The Pleasant And The Miserable

As the moon peeked through the trees on a windy night, I walked on the street that was occupied by few lazy dogs. After an unforgivingly hot day, the cool wind in the night was the testimony of the evening rain. The pleasant smell of the soil was still fresh. After a satisfying day at work, the idyllic weather felt like icing on the cake. Though the street was unusually empty, I didn’t really feel the need of seeing anyone around. The lonlier the place, the more comfortable I feel. Even as a child, I used to spend hours sitting alone, head thrown back, eyes staring at virtually nothing. Though people often find my state weird, I have never questioned my demeanor. Rather curiously, I find it quite pleasing.

As I marched the street, the mild noise of the footsteps tried its best to fill the air. And I was sure there was no one around to hear me. The dead leaves falling from the trees caressed me every now and then, as if trying to remind me that they too, exist and shouldn’t be ignored. As I reached my place, it was already quite late but then, that had been routine for quite some time. Waking up late, going to work and then coming back around two in the night. The routine didn’t really allow me to get glimpses of sunrise but sleeping till late in the day was a luxury in itself. Watching sunrises and sunsets has never really been on my priority list.

My arrival at my place was greeted by a rather tense silence. Though I often find silence calming, that very moment felt burdensome. I couldn’t put my finger on it but something just didn’t feel right. I stared at my room. Apparently, the room stared back at me. The night passed with intermittent sleep and when I eventually woke up in the morning, the neighbor passed on the information that a guy from the neighborhood had hung himself last night, and the reason behind it was yet to be discovered. I found myself asking if any reason was enough for the act. I am still looking for the answer.

The Consuming Friday

It's been a while since I found myself tired--physically, mentally or both. Over the last six years, there had hardly been anything in life that could generate exhaustion. To add to that, things could easily be tagged had-to-do rather than willing-to-do. Every day passed with a mild yet false hope that the next day would arrive with work that I would cherish doing. The next day, almost inevitably, used to be same as the last one. To my relief, the last Friday was one different day. By the time I reached back to my place---that being 2 am and hence, technically not Friday---the body and the mind were sweetly consumed and depleted. As the body lied on the bed, the feeling of being spent doing something meaningful over the day was much more gratifying than I had envisaged. The sleep that followed felt heavenly.

Lost

Yes, I used to blog on blogspot. But for some reason still unknown to me, I stopped blogging altogether and since then, even after several attempts, which couldn't be considered Herculean by any stretch of imagination, I had failed to revert to blogging. It felt as if it were a proprietary of the distant past. Now, after being accidentally introduced to few blogs, I feel like bringing those good, old blogging days back to life.

My life has been not so jovial during the last few months. I have seen my peers sailing from college life to their respective coveted professional lives. But I, for one, seem to have stuck somewhere between those two arenas. Without any apparent movement. Static. Neither here nor there, as they say.

New events seem to have abandoned visits to my life and I have, beyond doubt, developed a faint yet distinct hate towards this monotone behavior of my life. Over the last six months, people, things and seasons have commuted with scaring haste in front of my eyes and the sight of their magnificent ride has, rather conspicuously, germinated seeds of forlorn emotions. I find myself standing alone, as a silent witness to a myriad of events that don't even remotely concern me. And the wait for things to change in my own life is threatening to be eternal and to be honest, that feeling doesn't sit nicely inside me.

The sudden loss of direction and purpose in life has made me a bit deplorable and perhaps desperate as well. I eagerly look forward to that proverbial spring being just around the corner.

"If you are going through hell, keep going." -Winston Churchill

The Timeline

1984 : Stepped on some strange planet called the earth. I experienced desperation. “This place is oversubscribed.”

1989 : Deliberately pushed my younger brother from some height. He happened to break one of his bones. I experienced elation. “As per my expectations, bones are indeed not strong.”

1990 : Threw a brick at my mate’s face. His evasive actions took some time and his skull spilled some deep red liquid. I experienced composure. “Even the skulls are not strong!”

1990 : Got drowned in deep water in an attempt to gauge its depth. I experienced apathy. “Water riding into the lungs doesn’t spare room for anything. Not even for hope.”

1992 : Got introduced to porn. I experienced excitement. “That was one heck of a discovery.”

1997 : Kissed a girl for the first time. I experienced disappointment. “Expectations don’t help the cause.”

1998 : Modified the contents of checked examination papers and conned the teachers into awarding me brownie marks. I experienced deception. “Conning a man is after all not such a difficult job.”

2002 : Fought for a disloyal man. I experienced betrayal. “The species that is the biggest threat to the existence of mankind is man himself.”

2002 : Arranged a bitter quarrel between two lovebirds. I experienced bloody-mindedness. “A combination of wicked intention and stealth action can produce vicious results.”

2002 : Spent three consecutive days without food under arguably unavoidable circumstances. I experienced satisfaction. “Can that be called developing appetite for hunger?”

2003 : Entered IIT. I experienced despondence. “Journey is a few million times more fun than destination.”

2005 : Spent a couple of months in countryside England. I experienced independence. “An independent mind is the reservoir of unprecedented success.”

2006 : Spent a couple of months in a cauldron-like environment in a steel plant. I experienced strength. “Watching liquid iron flow makes one realize the power of man.”

2006 : Read The Fountainhead. I experienced peace. “A man is only as productive as he allows himself to be.”

2007 : Attained tranquility. I experienced salvation. “Peace is what we seek; effort is what we lack.”

The Book

When I was a kid---13-odd years old-- I found a book in a forgotten corner of my home. It had a thick film of dust planted in its hardbound cover and the pages had adopted a tinge of pale yellowness. The book looked old by all means and I gathered that no one had turned its pages for a long time. The book was voluminous and so it dented whatever desire I had to read it. Nevertheless, I took a look into its pages. There were innumerable phrases of virtue in it written in a very soothing manner. The book was a modern English translation of some another popular book that was written in ancient English centuries ago. Though I can’t recall the exact words that I laid my eyes upon, one of those phrases read something like this:

The only way a man can be perpetually happy is by not handing over all the sources of his happiness to others.

I liked what I read and I have always tried to follow those providential words very passionately since then. I do concede that I have failed miserably few times while translating those words into action but the number of times I have succeeded ridiculously outnumbers those when I have conked out. By the way, when I got rid of dust that veiled the face of the book, it read “The Bible”.

Collage of Memories

Baat zara purani si hai. takriban 22 saal pehle bihar ke ek chhote se kasbe mein paida hue. thode bade hue to maa baap ne school mein dakhila karwane ka socha. kasbe mein school ki kami thi. fir bhi maa baap ne koi kasar na chhodi. jald hi humne khud ko ek school mein paya. aalam to yeh tha ki school ka bhi woh pehla hi baras tha, woh bhi kiraaye ke makaan mein. dono naye. dono ek dusre ka haath thaame aage badhe. school ne tarakki ki. hum bhi saath aage chal diye. dus baarah baras ke hue toh khud ko dosto se ghira paya. saath khelte, saath padhte. ghar mein bhi hamesha padhai ka mahaul tha. roz shaam haath pair dho kar padhne baith jaate. dil mein aage badhne ki chahat thi. aankon mein sapne they ki ek din kuchh badaa karenge. logo se suna karte they dilli shahar mein kaafi chamak-damak hai. sun kar dil mein ek chahat si jaag uthti thi.

14 saal humne ussi school ki aangan mein guzar diye. baarahwi pass kiya. number bhi theek se they. aankon mein sapne abhi bhi jawaan they. bade shahar ki baatein hum abhi tak bhool na paye they. magar pitaji se dil ki baat kahe bhi to kaise? maa se kahaa ki hume dilli ki college mein padhna hai. gharwale jaraa sahme. humare ghar mein shayad hi kisi ne bihar ke baahar kadam rakha tha. dilli to dur ki baat thi. fir bhi gharwalo ko kisi tarah manaya. tasalli di ki sab kuchh sambhal lenge. bhari mann se ma ne haami bhar di. doston ko bhi humne alvida keh diya. pitaji saath dilli aye. tez raftaar ki zindagi dekh kar pitaji ne humari or dekha. hum to apni hi duniya mein khoye they. naya shahar, naya josh tha.

Pitaji ko chhodne station aye. train chal padi. waapas jaate waqt pitaji ki aankhon mein humne aanson ki do boondein dekhi. hum iske aadi na they. isliye thoda dukh hua. bhaari mann se apne kamre mein waapas aye. magar aankhon ne fir se naye sapne sajaane ki tayyari kar li thi.

17 saal ki umar mein ek anjaan shahar mein akele ek nayi shuruaat ki. din beete. aaj dilli shahar mein aaye hue paanch saal se zyada ho chuke hain. na shahar raas aya, na shahar ki raunak. fir bhi jeeye ja rahe hain. is jaddojahat mein purane saathi kahin kho se gaye—kuchh humse aage nikal gaye, kuchh ko humne peechhe chhod diya—kabhi jaan kar kabhi anjaane mein. magar in sab se bekhabar hum khud mein hi guum hain. aage ka pata nahin par paanv chale ja rahe hain. ankhein andhere mein aaj bhi kuchh talaash rahi hai. dil mein aaj bhi kuchh paane ki hasrat hai, ek tamanna hai. bas raste anjaan se hain. awara ki tarah manzil ki bas ek jhalak paane ko betaab chale ja rahe hain. kabhi ahiste, kabhi tez par yeh kadam hain ki rukne ka naam hi nahin lete. bas ek ummeed hai ki manzil agle mod pe humara intezaar kar rahi hai. manzil mile na mile, ek baat is shahar ne zarur sikhaya hai ki bina thamey, bina ruke chalte jaane ko hi zindagi kehte hain....

Addicted I Am

As a kid, I learnt the eight parts of speech of English from my English teacher. I was told that adjectives held an enormous power--much more than any other part of speech--within themselves. After a decade and a half, when I was virtually forced to write a testimonial for someone for the very first time, I understood why my English teacher called adjectives the powerhouse of English. They indeed serve the purpose of pleasing others.

When I was first introduced to Orkut, I found it anything but captivating. I was in fact hesitant to join it at the first place. But one of my mates sent me an invitation to join Orkut and despite my unwillingness, I joined it just for my mate's sake. I was doing more or less fine with a long list of friends in Yahoo Messenger. And hence, I hardly bothered to check my Orkut account on a regular basis. I never added anyone in my Orkut account, despised each and every community and people felt blessed if they received scraps from me. I never understood why people were so concerned about the number of scraps they have had. "To know the value of invaluable scraps, you need to use Orkut, mate. The unwritten rule of Orkut is--the more you use it, the more scraps you receive. Scraps are earnestly precious. Lesser mortals like you won't understand the addiction," said someone to me. The two words that caught my attention in his speech were 'lesser mortals'. How dare he call me a lesser mortal, I thought. By the time I satisfied myself by knocking him a punch or two in my imagination (of course), he was gone. What the heck! I could have hit him in reality as well. It's a different matter altogether that I would have received many more long-lasting bruises in return.

Today, one and a half years after joining Orkut, I check my account innumerable number of times daily, keep refreshing the page in hope of receiving one more scrap and I yell when I find that no one has scrapped me in last ten minutes or so. "How can people do that to me," I often ask myself. I haven't found an answer yet. These days, I am on a spree of writing testimonials. I have actually mustered a huge set of oh-how-sweet adjectives and I often use them while writing testimonials. Girls tell me that I write testimonials that are lovelier than teddy beers while a diabetic had once said that my testimonials were sweeter than artificial sweetener. As a matter of fact, I am yet to write testimonials for alcoholics and terrorists. I wonder what kind of comparisons they would make.

Believe it or not, the real charm of Orkut lies in the fact that its scrapbook acts as open email ids--open for all to view the contents. A cheesy scrap from the opposite sex can be invitation to disaster if your friends somehow take a look at it. But then, it can also serve as a means of enhancing the number of scraps. Consider the case if a girl proposes you on Orkut. Your friends will surely send you 100-odd scraps asking who she is. And your scrapbook is almost flooded on the eve of your birthday. People don't mind faking their birthdays in order to enhance the influx of scraps. And the number of fans you have had is considered as the only parameter to gauge your popularity.

ATTENTION READERS-- the crux of the article is that if you want others to honor you, enhance the number fans you have, even if the means of acquiring fans is cheesy. Third law of Newton says that every action has equal and opposite reaction. So in order to gather scraps, send more and more scraps to your friends and also to their girlfriends. You can send scraps to your own girlfriend(s) as well if you find time after watching your friends' girlfriends' albums. This is indeed a battle of mustering scraps and fans. And everything is fine, as the cliché goes, in love and war.

And yes, I won't mind lending you my sacred book of adjectives if you are about to write a testimonial. Till then, bye bye. And don't forget to add me as your friend. My identity on Orkut is Full Throttle...! See you on Orkut.

Lost In Colors

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”—Juliet says Romeo in Shakespeare’s arguably the most famous play, Romeo and Juliet. Had Shakespeare’s soul not departed for some romantic sessions with beautiful angels somewhere in the heaven above, today—in 2006--he would have certainly acknowledged the importance of names. Names of different shades of colors, in particular.

People have time and again made me believe that I am hopeless when it comes to distinguishing subtle variations in colors. Wait a minute. You are not assuming me to be color blind, are you? To clear the fog, let me tell you that I can perfectly distinguish black from white. OK, OK, I know even the color blinds can do that. (I was just testing your general knowledge for a change.) But I can even distinguish red from green and blue from yellow. See, now you know that my eyes haven’t deteriorated a bit. Though it’s a different matter altogether that I find it difficult to differentiate between Sky Blue and Persian Blue.

“I like this red color of you sweater. It’s my favorite color,” I told one of my female friends over a cup of coffee. I didn’t know I was asking for trouble. I should have rather said—“I like this color of your sweater. It’s my favorite color.” (Almost) Everybody knows how particular females are about colors. Sadly, I had never come across any such universal fact. “It’s not red, it’s Crimson,” she almost roared back with a how-dumb-you-are look. “Whatever!” I whispered, trying to divert her attention towards the cup of coffee. “You don’t even know what color this is and you say this is your favorite one! Now that’s ludicrous,” she said with an overwhelming delight on her face. I knew instantly that she had not had someone for last few days to make fun of and somehow I found myself imagining how helpless an about-to-die deer felt as it saw a hungry lioness pushing it into a corner. Needless to say (but I would still say), my position was not any better than that of the almost-dead deer. “What’s in a name, what’s in a name,” I flinched. I just hoped that she had had some amount of respect for Shakespeare and his sayings. She went on to count different shades of blue and red on her fingers and wanted me to learn at least a few of them. But how can she expect a guy to learn hues of colors who often struggles to recall his mobile number? Too much of an asking.

People generally have one and only one color as their favorite. But he may not choose everything around him painted in that particular color. For instance--Someone like me, whose favorite color is red (may be crimson!!!) will not like his formal trouser or shoes to be red-colored. Going a step further, I won’t like my hair tainted red either. Similarly, no matter how crazy a person is about blue (say Persian Blue, to be very specific), she won’t like her lipstick blue. But there is no shortage of frenzy creatures in this world. You will see them every now and then. Anyway, let’s go ahead.

I had seen people around me wearing kurtas of different colors (now don’t ask me the particular shades). I found that cool. Even I am a human being (oh yes, I am!!) and I also have desires. So, the other day, I went to a shop to buy cloth piece for my kurta. The shopkeeper showed cloth pieces of different colors and shades. I didn’t like any. More colors. No success yet! I had seen someone wearing a blue-colored kurta and wanted something like that. More colors put in front of me. But I am a difficult person to please! After rejecting some genuine, honest effort from the shopkeeper, I could sense frustration in his eyes, as if saying –For God’s sake, will you now leave? He was about to cry as I insisted him to make one last attempt. “What exact shade do you want?” he finally spoke as he wiped sweat along with all his patience from his forehead. Now that was one hell of a question for me. I could calculate the rate of mass transfer in a packed bed (IIT says I am a chemical engineer, though I have never accepted!!) but shades—not my cup of tea. “Something in blue would do fine,” I told hesitantly but politely. I didn’t want to make that poor soul cry. By the time I collected the receipt, the owner of the shopkeeper had made me learn that it was called Ultramarine. I felt embarrassed. I recalled the giggling face of that friend of mine. I have decided to teach Shakespeare a lesson (read: kidnap all his angel girlfriends) if and when I happen to visit heaven. There’s surely something in the name, I tell you. Don’t believe the words of that 16th century ancient guy. He bluffed all of us. A rose in 2006 called by some other name may not smell as sweet.

Physical Features

I receive an amused look whenever one meets me for the very first time. Though people try to conceal their awry sense of joy, I have got so used to that particular subtle look on their faces that I invariably catch those glimpses effortlessly. It’s not that I am unbelievably good looking or I possess attractive physique that introduces a smile on their faces but the fact that I possess an embarrassingly slim body structure makes them do so. To make matters worse, an abnormally large face rests over my shoulders and a pair of hands that can be detached by applying minimal force hangs below the shoulders, imparting me the looks of an alien. If you have no idea how an alien looks, do watch some movies like ET or alien v/s predator and if you are a die-hard Bollywood fan, you can always watch Koi Mil Gaya. Now if you are through with the movie, you can move on with the post. No, no let me tell you that I don’t look exactly like an alien if you have already started painting my structure in the canvas of your mind. But I must confess (I am almost into tears!!) that most of my features do resemble those of an alien. Similar height (just managed to cross 5 feet a couple of years ago), similar large eyes with pupils adamant to come out of the iris, voice difficult for others to understand and an above-average intellectual mind (that’s what I think)!! To add to that, my sense of dressing isn’t very different from that of aliens. Can you imagine my structure now? People often ask me what I generally eat in a day and they get an idea what not to feed their kids to save them from attaining alien-esque features.

Some of the people who really feel sorry about my physical features often suggest me to eat properly. They regularly let me know that if I continue like this for few more years, I would inevitably vanish. They suggest me to eat the amount of food in one meal that I generally have in 2 days. What they fail to understand is that a small belly lies in a small body. Enhancing my appetite is something that is beyond my control. I love food but I can’t eat much (Drops of tears are falling on the keyboard!!).

Most of the people I regularly come across are well built, possess height around six feet and hence, they see it as a moral responsibility (towards me, of course) to make me realize of my gradual drift towards un-human physical features. Every time I see a well-built person, the first thought that comes to my mind is--can I afford a fist-fight with him? The second thought that crosses my mind is—-I can’t!!

But I was not the same during my childhood days. Though I was born with a relatively bigger head than most other children, my good enough physique--firm arms, strong calves-- reconciled with it. But as days passed by, my weight refused to increase while the rate at which the size of my head increased knew no stopping. Result is in front of you. These days, with hardly any serious work to do, I amuse grown-ups and scare kids. That is one job I am really good at. If you can’t recall the last time you had laughed, do meet me. Your days of laughter are not far away.

Matrimonial Problem

As I write this post, I feel more or less determined to hold moderators and owners of certain yahoo groups by their collars, drag them to the court and ask My Lord to allow me to hang all of them for their grievous crime. And since My Lord would inevitably say that he might take a minimum of 10 years to come up with any sort of decision (as Indian courts usually do), I feel like teaching those moderators a lesson in my own surreal ways. They have catered me several sleepless nights by sending enough scary invitations for joining their absurd yahoo groups. If that wasn't enough, I often find myself waking up suddenly in the night as I pull myself out of a dreadful nightmare(if at alI I manage to sleep), thanks to the role these moderators have played during last six months or so. Now I know what people called mental molestation.

Though I consider myself a strong enough character (mentally and certainly not physically as everyone points out) to handle issues on my own, these frequent invitations to join matrimonial groups have certainly taken a toll on me. There is no greater elation when I open my yahoo messenger and it says 'you have got 1 new mail'. The frequency at which I check my mail doesn't allow yahoo messenger to state that I have got more than one mail. And there isn't any more deplorable moment when I open my yahoo mail only to find a matrimonial group invitation. It's like end of the world for me. The names of these matrimonial groups are as irritating as their contents--agarwal2agarwalmarriage group, Letsmarry, MarryBigBeautifulWomen etc etc. I don't know why they think that I am an Agarwal! And if the lady is so beautiful, why would she marry me? I possess neither Bill Gates' money nor Tom Cruise's looks. Apart from all that, though I am legally eligible to marry as I have already achieved that coveted landmark of 21 years of age, I am currently not in a mood of marrying, you know. (Blushing)Lolz!! I have just started my life and I have no plans to ruin it so soon. I still have some sense left in some corner of my brain.

When I told some of my mates about this farcical and equally derisory problem that I am facing these days, they all laughed at me saying that I must have given my email id to one (or more) of these groups . But I am more certain than an Australian victory over Kenya as I say that an idea as weird as pasting my own id in any matrimonial site can't even come close to my periphery of thoughts. Though I must confess that I have certainly given some fake ids for getting some pirated softwares from internet. "Pirate, he is a bloody pirate," I can listen some software engineer screaming somewhere in Bangalore. None of my concern though. I have much graver issues like matrimony-case to tackle these days! I even tried to block these addressed and called them spam but these addresses somehow manage to breach spam protectors and chafe poor users like me. If any of the moderators of those groups is reading this post, I urge him/her to look for better candidates to send your unsolicited mails. I am genuinely not interested!! For those who don't know, this is my favorite one liner! I had once used it when a girl had proposed me. O yes, you read it correctly---A girl proposing a boy! Now you know that it doesn't happen only in movies. Real life, as they say, is much more exciting than reel life. Anyway, do I need to tell you what the consequence was when I told her that I was genuinely not interested? I leave it for you to guess!!

Educated Raavan

Sculptures of Raavan, Mehnaad and Kumbhkaran were erected hastily on Dussehra afternoon. By the time, the day drifted towards its end, the three sculptures were set to fire one by one with Raavan being the last casualty. Crackers installed inside them made deafening noise, huge spheres of smoke gained height above the burning sculptures, sparkling chunks of burning paper floated between the layers of air and baneful smell of gunpowder diffused into the atmosphere. A large crowd entertained itself by being a part of this evil-burning ceremony. With Raavan turned into ashes, the mob retrieved back discussing how harmful the rays coming out of crackers are and how polluted Delhi-air has become over the years. Two women talked about how their in-laws have made their lives miserable. Children accompanying them, oblivious to their talk, were glad with the sight they witnessed and asked each other who the two sculptures on either side of Raavan represented.

Raavan, despite being such a learned creature, an avid Lord Shiva devotee and a conqueror of entire cosmos, fell prey to evil and eventually couldn’t save himself and his family from fiasco and the wrath of Lord Rama. Today, we remember Raavan as the face of evil. What did those Vedas, Puranas, Upnishads teach him? Virtually nothing! That is perhaps why education has evolved over the years just as a medium of reading newspapers and getting a good job. It is only attitude that can help you gain some good name. Education— philosophical, religious, spiritual or any other form---is useless unless you don the right attitude.

Nostalgia

When you are badly looking for something during an hour of utmost need, it is almost inevitable that you would not find it. Someone enters your room, asks for the CD you had borrowed from him the other day and you feel lost. ‘What CD?’ you think and suddenly realize that if you don’t recall which CD he is actually talking about, he would hit you on your face and could possibly break your head as well. You hastily look at every possible corner where you might have thrown his CD with no apparent success. You give him a pleading look and say that you would return it to him as soon as you find it out. The person, feeling perhaps disappointed and certainly furious, leaves saying fine. He, in fact, thinks—“you better find it out otherwise….” You avoid thinking what he might do if you don’t actually hand him the CD over to him.

So, the man leaves, planting a job in your mind. And you start your damage control job. Since you are a technical guy, at least you think yourself to be, you plan your quest for the million-dollar-CD in a contrived way. You, at first, try to mark out the places in your room where the probability of finding it is maximal. After damaging you brain cells for good two minutes, you eventually infer that the probability is exactly the same at every point in the room. Your past experiences say that it is better to look on the floor below your bed first where you had dropped your friend’s twenty-thousand-bucks-cellphone yesterday and then in the cupboard where you had kept your friend’s shoes the last time around. Happens with every guy, nothing to worry about!!

You do not find anything on the floor and you look inside the cupboard. The things that you find inside leave you nostalgic and of course, make you feel guilty. You see a Rakhi, sent by your sweet seven-year-old cousin, which you never bothered to tie around your ankle on the pious occasion of Rakshabandhan. When she called you last time around, you had lied that you indeed liked the rakhi and tied it on Rakshabandhan. You frown. You imagine your cousin’s innocent, smiling face in front of you. You find a birthday card you had bought to send to a friend whom you haven’t met for good three years. You kept postponing the job of posting it for a while and then you eventually forgot to send it altogether. You recall how tense he was, just before the result of your IIT JEE. You wish the days could somehow be retrieved. You find some prasad, carefully folded inside a piece of paper, which your mother had given you the last time you had been leaving home. She had asked you to put small pieces of prasad in your mouth every time you went out to write an examination. You had reluctantly put it in your bag saying that these things added to the weight of the bag. You feel guilty. You vow that you would indeed follow your mother’s instructions from now on. You find the laudatory recommendation letter your wonderful, ever-smiling professor had written for your work in the UK last time around. You think about the aesthetic seventy five days you had spent in the UK last summer. You wish to visit that place again and meet her. You find yourself smiling. A small cupboard can bring so many emotions out of you. You had never thought like that before. Never.

Meanwhile, the same guy visits you again and asks if you actually found his CD out. You look horrified. Yet another emotion!!!

Cock Tale

There were quite a few interesting happenings in my life during last summer, if only I could call them interesting at all. Bachcha log, you do not need any parental supervision while going through this post. It contains nothing suspicious. Suspicious is the word parents usually use for vulgar ‘items’, lol. Sounds good. Quite acceptable. Anyway, let me initiate the tale. The Cock Tale.

Summers have always been relentless in our country, irrespective of the zone. Be it Delhi, Chennai, Nagpur or Patna. I, by the way, spent my summer at a place called Durgapur near Kolkata, thanks to audacious planning of IIT Delhi. To make matters worse, I was virtually impelled to spend eight hours a day in a fuming steel plant. If you have never been to any steel plant, I would advise you not to plan any visit there in any given circumstances. If you are, in case, asked to choose between spending your whole life with Bin Laden and visiting a steel plant, do not even hesitate to choose Bin Laden. Steel plants are horrible places—charcoal powder floating in the air, lumps of burning coal radiating infrared rays. To make matters worse, hot, luminous liquid iron flows to make one realize that he is spending time in Hell. Hell on the face of earth.

By the time I used to return back to my hostel, every joule of energy was sucked out of my skinny body. The only plus point of my stay there was that boys and girls shared the same edifice (not the same room though). Most girls being Biharis. It took me 21 long years to discover that even Bihari gals are cute. I always thought that only one girl in Bihar was cute. Hey, what am I proceeding towards? I am not here to describe my love interest. That will be done in some other post. May be, never. Despite all those searing hours in the steel plant, I was not very unhappy. The most irritating part of the story started later in the night; or I should rather say, early in the morning. At around 3 AM. The hero (in fact, the villain if you ask me) of this saga is a cock. Murga, in Hindi. That bloody cock!!!

On every single morning at 3 AM, the cock started to crow at the top of the voice. Considering that I usually fall late on bed, that vociferous noise at three in the morning was nothing better than some Himesh Reshammiya song—shabby and painful. I managed to ignore it for a couple of days. But brushing aside that atrocious sound every single day was just too much for asking. One morning at six in the morning, my patience gave up and I came out of my room only to find that the cock was crowing right in front of my room. I waived my hand and asked that cock to move out of that place, of course in human voice. Sadly, this time around, it was too much of an ask for it. It crowed back at me. Sparked by its protest, I slapped it. Oh yes, I slapped it!! The cock fell away, around six meters away. It wasn’t moving at all. I was shocked. And possibly, so was it. I never wanted to hit it so hard. I, perhaps, underestimated my strength and certainly overestimated the cock’s strength. I was, more or less, sure that that cock died instantly. I looked all around me, making sure that no one was watching me. Relieved by my solitude, I quickly moved back to my room. There was a mixed feeling inside me. Mixed-- due to two reasons. I was both happy and sad. Happy because I sensed that I was not as weak I thought myself to be. And sad because I had killed the poor cock. That too for a crime not so grave. Anyway, since the cock was then dead, there was no point thinking about it and losing my sleep over it. The noisy cock might have been enjoying in the hell, I thought.

I woke up at nine. The corpse was not there. It was the beginning of a new day for me with the same old job. I went to the steel plant. I came back at five in the evening only to find the cock hopping around with a band-aid sort of thing rolled around its neck. I was again happy and sad. Happy because the cock hadn’t died and sad because I would have to resist its creaky sound again. Yet again. In the night, the butler was asking guys in the mess if they knew somebody who hit its pet. I couldn’t understand what he was talking about. When being intrigued, the butler revealed that THE cock was its pet and someone hit it. He even asked me if I knew that bloody guy. I considered myself no lesser than Satyawadi Harishchandra. So, telling lies was not my job. When caught in an insurmountable problem, pretend!! Someone tried to kill your cock?, I asked as if it was my dearest pal. He nodded. I didn’t reply to him anymore and hastily changed the topic of discussion.

Days went by. The cock wasn’t crowing anymore. I was rather surprised by its silence. I had got used to it in one way or the other. That silence didn’t let me sleep. I asked the butler the next day if his pet cock was fine. He replied me woefully that he himself killed his pet cock because its health was degrading. He served its flesh to us only, he said wryly. What an excuse to kill somebody, I thought. But the hero was killed. He was no more. May its soul live in peace in heaven. And the villain was still roaming freely.

I was happy and sad, again. Yet again.

Contrast

Though I was born in a small town called Giridih in Jharkhand, I originally belong to Madhupur, a suburb, countryside area, about forty kilometers away from Giridih. My ancestors lived there for a long, long time. My grandmother and my two paternal uncles still reside there. The home where they live is basically a four-room hut. The cemented floor is broken at a number of places, making sure that it projects an ancestral look. There is a large courtyard in front of that hut which gets extremely swampy during rains. Since my father had earned a job in Giridih, he moved out of that place. After working for ten years in a government owned bank, my father owned a decent house at Giridih.

Even though we have moved out of our ancestral home, we visit there every now and then. Our visits happened to be more frequent while I was a kid. We went there every year on the eve of Durga Puja, our prime festival and then, during summer vacations. The gathering during the Durga Puja used to be the best five days of the year. There used to be a sense of sacredness in the air. The large idols of Goddess Durga were worshipped on several streets of the town. People waited for months to celebrate this grand festival. I waited for weeks for the start of my Durga Puja vacation to buy new clothes, to go to Madhupur, to be a part of melas with my cousins and family members, to join my bare hands in front of the Goddess of power.

The stay during summer vacations used to be lengthy, usually ranging between a week and a fortnight, thus giving ourselves enough time to mingle with grandmother, uncles and aunts. During those 10-15 days, I, as a kid, was obviously more interested in being in the company of my cousins in my age group. The summer afternoons did no harm to their reputation by keeping the mercury level soaring high. Since electricity is not a 24*7 resource in our part of the country, hand fans were the only respite. The sun beat hard on the soil. Water disappeared from the wells as if it were put on fire. I, along with my cousins, waited for the sun to be merciful as the day gradually progressed towards its end. Arrival of the evening marked indispensable reprieve from cauldron like environment.

The evenings were particularly special for us as they invited vendors who sold ice-cream in their big containers on wheels. The containers were partially filled with solid ice to keep the ice-cream in good shape. The ice-creams were nothing more than small cuboidal pieces of ice in ripe, green mango flavor and others in coconut flavor with thin wooden sticks attached to them. The mango flavored ice-cream cost Re 1 while the coconut flavored one was worth fifty paise.

The vociferous shout of the ice-cream vendor infused astounding energy in our sweating bodies. After acquiring few coins from our mothers, we always rushed barefooted towards the main wooden door through the soil-laden courtyard. The touch of the bottom of feet with the blistering soil acted as sweet pain experienced while journey towards a historic achievement. The coconut-like taste and sourish flavor of ripe mango filled us with joy. Every bite of ice and every drop of flavored cool water (formed by melting of ice) was delight to the tongue. The trace of coolness that ice provided on the inner part of the cheek and the teeth was nothing less than divine elation. We tried to last our ice-creams as long as possible. And if our part of the ice-cream came to an early end, we used to ask for small bites from others. We tried every trick in the book to gain a part of others’ share. Sometimes the tricks worked, sometimes they didn’t.

These days, I live in Delhi, the capital city of this supposedly great country. Delhi—where money flows out of pocket like water in the drain during rains, where millions of people survive just in the hope of a better tomorrow, where people virtually run in order to maintain their lead in the race in their respective fields, where earning money is the only way of celebration.

Deepawali is the prime festival in this prime city of India. People buy gifts for each other. The costlier, the better—that’s the basic idea of people while buying gifts. It’s a way of demoing the weight inside their pockets. It’s considered a kind of insult if your presents to others appear cheaper than what they gift you. It’s a matter of fact that most of them struggle to answer if asked why exactly Deepawali is celebrated. Though this city may strongly disagree, what eventually matters in (and to) this city is money. I, on the other hand, tend to spend quite Deepawali’s on the roof of my hostel, watching millions of rupees, in the form of firecrackers, being burnt in a matter of few hours. Burning firecrackers, for instance, is also a contrived method of displaying the pile of money you sit upon.

Since grass on the other side always looks greener, people from all parts of the country visit this city to earn money and then, to spend it if they succeed to earn any, against every odd. I, as a student, am yet to enter this race of earning money; and then more money. I just spend money that is sent to me by my parents residing at that small, unknown town. It’s just that the denomination in which I spend money these days has multiplied several folds; may be hundred-odd folds. A simple, far-from-extraordinary cold coffee or cappuccino costs around fifty bucks in Barista. A decent meal in a decent restaurant costs above hundred rupees. A vegetarian pizza costs around two hundred bucks at Pizza Hut. I have started visiting these coffee shops and these decent restaurants since last couple of years, thereby increasing my monthly expenditure to an alarmingly high amount; amount that I, as a student, am scared to think of.

But the saddest part of the story is that I don’t find these 50-bucks coffees and 100-bucks meals even half as tasty and satisfying as those fifty-paise and one-rupee ice-creams. Ironically, the cost of the bread doesn’t (and can’t) determine its taste. Money, as they say, can’t buy everything…

But, who knows, I might also become a part of this demeaning city with the passage of time...I can only pray to Goddess Durga to shield me against all evils of this only-money-matters city.

Vegas @ Bihar

Definitely not a happy summer (vacation!!!..err I mean training) for me, I would say. Since I was only a couple of hundred kilometers away from my hometown, I usually managed to visit my home every now and then. Most of my friends were enjoying their vacations there but there was a serious scarcity of cards-playing-members in our group. So, during one of my visits, we decided to play cards. 29 is the name of the game of cards which almost every Bihari (and Jharkhandi as well!!!) knows. But playing cards is considered a serious offence in our families. It’s a game made for Juadis, they would always say. What to do??? Guys want to play 29 and parents won’t allow. An issue of grave concern! So, three of the most dedicated players, all of them being IITians (including me), sat down to discover a decent enough place to play. Since ours is a very small town and people know each other very well (especially we IITans, lol), it seemed quite a difficult job. Several places were talked about, analyzed, scrutinized and eventually discarded. At last, one of us came up with the weirdest idea of all…The Crematory Place!!! Hardly anyone alive visited that dreadful zone. A nice, quite place on the bank of the monsoon-fed river with few half-burnt corpses waiting for us. I was quick to say yes. The third guy hesitated for a while but the urge inside was so menacing that everything else appeared secondary. So, the grand casino for us was decided. It was just a matter of finding the 4^th player. But that issue hardly bothered us. The 4^th guy was at a phone-call-distance. One of us had a pack of cards in his house. All problems solved! We all agreed to meet in the evening.

Evening arrived and so did we. The 4^th guy was ringed at his home. Unfortunately for us, he was not at his home. It is, indeed, criminal to expect finding people from our group at our respective homes during summer evenings. So, we waited and waited for someone to arrive. We always gather at a pre-decided place so that none of us is left roaming on the streets finding others. (See, we are quite methodical and always plan things wellJ.). Time flew by and we were left wondering when the fourth ‘card-playing-member’ would arrive. It had started getting dark. Finally, the fourth one arrived and we quickly moved towards the abode of non-living lives.

A really captivating place for we Juadis. A Peepal tree, cool breeze blowing, a thirsty river, green fields on the other side of the river, a boundary wall good enough to separate us from the rest of the town, a cemented mundane and most importantly, not a single known and alive face other than four of ours. Perfect scenario! Our eyes lit up with excitement. Good choice, we said to each other with an element of satisfaction over the time we spent planning the diligent space.

We sat down on the dusty, cemented zone. The handkerchief was taken out and spread. The cards started slipping on the handkerchief with crisp perfection. One aspect that separates a classic-cards-player from other players is the panache of letting the cards fly away from his hands and the ease with which cards slip on the surface. If you play cards, you must know its elegance. We were miles away from reaching our peak when the darkness in the environment called the end of the play. We wished we had brought a bulb with us.

Nevertheless, we were glad that we, at least, got the feeling of the smooth cards on our palms. We came out of the crematory talking about the indifferent nature of the stock market during those days, the companies which were relatively safe to bet upon and the way we performed at the grand casino!!! End of a more-than-happy rendezvous with non-living lives. I hastily left for my home as it was time for my early dinner.

All's Well That Ends Well

Oh yeah, all’s well that ends well! That’s what I uttered when I went through my GATE result in the afternoon. The result was supposed to be put on the internet at 10 in the morning but I was in no position to keep myself awake till 10 AM after going through (yet another) night out.

Though I am only a third year student, I decided to write GATE when I heard my batch mates murmuring something about writing some examination. I moved towards them and asked what that buzz was all about. They told me that they were ambitiously looking forward to GATE this year only. Since I had no clue about their unusual decision, I asked them why they were so eager to write the examination this time around. And I was more than convinced after listening to the reply.

“Yaar, agar is baar GATE clear nahin hua then we can get an extra chance to write the examination in our 4^th year. Moreover, we will get an idea of the examination pattern this time”, one of my mates said.

The reply sounded logical to me. It’s amazing how ridiculously our mindsets have changed after our three year stay in IIT! There used to be a time when we easily and sometimes, humorously solved every question in almost every given book for JEE. And today, even an examination of far inferior quality sparks a blaze of diffidence and even, some scare in our hearts. I think I didn’t tell you the fact that this bunch of fools (including me) belongs to dual degree program of chemical engineering. That’s why we all are so concerned about our nice monetary scholarships during the fifth year of our stay in IIT.

Anyway, let’s come back to the GATE drama. So, we eventually decided to purchase GATE forms. But, my dear, nothing comes free of cost in this world. The next hurdle was to arrange an amount of Rs. 1000. My contacts all around helped me out yet again. It hardly took me two minutes or so to arrange that relatively small amount of money. I sound like some bhai in Mumbai. Don’t I? It is another matter that I haven’t paid back that amount to my ‘contact’ till now. I am planning to pay him back only when I get my first scholarship (lol). I hope he is not reading this. Hey reader, even today, I am need of some cash. Can you lend me few bucks? Please. I will return it back to you tomorrow, for sure.

I have this uncanny knack of deviating from the real matter. Sorry for that. Anyway, so the form was purchased and it was delivered at the GATE office on the evening of the scheduled deadline. I know I am among those impossible guys. There is no need to repeat that. Few more shocks are yet to come. Keep reading. After that evening, I had no clue about the date of examination. Life went on with usual ease and carelessness.

“Abhi to bahut din baaki hain yaar”, we normally told each other. But, the irony is that time shrinks at impossible rate. Months reduced into weeks and weeks contracted into mere few days. It was time to purchase the book to prepare for the examination. I went to Bersarai, looked for a book that comprised last ten years’ question papers but the book wasn’t available in the bookshop. The guy in the shop told me to visit the shop on the next day. What the heck! Who cared to visit him again on the next day? Time was flying by and I was in my notorious I-don’t-care mood. Finally just five days were left and my mate shook me up.

“Yaar, ab to sirf 5 din baaki hain. Ab to book khareed le. Fir saath mein padhte hain. Maine bhi abhi tak kuchh nahin padha hai. 2 log saath mein padhenge to kuchh kar lenge examination hour mein”, my mate told me. He tried his best to convince me.

It was time to purchase the book. I went to the shop again. This time, luckily (rather unluckily), I got the book. It cost me a hefty amount of Rs. 90. Goodness me, these books have turned so costly these days (lol). But only purchasing the book can’t serve the purpose; it has to be read as well. I brought it to my room and placed it nicely on the shelf and didn’t see it for next few days. Now it came down to the last night before the examination. I could feel the heat of the moment. I removed the dust from the cover of the book and solved question papers of last few years. In my case, the word ‘few’ means ‘two’. That was more than enough. Then, one of my friends signed into messenger and I can leave anything to talk to her. And I mean it when I say anything. Oopss!!! I talked to her for an hour or so and when I told her that I was supposed to write an examination the next day, I didn’t know that I was inviting an avalanche. She was all over me. So, I signed off after promising that I would study. I tried but you know, I couldn’t go on for too long. It was time for a break. I decided to go to sleep after playing a game of tennis on my computer. You can easily guess what happened thereafter. If you can’t guess, well, for your information, yours truly spent whole night playing games on the comp. Yes! I went for a night out. I know you are again pulling off your hair. But sorry, I can’t help. I am what I am (lol again).

Finally, the much awaited D-day arrived. (Was I really waiting for that day to come???) I woke everyone up. Usually, others wake me up but since I went for a night out, it was my turn to wake them up. Then we went out for a picnic..err…I mean for writing the exam. It was no less than the fun we usually muster during a picnic. All the examinees in the room allotted to me were at least 5 years elder to me and I looked like odd-man-out…may be, odd-child-out. The lady there for invigilation came to me and asked if I were in the correct place. I looked around and said that I was there for the examination only. She still couldn’t believe me. It was only when I showed her my admit card did she accept my words. It was quite humorous. While I was writing the examination, she came to me and told that I looked like an 18 year old baby. Baby??? How can she call me a baby? I really hated her words.

But I purposefully wrote during those three meaningful hours. I used all my pre-IIT problem solving skills, for I have hardly learnt anything in academics during my last three years’ stay in IIT. I came back to my room and I hoaxed some of my friends by telling that I didn’t turn up at all for the examination. Knowing the kind of guy that I am, most of the people believed me! Then, I cleared the fog. I had pulled their legs yet again.

Now, after getting the result, and after a comfortable success in GATE, I don’t regret my night out, my carelessness, my outspoken desire to talk to my friends. I know I don’t waste my time when I talk to my friends, when I go for a night out, when I show some carelessness. This is what I call ‘a careless care’!

Now I am planning to throw a party. Be there at time. I know you are wondering “where and when?” For the answer, contact me! Cheers!!!

Meanwhile...

“Please God! Just ask that bloody prof to produce a lenient question paper for this Major. I need few more marks to pass this course. Please help me this time, one last time. Please!” I talked to my God in a whispering voice with closed eyes, sinking into my favorite third bench from the right in the second last row. There was a whole bunch of guys going through the same process. I looked around and the nervous look on their faces made me feel a bit better. I was not alone in that terrorizing Ex-hall. I looked at one of my mates and we shared an anxious smile. There were few girls as well, with apprehensive looks and I was badly trying to avoid fronting them, for I was there to debar a probable F grade while those maidens were concerned about their inevitable A grades. My classmates were assaying to seat themselves in a definite, plotted arrangement in order to write their papers with a collective effort, using every bit of available resources. It is one of those rare events while the most barbaric foes conduct like trustworthy allies.

The examination hour started and I tried to figure out the known words in the question paper. It hardly took me any time to sample out the questions which I could attempt in my bare answer book. I commenced tardily, for I knew that my fast pace could result in ‘completion’ of my paper in half an hour or so. Despite my best effort, I couldn’t carry on for more than three quarters of an hour. Even after innumerous verifications of my neat attempts in the answer book, I have had more than an hour left to spend. And this is usually the time when my philosophical mind generates weirdest doctrines, my mechanical brain points out the ‘Centre of Mass’ of each and every fan attached to the roof, my secular heart criticizes those useless examinations, my athirst taste buds desire a cup of really hot coffee and my heavy eyelids seek a nap.

I looked around if others had also hit the same patch. The murmur in the air affirmed that my mates were busy catching the informative waves from each and every corner of Ex-hall. Periodic cautionary outcries from the prof muted the mutter. But, every single time prof left the arena for one reason or the other, it regained its lost intensity. The students tried every trick in their Holy Book to gain few more marks which they can boast of. The apt use of calculators for ‘mugging up’ formulae, the ingenious practice of copying each and every letter of bulky books to mere pieces of paper and summing up the juicy facts on the palm can bring shame upon the smartest cheats.

In the meantime, there were few students who served as the centers of scare and hopelessness for guys like yours truly. Their frequent demand for extra answer sheets created furor in the hearts of rest of the examinees. The speed at which their pens slipped on the paper made me wonder if the answers were so lengthy. They wrote as if they would be stoned after the examination.

The end of the examination was more of a sigh of relief for me than anything else. As soon as the prof snatched the answer book from my hand, my eyes started searching for my mates whom I believed had fared more or less like me. Every eye contact was followed by spooky smiles. We gathered at one corner of the Ex-hall.

“Fuck yaar! Despite such puppy questions I couldn’t answer them because I had not mugged the formulae”, one of us tried to explain the toughness level of the questions.
“Oye! Will you keep your mouth shut? We all know how much you knew”- another one among us shouted at him in frustration.
“Yaar”, uttered another fellow, “you didn’t help me at all in the paper. It wasn’t expected of you.”
“I myself was clueless yaar! Moreover, you were sitting too far from me to pass the answers in any form.”
“Will you all stop all this nonsense? It is now past and there is no point talking about it. We should be thinking about the next paper. Why don’t you people understand?”-- I came up with my practical philosophy.
“Haan yaar, you are right. We have a fighter paper to face tomorrow. And I haven’t even looked at the course content. I might be awarded a fakka. Let’s move.”

We headed towards our hostel knowing that we all would enjoy a long session of sleep just after reaching our respective rooms, no matter how fighter the next examination was!

Purpose

Few ‘encouraging’ words from my loved ones and I can sense life, which had nearly deserted my body, again accumulating itself in my cells. Blistering storm is reforming itself into cool steady breeze. The dark night has given way to dawn and I hope to see a new, delightful sun this morning. I need to reanalyze myself. I wish to fly to a territory where I can spend some time laying on soft green grass, talking to colorful chirping birds, touching the soft fur on red-tinged ears of small rabbits, listening to comforting sound of water flowing in the nearby lake, saluting the cloudless blue sky, lauding the proud hill on the other side of the lake. Is there any such peaceful and enticing place on this so-called beautiful planet? If not, then I need to construct such an environment to stem my fall into the dark burrow.

It is the lack of motivation that has always slowed down my march. And I am passing through one such phase. I can still recall moments from my past when I pointed out things-to-do and completed those jobs well within the intense deadlines I had set; I can still figure out the instances when Mathematics theories sounded common sense to me; I can still collect events in my mind when I enjoyed the surprised looks on the faces of people germinated by my skill of rendering quick, smart solutions to impossible looking problems; I can still gather examples from my past when I attended tuitions at 5 AM just to get glimpses of my friend’s girlfriend (oops!!!). I hope my friend doesn’t read my blog regularly.

Life, today, has come to a halt. It sees no target to aim at, no barrier to cross, no aspiration to exercise for. I have always loved limelight and I have attracted it often in the past. It wasn’t too long ago when I dreamt of conquering this world and stamping my name in everyone’s book with enormous volume of vigor and positive energy campaigning in my arteries. The joy of working hard for a purpose has always pleased me but these days the magic word “purpose” is flirting with me. The vim, the energy, the push is still there but it lacks orientation. I know I have worked madly, day in and day out, when given a task but those tasks never challenged my limits. I have always come across jobs that are either too timid to daunt me or too dull to work for. What I am looking for is an interesting task that can push my limits; that can book me for itself till eternity.

This world is certainly not shy of such objectives. My eyes are soberly looking for such an aim, my mind is badly cogitating million such thoughts. I am still looking for the purpose of my arrival, for I don't want to leave the stage without playing my role perfectly. I think….no, I believe I'll get hold of that dream role sooner or later. I am eagerly looking for the angel who could usher me to my destination. Is that you???

Plight

It was a usual sunny afternoon in December. The yellow sun was tardily altering its hue to white. The lukewarm rays were comforting the earth. And I was spending my time in a train running at around seventy kmph, which can always be considered awesome by Indian norms. A bunch of sixty chirpy students that included me as well was coming back from an audacious "industrial" trip, better known as an enjoyment trip, from Goa. Each one of the sixty students had a saga of his own. And the degree of enjoyment of each one of us at those tingling Goa beaches could be clearly read on our faces. Few were not satisfied with their trip and had plenty to complain about while others considered it as a lifetime experience. The students were apprizing each other of their night outs at beaches, their heroics with rented bikes, their stares at topless ladies and what not.

Rare glimpses of photogenic valleys and mountains were drawing our attention and we were prompted to click few snaps with those charming backgrounds. But a dark boy, whose soul was barely ten years old, had no urge left in his heart to praise the beauty of nature. His starvation had, probably, overshadowed his delicate feelings. He was busy picking up empty mineral water bottles and cleaning the green surface of the moving train with his thin, tiny palms. Every time he entered a compartment, the passengers gave him a tough, long look just to make sure that the cursed boy was not carrying away their precious luggage with himself. After his satisfactory cleansing job, he visited the compartments again, this time with the desire that people would bless him with few coins, just enough to feed him. But, he was, probably, hoping against hope. Every time he showed his bent, empty hands, he was greeted with nods of heads, avoidance of eye contact, shrugs of shoulders, and sometimes, rough, rude speeches. But the poor boy never showed any emotion on his face. He had, probably, got used to that treatment. It was amazing how hard people were trying to avoid looking into the eyes of that innocent boy. They knew they could not dare to say "no" looking directly at his face. After his departure from each compartment, the passengers had had a sigh of relief knowing that they had saved their valuable single rupee coins and they even had plenty of statements to make about the alarming increment in the number of beggars in that part of the world and how the beggar-gangs worked to earn money. We spend hundreds of rupees to watch a movie and thousands of rupees to present gifts to our loved ones but we always hesitate to pull out a coin from our wallet to feed a starving child.

The boy moved on his quest for people who could satisfy his needs. My eyes were following his every movement, his every expression. The absence of lines on his palms made me feel that someone above had forgotten to develop his fate. The child, who could have served as the source of envy in different walks of life for some of the rich children, was undone by forces beyond his command. The age at which a normal child finds himself playing with toys, that boy was busy cleaning the dust below people's feet. In the end, the boy managed to earn just three coins and those coins were never enough to suppress his hunger. I thought I could understand his every pain, his every bother. I slowly moved towards him and started gazing him. The boy looked restless and unsatisfied. But he had no one around him who could register his complain. Even his God had defied him. I, in order to help him, forwarded a ten rupee note towards him. He smiled, took the note from me and said- "Nahin saahab, yeh aap rakh lo. Main apne liye khud kamaaunga", forwarding that note towards me. My eyes were moist and had a wide smile on my face. I was astonished by his self-confidence, eagerness to work for himself and the way in which he managed a smile in adverse conditions. His one golden sentence certainly taught me a thing or two. I couldn't dare to ask him anything. I slowly moved back to my seat and wished him all success in his life.

She...

The beginning of yet another new year, Jan 1st 2006, was a bit of a mixed bag of emotions for me. The year 2005 was about to leave the platform. It was around 11:55 in the night and I was trying to complete one of my writings. But I was never there to conclude it. The mind inside deviated time and again, looking for someone, thinking about somebody. I just wanted to talk to a particular person, just to greet her very happy new year. After every half a minute, I was going through my yahoo messenger friend list just to know if she had logged on. The mind knew that she wasn't there. But the heart and the soul were not ready to accept the fact. Every person in the cosmos was preparing to welcome the New Year but I was alone in my room, still waiting for someone to appear. I could feel the loneliness around and inside me. There comes the New Year. Delhi was shining brightly in the light of those grand firecrackers. I was asked to join the birthday treat of one of my mates. The foggy nature of a biting winter in Delhi was good enough to freeze the blood flowing in the veins. But I had to be there. I slowly walked the lonely streets to reach the party spot. Everybody was greeting the birthday boy and celebrating the New Year eve as well, letting each other know about their respective New Year resolutions with laughter all around. They knew those resolutions won't last for too long. I was asked for my New Year resolution. I had a false, contrived smile on my face without any word. The time was passing by. The mercury level was falling by the minute. The sky that was once sparkling with expansive firecrackers had returned to its normal gloomy hue. The giggles around were slowly but surely turning into dark silence. The people around were preparing to get back to their respective abodes. And so was I, with a hope of talking to her once, just once. The feet were moving fast. I hated the silence in the atmosphere. So I made sure that the tapping of the shoes was breaching the muteness. I reached my hostel. Guys were still enjoying the liquor. But I had no interest in it. I sprinted along the pavement, reached my room just to know if she had signed in. My heart was swimming in the ocean of hopes. All that excitement on my face turned into sorrow when I couldn't find her. I kept thinking about her, her smiling face, her large wide eyes, her soft voice, her teasing nature, her stubborn attitude, her hastiness. I don't know when the blanket of sleep covered me. It was only the vociferous knock on the door that woke me up. I was pleasantly surprised to see my closest mate in IIT, who had just arrived from his home, standing outside my room. He wished me a prosperous new year. It was certainly a blessing in disguise. But I was still waiting for her...