seven days a week so does Lakshmi’s work. People never even notice if a big boss/an engineer/a specialist/any other person is gone for a month but everyone here is effected if Lakshmi is not around for one day. You can see many lifeless bodies moving around missing that much needed cup of tea. Even the tea that driver gets from some tea stall from the town won’t help. It’s the magic of Lakshmi’s hands that keeps running things around.
Last but not the least don’t forget to give her a tip once in a while. You will get to taste some of the best offerings from Lakshmi’s kitchen.
In search of energy sources down the earth all these souls almost run on the energy of Lakshmi drinks. Cheers to the taste that is not lost in translation.
Monday, January 09, 2006
It was a simple plain white board hanging on a simple plain wall. It still must be a simple plain white board hanging on another simple plain wall. It was there next to the dining table. Like any other white board, smooth, shining, a steel edge etc. It was our menu board.
After shifting in this staff house I had seen all those names of dishes appear, disappear and reappear on this board. After a month and half, not only was I feeling a bit tired of that yellow dal (which very notoriously kept appearing at every meal!!) even the board seemed tired of being a ‘Menu Board’.
That day I had this big argument with the supervisor over that stupid yellow dal. It wasn’t really an argument. I spoke, shouted, made a point, thinking that I had made a point tried to make another one and on and on. Supervisor just said ‘Yes’ and sometimes to break the monotony of his replies a ‘No’.
It was still sometime before others would come for dinner and I after that one sided argument decided to do something regarding that menu board.
I had a permanent marker. Got it from the room, relieved the board from the burden of the menu and scribbled incoherently on that board. End result looked something like this:
SLB >>>GRAFITI <<< BSL
Thot 4 d day:
“If you don’t want to live please die, but let others live.”
Need of(f) d day:
1. Days of(f) peace
2. Please stop making yellow dal
It was January 05. The mistake I made was I told the supervisor that the board could be cleaned using kerosene/diesel/petrol. Before an hour passed I found that little board was shining white once again. This time I asked for a marker from the supervisor and told him that from now on the board will be used as graffiti and not for writing menus. I was shouting and it had its effect. They didn’t do anything to my graffiti. Next two days went smoothly and I changed the incoherent thoughts on that board daily before dinner.
SLB >>>GRAFITI <<< BSL
Thot 4 d day:
“If you can’t score centuries get others run-out before they score more than you.”
Prince Ganguly (fully supported by Mian Haq)
Tip of the day:
Listen 2 d “sounds of silence”
Attraction of d day:
Laughter Challenge, 10 pm, StarOne
Request of d day:
Everyone is invited to add/write (of course if u can find/make space)
SLB >>>GRAFITI <<< BSL
Thot 4 d day:
If a referee shows u a yellow card, don’t throw ur arms around. He has got a red one in his pocket.
If an umpire gives u out (even if u r not), don’t make faces. Match referee will take ur match fees.
Remember it can be worse
Tip of d day:
Its gud not to make sense sometimes. Its better not to make sense all the times.
Request 4 d day:
I hope u remember yesterday’s request.
“Titanic never saw daylight again”, that older version of Kate comes to mind when I think that my Graffiti never saw another dinner again. When we returned from work the next day the board was gone. “Sir, our manager came and took it away”, supervisor informed me. Why? “It is only for writing menu”.
A cup of tea and few samosas later I looked at that empty space on the wall where that board had been. Two nails happily stood tall relieved of the burden.
Some other day, some other time I will think about the board and will decide how many more days would I have continued with my graffiti. But today we all missed those few words which I just scribbled without thinking and others rarely noticed.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
A soldier died fighting for his country. He was a Major. His body is brought to his native place. They are taking him to the cremation grounds. He was the only son of the parents. They are mourning him but they are proud. Their son has lived as their son but he has died as a son of million mothers. He was a son of the nation.
The make up done, the mikes ready and videotape rolling, this young lady who looks more like ready for a walk on the ramp is ready for her interview of the life. That Khadi Kurta fails to make her look like a Journalist.
Ms Reporter is in the frame. The mother of the “News Item” is silently following her son in his last journey. With a smile on her face the reporter blurts out the question from the list provided by the producer. “How are you feeling right now Mrs. …..”. A tear rolls down the eyes of the mother and she moves on.
How would a mother feel after loosing her son? I guess on top of the world!!!
Where is the mind of the journalist?
In Bangalore Prof. M C Puri from IIT Delhi has been killed when someone started firing outside Tata auditorium. The news has been on air for some time now. And in less than 30 minutes the “Journalists” are their in front of the Professors house. They would not have cared if he had invented new theories for operations research. But now he is a ‘News Item’. After all they have to keep their channels running 24 X 7.
The guy in a well made suit, with a polished accent is proud like he has won a gold medal for India in Olympics as he asks “Hello Pradeep. Can you hear me? Pradeep tell us how is the atmosphere in and around the house of …ummm…. ummm…. Prof Puri.”
How was the atmosphere in his house when his old man passed away? They must have danced whole night.
Where is the culture called Journalism?
It has become a war among channels. They hide cameras in people’s houses and call themselves Tehelka. They care more about Shahid and Kareena kissing then they care about Manjunath’s being killed. They print 40 pages of newspaper. The news in those 40 is less than 4 pages. They care about selling News Items than bringing news to the ‘Junta’. They run factories. They manufacture news. They don’t want to bring the truth of what is happening around. They just want to be the first to bring a News Item to you.
A pen used to be mightier than sword. They don’t fight with swords anymore and pen I guess can’t compete with bullets and bombs. The pen is lost somewhere. The might of pen is lost somewhere. The hands and minds that used the pen are lost.
Where is the Journalist?
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