tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-149838772024-03-13T12:01:43.190-07:00(Learning From) Life in the Fast LaneGhumo,Dekho,Seekhokafka's ghosthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10759533507727791879noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14983877.post-35692034169286424532007-01-19T05:28:00.000-08:002007-01-31T23:55:32.220-08:00The Perfect Thief:People say, on the moment of death, just before you take the bow, the whole life or maybe parts of it fly in front of you. I cannot vouch for that, never have been dead.. thats the whole reason why, But am sure, the moment I die, one of the million picture postcard that will pass across my eyes will be Me and saand walking across the moor to Satish's library. Those discussions which we used to have, about books, abt girls, abt life as a whole maybe shaped the future course our life was to take. If you are confused by Saand, then please dont think its someone from the bovine family, its just Sir AshishNath (the) Don, whome we used to and still refer lovingly as Saand.<br /><br />Thinking abt those days fills me with nostalgic fond memories, those were the days when we were so carefree.. studies were to be dealt with only in the month before the exams, the only decission we had to make in the day was where to eat our lunch and dinner, the resturants were chosen on the basis of the money we had in the pocket, the bikes had to be borrowed on the basis of ppl planning to go and after food the blissful sleep, the powernaps of 2 hours in the afternoon and the blissful sleep in the early mornings. The only thing constructive we ever did was maybe read a few novels for which we had to go across to Satish library, our refuge, just across the railway line, behind our hostel.There was a better way, by road, but we always walked over there jumping across streams, swaying with the cool evening breeze and walking briskly across the moor to where satish was waiting to loot us by charging us more for the books and we to similary loot him of the books itself.<br /><br />The walks have always been significant in my life, I walk very less but whenever I used to take those I used to learn so much from them. I used to take long walks in bhubaneswar amongst the lone trees, on the beach with the sand on one side and the vast roaring sea on the other, on the desolate roads in bangalore with well lit houses on either sides, in the moors with the moon shining above us in Mysore and amongst the concrete jungle of Singapore... all these have enriched me with memories... things that I have always clinged to. The moors used to be so serene... a huge field with sporadic growth of jungle shrubs.. some trees in some far off corners.. some cows tied to the poles used to sway their tail to keep the flies at bay, the half lit houses with just a 60 watt bulb lighting the portico.The serenity used to be broken by our occasional laughs.. we had to jump across a stream to reach the railway tracks,the stream had some loose stones across which we had to skip on and then climb across the railway tracks which were on a elevation which we had to climb. There was a small shop where a young girl used to sell ciggrates and supari and stuff. Saand used to have some supaari and me some sugar candies worth 50 paisas and then we were ready for Satish.<br /><br />In the library, I used to first look up the books, one which I wanted for good, and one which I wanted to rent. After deciding, I used to just tell Saand what I wanted and then went to talk to Satish regarding any topics under the sun. I remember once I wanted to sell my Das Kapital, and I had to convince satish as how important communism was, but I failed to make the sell. The capitalist (always looting inncocent students of their father's hard earned money) that he was failed to understand what Marx had to say. Anyways, the distraction I created allowed saand to steal the book for me along with the hundreds Archie comics which he used to steal for himself or someone else that I have no permissions to reveal.For more than 3 years we stole some obscure books for us and even for others.. and thankfully never got caught. I used to call myself the perfect thief after Agatha christie's perfect murderer in "The curtain" who never actually comitted the murder but ensured someone killed the would be victim a la Charles Manson maybe.<br /><br />I dont know why we used to steal those books, I dont even have any of those except for maybe Lady chatterly's lover, and which I dont even like reading... but I think we were like serial killers ;) who liked the act and not the books that were so illly begoten. May be we used to believe that satish didnt deserve those books, he was like a pimp, procuring client like us for his books, pimping for them... and we wanted to free the books from that ordeal. That was on a lighter note... I am indebted to satish for all the books I read which I maybe never could have otherwise even gone through. Someday maybe, me and Saand will go back to the place and pay for all the books stole... or maybe gift him more books for some other kids to steal, in a blue Oxemberg shirt and a oversize levis jeans.kafka's ghosthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10759533507727791879noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14983877.post-1162477015272054322006-11-02T06:08:00.000-08:002006-11-14T02:30:08.193-08:00The man who was scratching his crotchTrains as i have told before are a fascinating place where you meet people from the various walks of life. Lesser the class more is the fun, more is the variety. This time I was again travelling by sleeper class from calcutta, sorry Kolkota to puri by the night train when I met this man, he remains nameless because truthfully i dont remember his name, even if I remebered i would have hesistated to put his name because he remains the most disgusting man I met in my life.<br /><br />He was disgusting not because he was constantly scratching his crotch, not at all because of that, for I have stayed in an Hostel where taking bath is a rarity and a luxury that you indulge in when you have nothing else to do or your teachers have warned you of dire consequences. So the constant scratching never bothered me, Let me not deviate from the story and I will tell you about the person.<br /><br />The train I was supposed to take came around a hour late, nothing to be surprised about, trains sometimes do come earlier than expected. I clambered along with my luggage with my cousin tagging along. I sat at my seat, a side lower seat which I mostly prefer when suddenly some loud music hit my ears, the music was exceedingly loud and was overshadowing the words. I turned around and saw this man dressed in a clean green formal shirt and some cream colored trousers, the hair was well kempt and he looked neat in appearance and he was giving me a stare, i just nodded and continued to chat with my cousin in oriya.<br /><br />The train meanwhile was chugging along, people had started getting ready for sleep, and I was reclined on my seat when this guy sat near my seat and we started the chit chat beginning with politics, the normal way of beggining a conversation. The person was a contractor of sorts, a middle man, a dalal in hindi but his anecdots were fascinating, I had never met such a person and I was listening in fascination and my cousin was hanging on to each word of his. The loud music was forgotten and he was gloating along blabbering about his contacts, his rags to riches story and what not. The blabber was paused here and there with the equally vigorous scratching which was oxymoronic to all that he was talking about.<br /><br />The train had caught up speed and was roaring along the lonely fields and the man too was keeping up speed with stories that i was loosing interest in. Suddenly a young lady moved along near our seat and the man made way for the lady to move along. When she was away from earshot, he made a statement like "Kya maal hai" and I was shocked for a second for first I had never expected such blather from a person who was 35 at the minimum, a person who was just a moment ago was talking of the the talks he had with Rajiv Gandhi in 1987. I just looked at him with a look that maybe he thought of as interest. Now he took out his mobile which was a expensive Nokia model and he started showing pictures that he had clicked without permission of course of ladies in the station, this lady who passed along included. I was looking along with disgust, when he said he will show me some videos that he had taken. I said nothing expecting more videos taken without permission when he started showing me videos of a small kid dancing and the man started telling me abt how talented the kid was who incidentally was his daughter. I was shell struck, the person who a moment ago was talking abt babes and "maals" was now happily swaying in paternal bliss. This complete change in personality baffled me. I, not knowing how to react, kept on looking at him speechless, and then outside, through the window.<br /><br />The person, having lost an audiance in me , was talking to my cousin and was telling him how people are always impressed by him, he said it was the brand of cloths you wear the boots you use... He said it is his high end Nokia which made him look respectful, I just glared. I was thinking maybe the uncouth man was correct, all the scratching, all the loud music, all the staring , those laschivious pics he took with his mobile was nothing, he will always be respected because of his cloths and his mobile. May be the man was correct, maybe it is the cloths we respect, maybe it is just that high end mobile which makes a man.<br /><br />Whatever I say, i knew the man was correct. For the first time I slept early in the train.kafka's ghosthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10759533507727791879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14983877.post-1139046518770303552006-02-03T22:09:00.000-08:002006-11-14T02:30:08.034-08:00Sullen Faces- MRT Rides in Singapore<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2911/1373/1600/20042664.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2911/1373/320/20042664.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />"Singapore is a fine city." The billboards, all hoardings, every building seemed to scream this all through out my stay here. Its not that i dont agree with them, I do belive singapore is a rich city, great place to live in, big condos, bigger roads, high rise tall buildings , people with deep pockets filled with money, grass through out the city, tall trees, beaches, exotic animals and what not... but a fine city?? I dont know. What makes a city a fine city to live in, whats make a city u always want to visit back, what makes a city u want to call it ur home , what makes a city your own?I have no answer.<br /><br />I have stayed in many cities, called them my own, become a part of it and finally made it a part of my life. Cities, which were not only different by geographies but different in respect to people and their food habbits, their likes, dislikes, politics, happiness and misery alike. Cities(some of them were actually towns)which were poor, destroyed each year by calamities but bounce back to celebrate the next day. I do think that it is not the richness of the city but the richness of the people, the happiness in their hearts, glee marked on their faces makes a city, "A Fine City".<br /><br />I dont have any qualms about singapore, its a lovely place with warm people, but there is something missing and that is the typical Indian character of making friendship with strangers. In India i was pleasantly surprised on every travel, with amount of personal information i used to gather, number of people whom i became acquianted with and the closeness i felt towards the whole human race. I do remember those bus rides to my village, when we used to ride in the rickety bus which was supposed to carry 60 but would be carrying 200. Still the people were happy, smiles all around. A three seater, without exception, used to hold 4 and then the talks will begin. Happy talks, religious talks, talks of misery, talks of pain.Some ruffian stole the fruits in one village, the neighbour is cheating on his wife with the washerman's daughter-in-law, the headman's daughter ran off with his driver, the priest eats mutton in the night, the ghost of nathu's 1st wife was seen near the pond and she was crying, lots other stories, lots other emotions, why not, when there is so much to life.<br /><br />I assume, this loose talk is because of our culture of self pity or may be it is because we are not sophisticated, in plain words just coarse. May be when India becomes richer, when all of us are rich, when we also have deep pockets, then may be we will stop talking, and may be start thinking, and become grumpy and sullen. I have travelled on these trains and each time I find people entring with serious faces, a newspaper or book in hand, earphones tugged in and an Ipod hanging around in them. The eyes dont betray emotions and the lips, those are sealed, the train filled to the brim with people is silent with an air of melancholy. My heart bellows a silent cry, it cries for the well remembered smiling faces, it cries for the faintly familiar din, the noise of the honking horns, the barking dogs, the willy cows which stop the traffic and the ubiquitos corrupt traffic policemen.<br /><br />My reviere was broken by a smiling cute little chinese girl, all of 4 years, dressed in pink, who was playing around. She was trying to stand without support and she fell so many times but she still tried to get up.The little pink bunny was throwing embrassed smiles and the cute dimples, i thought, touched the sullen hearts. I beemed to see that the landscape had change around me, all people around me were smiling and looking at the little girl, she was still playing around and they were remeniscing the past with her.The sullen faces still had hope, the sullen faces were no longer alien and the girl was still dancing, hope was still afloat.kafka's ghosthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10759533507727791879noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14983877.post-1122836048694759842005-07-31T09:48:00.000-07:002006-11-14T02:30:07.938-08:00Travels On The FootrestThe day was like anyother day, the sun up and shining , the earth down and brown and sky clear and blue. The only difference was , I was up at 6Am waiting for the connecting train to come.Having nothing else to do was wandering around , looking at the strewn books, flipping thru the old magazines and glancing around for a peek of some beautiful face which i was never to see again. Expecting to see pretty girls at 6 in the morning sounds stupid but isn't life about surprises which spice it up, anyways am an born optimist in this field ;)<br /><br />The train came as usual, i tried to look as sophisticated as i could and sat in my sleeper class seat. I kind of like that class, middle class people like me trying to make it big, acting all reserved but in heart of hearts waiting to tell the immediate neighbour about what their fantasies are. Anyways all those things dont matter to me much, for all i do on the train is sleep or when i open my eyes flip thru the magazine or sit on the footRest, listening to music.<br /><br />The day passed slowly, the sun came up, the train kept rolling and the oldlady sitting next to me had already told me that her grandson is in the states was making big money.I smiled throughOut, telling how happy i was for her but in my heart thinking ... "Who gives a sh**". More was yet to come, i knew next she will tell me about her intelligent granddaughter, and how can i forget that she hasnt bitched about her daughter-in-law too.I looked around saw two men discussing the elections that had just been held(I like India, here we have elections once every three months in some corner or other so that people have lots to remain excited about all thru the year), another old man was busy snoring in the upper berth oblivious to the happenings around and a pretty young girl going though her book, ignoring everyone else in the vicinity and avoiding my stares too.<br /><br />I knew nothing was going to happen there, so i begged excuse from the old lady, picked up my walkman and left to sit in the secluded footRest.The walkman was screaming "Country Roads Take me home" and i was getting nostalgic with memories flooding by. I was passing over some old bridge , there was water all around, all blue and it looked so lovely.I took out a one rupee coin and threw it in the river while wishing for the sun, an old habbit which will die with me.Looking at it i think that wishes are the hope which make us humans walk through all difficulties with ease, all the dreams which we think will be fulfilled are the anchor which makes us at bay in this storm of life. Big words but is what i think it is.<br /><br />The river had made way for the lush fields greenery all around, farmers tilling the field their wives helping them, kids playing in the mud, looked so beautiful. The dark fields, the lush new plants, the toiling farmers with sweat on their brows, the dutiful wifes looking at their husbands with concern , and the kids oblivious to all poverty playing and floricking in the mud. Some of these kids were waving at the train, i waved back.The train moved on to newer grounds, different colur of the ground, different people some with smiles on their faces ,some with faces stamped by frown, people who will remain nameless to me, people whose sadness nor happiness i can share, but people who exist somewhere oblivious to me as i remain oblivious to most other people. I kept on looking having nothing else to do, kept on waving back at the kids with glee, and kept on waiting for my destination to arrive.<br /><br />The fields had made way for the vast plains, with trees in sparse. The sun was becoming hotter by by the hour, but i remained rooted to my footRest looking ahead for newer sights to be seen. In the midst of nowhere under some shrub i saw a tiny little baby lying on the hard ground crying aloud. There was not a soul in sight,hoped that maybe his/her parents were working on the other side of the tracks. The train kept moving , and i kept looking back for someone to pick up the crying baby but there was none. In the distance a kite was hovering above hoping to swoop in to pick up its prey, not knowing what to do, i stood up hoping the kid was saved.<br /><br />I came back to my seat, the old lady was still talking about her kids and grandkids, the men were still discussing elections the pretty young lady was still acting busy in her book but the world had changed for me.I closed my eyes to the world raised the volume of the walkman and slept.<br /><br />With 1000 more Kms to go my journey had ended, my travels on the footRest had come to a stop, yet again.kafka's ghosthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10759533507727791879noreply@blogger.com3