A father and his daughter

This was a poem that I wrote in class XII on my father and the kind of relationship I share with him. I wondered if I could produce it here. So here it goes:

Me and my father are a perfect match,
Our arguments are worth hearing and a treat to watch.
We just need a topic that's all,
It does not matter whether it's big or small.

Whether India will see a new light,
Or it can be today's students' miserable plight.
The calories I burn is a regular issue,
In the end though none of us, but my mother needs a tissue.

I just love to argue with him,
So many topics in my mind regularly swim.
He too needs just a little hint,
In our debates, around the world we sprint.

Jules Verne took eighty days to go around the world,
Spare us just eighty seconds sir! Isn't it a record?
In the end, none of us wins,
Though the heat of our arguments burns people's skins.

In our home, you will never find a dove,
But spare that, we do each other love.
Without us, our home is barren, there's no laughter,
After all, he is my dad and I, his daughter.

Love you Dad. You are the first man in my life and there can be no other man who can take that place away from you. You will be the most important man in my life—forever. Come what may...

Perhaps...

A sun ray falls on the yellow petal of the flower and the dew drop so far resting on it, glistens with a new-found energy. He loved nature. It bestowed him with an enthusiasm for life, for its eccentricities and its playfulness. His muddled thoughts used to pave way to a peaceful and an uncluttered mind. His heart used to reach out to the dew drop, to kiss the yellow, sun-lit face of the flower.

The fact that a part of his life was gone never seemed to bother him. He looked forward to the next moment in the same way as a class topper looks forward to the next set of exams—to show off, to strut his stuff and to display to the world that he is the best, not through words but through actions.

And yet under this calm demeanour, there was a fear that lurked. It was not the fear of failure. It wasn’t the fear of death. It was the fear of unhappiness—an unhappiness that comes from disappointing those you love, an unhappiness that comes when you get disappointed with life. Perhaps, labelling the fear as that of unhappiness would be wrong. Perhaps, unhappiness should be substituted with disappointment.

Perhaps, life cannot be as simple as a dew drop’s life as much as he and we may want it to be.

In the process...

Life is good, but it could have been better. But then even Salman Khan could have been taller and Himesh Reshammiya tolerable. However, there is something that I miss profoundly, something that I find unable to express in words, maybe because am yet to figure out what it is.

There seems to be a void inside me that just refuses to be bridged with the other part of the soul. Even if I am busy, it makes its presence felt the moment I take a breather. And before people start using that l-word, I would like to clarify that such pangs never used to hit me before. It’s just that I find myself changing, growing more obstinate and unreasonable and the mood swings are getting more and more pronounced these days.

Those silent moments in a conversation are increasing. It makes me feel as if I have nothing more to say to anyone. This is happening to a "chuchu ka murabba" who could never cease talking even for a moment. I get into strange moods, doubt myself, and seem to be in search of something every moment—sometimes knowledge, sometimes peace.

Is it work pressure? I don’t think so. After all, I love my work and even though I get touchy about it, work pressure can never make me say and do things that I do not want to.

I want to stop for some time, stop and watch, stop and then move, explore myself and the world around. I think I have been running too much of late. My moments of peace seem to get disturbed every time. But I cannot stop, at least not right now; I have miles to go.

But really can anyone just explain to me what’s been happening all this while and why is this transformation taking place and that too at a speed which bewilders me?

Truckloads of Gibberish

The feeling is still to sink in. There’s this wonderful sunlight all around that is permeating through me. Everything seems so very distant and yet so far. The cup of contradictions seems to be overflowing—delighting me and saddening me all at once. A bed full of roses is not required at the moment; what is required is a hot cup of coffee.

Whatever has been written so far, is nothing but gibberish. But this is what I have been feeling. Gibberish—that’s what! I am unable to understand anything that’s been happening and is still happening. I am typing this stuff as if in a trance—as if I do not know anything that I am doing, Feeling mad. Let me feel more mad…

Asdaksdhkajhdfkfdsv dsfndsfosfjdsvnnbavsdv fa;gdfkaeifawej;fpqwefjarlnvga anfakdfanfdjfnakfmn nafkfaejiadrj;fvnbfjbvand akdfjalfnakdfrfa;dfjnbjaadpopawepdawe efa;fj orifgjarijfirajitharouekf vaifjaeifnagbgbdfaaufaure;fr arirejwojaerfgbalf aejfaerhfaunaf afefeuhaeufn;afnriafhairefnv neajfaepwrjiewfnv hfah;ejofahdlfjo;aj aeniehaehdlancarfhc aewfiefhaeruwfhav

That was a bit relieving.

Is this love? Have I fallen in the pit? Has the sting operation got me as well?


Hehehehehehehehe… don’t worry, nothing’s up with me. Just thought of giving some surprise to you guys and trick you all. I am absolutely well and doing fine indeed. The sting is still to trap me.

Life in Metro II—How to comb your hair in the train

If you do not have a mirror at your place, please do not worry. The Metro train is there to help all the hapless mirror-less poor souls in the dustbin of Delhi. Here's what you should do:

• Buy a Metro token for the metro train. It will be better if you have a smart card with you. Makes job easier and faster. Even more better if you take the token for the underground stretch.
• Press your token or card to that entry barrier-thing (Dunno what's it called. If anyone knows the correct name, please be kind enough to get back to me)
• Next thing, climb down (if you want you can climb upstairs as well. But if you really want to use the Metro train as a mirror, it would be better if you use the underground. Makes the peering job better). Use the escalator but it would be better if you make use of your natural escalators (your feet, silly boy/girl.. depends upon what you are. If you are none... then I am sorry, my English vocabulary ends here). Using both man-made and natural escalators together increases you speed (confused how? Well read Life in Metro Part I. Scroll down Honitus or save the agony of scrolling by clicking the link I have provided you lazybones).
• Wait for the Metro train to arrive. Many-a-times, it arrives 1-2 minutes late. If it is, then mouth some abuses at the driver. Trust me, that'll help.
• Rush into the Metro as most of your co-passengers do. If you are not that rush-type, then please stand back and enjoy the scene. Just make sure that you do not miss the train in your moment of enjoyment. If you do, start again with point number 4.
• Now that you are inside the train, I will tell you the position of the mirror. It is the glass of the doors my dear friends. Brace yourself for the most difficult part: the combing itself. Just try and stand near the gates and it'll be fine. It would be better of you stand near that gate that remains closed throughout the journey. The logic behind this is that since the other set of gates would keep opening and closing and a swarm of medieval Red Indians will keep coming in, chances are that you won't be able to comb your hair and the entire exercise would be rendered fruitless.
• With a hand on the handle, try peering into the glass and straightening your hair. The effects will be visible better if you are in the underground stretch. The darkness always helps. *wink*wink*
• Now your hair stand combed and you are ready to face the world. Who says the world needs a mirror? The metro is enough.

P.S. As a precaution, try not to step on the passenger standing next you while doing your hair. Just hold the handle tight so that you do not fall. Otherwise, there may not be any hair left on your scalp for you to comb.

I would like to express my gratitude to the anonymous co-passenger whom I met in the underground stretch and who demonstrated the elegant way in which the above exercise can be conducted. Thank you sir. May God bless your soul and may the Metro train glasses be spotlessly cleaned everyday to enable you to do this exercise daily and demonstrate your expertise in handling such delicate situations.

Some Cribs and a Wish List

Although I had promised that I am not going to crib before the year ends, something absolutely forced me to crib again.

Ø I am unable to understand what’s up with my lenses. Every time I wear them, my right eye becomes watery and forces me to fill buckets. It grows red giving me a dopey look. It has also made my right eye look smaller than my left one. Hell! Interestingly, I cry only with one eye (the right one of course) and seeing the condition of the eye, the nose starts crying and running at the same time.

Ø Another thing that is troubling me is my boss’s attitude. He treats me like an outcaste and a fathead who doesn’t understand anything. He makes me feel that my dad wasted his money by in trying to educate me as I am (he thinks so) still an uneducated ass.

Ø Why does my father insist on occupying the bathroom only after 8:30 am? Why not around 8:25 am? He should understand that now even I have to go to office and it’s not just him who’s working now. Is he aware that a word called ‘adjustment’ exists in the world?

Ø Why does Tanaz have to say “so sweet” to every darned thing?

Most people make resolutions for the New Year, I am making a Wish List and I hope that the chap who lives in the skies and calls himself God fulfills these wishes. Here goes the list:

Ø I wish that my college and college mates behave properly with me and try to understand that it is hateful to keep on thinking about their own selves and comfort.

Ø I wish that Delhi Jal Board does not goof up on the water supply in our locality so that we are not forced to go to the temple a street away to fill our buckets and that my grandmother sees the logic behind my so many arguments on leaving this locality for good.

Ø I wish that my lenses stop troubling my eyes and try not to turn them into hosepipes.

Ø I wish that my boss stops behaving like that.

Ø I wish that my father occupies the bathroom by 8:25 in the morning and vacates it by 8:50.

Ø I wish that I get lectured less from now on.

Ø I wish Tanaz stops saying “so sweet” to every darned thing.

Ø I wish my hypocrisy level goes down by the same time next year.

Ø I wish that I will have fewer reasons to crib next year.

Ø I wish that God grants me two more wishes the next year just in case I need to ask for more.

Cheers and wish you all a very Happy New Year!

Life in the Metro

This has been a rather frustrating end of the year. However, I want to end it on a humorous note. So, now I present a little anecdote from my life in the Metro (Metro as in the Metro train), though I must admit my Haryanvi language is extremely bad. So my apologies.

As usual the day began with lectures—that how I do not exercise and stuff like that. As usual I ignored it and settled down with the newspaper and shouted at my brother to stop bothering me with his set of Maths problems (Maths and I hardly go together and nor can we tolerate each other. I refuse to solve its problems and its problems just refuse to be solved by me). Anyways, we are digressing from the topic. Finally got ready to go to office after wondering what to wear today as everything that was staring at me from my wardrobe was O! so boring! The water as usual was hot and I was still feeling cold. After dressing up in all the finery and having had a typical unexciting breakfast of bread and butter with Bournvita milk, I stepped out of my house armed with a P.G. Wodehouse to read in the Metro. As usual I contemplated what mode of transport should I use—rickshaw or bus. I settled down in favour of the bus thinking that since it is winters, I would be better off in a warm bus, even if it is crowded, rather than a windy rickshaw. So left-right-left (I had just watched this programme on TV. The effects were still to wear off. The programme is about army cadets and features quite a number of eye-candies. Anyways, back to the topic again) I went to the bus-stop, boarded the bus and thanked God that it wasn’t too crowded and mentally uttered abuses at a few gawk-ers (Lord! How I hate such people) and finally reached the Metro station.

Again the usual—huffing and puffing, I finally climbed the stairs of the Metro station (They do not make escalators in our part of the metro station. This is what happens to the minority community in this country— injustice. The number of people who travel in the Metro from our part of the station is smaller than the other side—this makes us the minority community among the Metro travellers. We want reservation! We want reservation! Hopefully I will get a seat in the train from now on). Oho! Again we digress. Coming back, this time I got the escalator and climbed up. You see, that makes it quick—climbing the escalators with the escalator climbing in the same direction takes you up faster (This is Nobody’s Devil Law of Motion! But I hate Physics too!). And so I am on the platform now. The train arrives 1 minute late and I mentally reprimand the driver for being “so” late forgetting that it is India we live in. Then as usual, I stand back bemused watching the way in which people are trying to get into the train, literally pushing and pulling each other as if the train is going to leave them there and the next train isn’t going to come. I make a mental note of this and nod to myself in a righteous sort of way that at least I am not a part of this rat race quite forgetting the fact that it is me who has made an effort to remember the exact point on the platform where a door of the train opens.

(And now for the real bit) After being successful in finding my favourite place to stand in the train, I look around just to make sure nobody is gawking at me (if I had found such a person, I would have taken the pleasure of calling him a few names as well. Sadistic! One may say. However, I have found a new victim for that—my boss). Then I fished out my P.G., as I lovingly call it, and started reading. The train keeps halting at Metro station and moving again, as it is supposed to do. Comes: Pratap Nagar Metro Station. Enter: Mr. Haryanvi Jaat.

Mr Haryanvi Jaat (let’s call him HJ just like that weirdo Michael Jackson—MJ or maybe Mary Jane of Spiderman fame): Oh bhai! Ye Shahadra jayegi k nahi? [Will this train go to Shahadra?]
Helpful Passenger: Haan haan jayegi tau. [Yes, yes, it will uncle]
(Methought: Is it a f*****g bus?)

HJ is unable to balance himself. Falls on the passenger standing nearby who is looking distraught at having been relegated to such a torture. I, meanwhile, try to contain my laughter.

HJ: Ib is goley ka k karoon main? [What am I supposed to do with this token. Please note, the gola in question is the Metro token?]
Helpful Passenger: Is ko jab Shahadra utrogey tab dabbe me daal dena. [When you arrive at Shahadra, put it in the box].
HJ: Ye Shahadra jayegi na? [Will this go to Shahadra or not?]
(Methought: How many times are you going to ask that? Shut up now and let me read! The fool!)

The guy standing opposite to me is gaping at HJ in wonder contemplating whether he belongs to some other planet. I grin at him. He doesn’t grin back, clearly lost in thoughts. (Methought: Of course HJ belongs to the other planet—Haryana. Now that was a racial slur. Bad girl!)
By now it seemed that Helpful Passenger had gotten tired of him.

Helpful Passenger: Tau Metro me zyada bolna mana hai. [Uncle speaking too much is banned in Metro]
But HJ is damn smart.
HJ: Ib dikha de k kidhar likha hai Silence. [Show me where is it written: Silence, obviously he meant Maintain Silence.] (But this was no time to display my subbing skills. There was too much excitement on the ground, or maybe in the air, or mid-air. Oh whatever! Just read on!)

Repeats the dialogue a number of times, much to the amusement of the people around.
(Methought: This guy is just too cool. I am his fan. Autograph please!)

HJ: Acha beta! Manne ye bata k je tumhara thaila kho jaye, to kahan report likhwani padti hai. Mera thaila kho gaya tha pichli baar Metro me. K wo mil jayega? [Son! Tell me where should I report if I lose my bag in the Metro. I lost my bag last time here. Will I get it back?]

By now it seemed to me as if Helpful Passenger was in a mood to have fun with HJ.

Helpful Passenger: Tau agar paise honge to kabhi na milega. [If it had money, you will never find it]
HJ: Na beta. Paise na the. Bas kuch kagaz they, kachcha aur baniyan tha. [It did not have money. It had a pair of undergarments]
Helpful Passenger: Driver se pooch lena. [Ask the driver].
(Methought: The driver must be wearing your kachcha [underwear] and baniyan [vest] right now. That too over this pants playing Superman. Now that was an old joke)

In between the conversation, HJ had already asked whether the train will go to Shahadra at least once more. While most of us were getting down at Kashmiri Gate (wonder why Kashmiri Gate. Kashmir is in Jammu and Kashmir, not in Delhi), he asked once more the same question.

(Methought: If he says it once more, I am gonna scream and say... No, this one goes to Timbaktu)

To add to it....

Still more to add to my existing frustrations, this is what has been happening:

Ø There has been no water supply since 3 days. My grandmother refuses to leave this damned place and refuses to see the problems her children and grandchildren are facing without water. Had it been peak summer, I would have understood that there is shortage of water, but it is winters now. Areas around our locality are facing no such problems, then why only us? Everyday we have to fetch water from the temple a lane away—which has got a water booster—and carry the water to the first floor. Last year in the summers we had faced similar problems. Water had eluded us for 10 days at a stretch. I am sick of this locality, sick of this darned Haiderpur gaon.

The other day, I shouted hard at God, called him names and told him if I had friends like him, then I am better off without enemies. But he doesn't listen. There are enemies. Why is he like that?

Reasons why I am frustrated...

Ø I am going to miss out on an office party. Reason—practical exam for a subject that is just about useless and is called Radio Programme Formats. when the name of the paper is so dull and drab that one can very well imagine the content of the subject. And for such a subject, I am going to miss out on a rocking office party. :( :( :(

Ø This makes me regret why, in the first place, did I agree to join the stupid course. Why did I give in? I have nothing but my own weakness to blame for the same. But there is no use crying over spilt milk now. What had to occur has occurred and it cannot be changed as much as I may want a time machine to make the necessary changes.

Ø Another thing and this one is not my fault—that college is crap. My 54 grand stands wasted. The machines do not work properly and if they do, there is no electircity and there are no generators in our part of the world (read: campus. The other parts have been connected with the generator but it is only the Centre for Media Studies that has been singled out for this step-motherly treatment. If I try and be liberal, the faculty is just about average. We have been left like orphans, trying to find our feet in the University on our own with no one to help us. The weekend programme has been converted into a weekday programme to complete all the pending work beacuse the studios were not ready on time and we lost at least 2 months. Just to make the grim picture complete, the authorities have been made to feel as if we are not serious about our studies. I mean what the hell!

Ø On top of it all, my parents are not ready to admit that taking admission into this Goddamn university was a mistake. They feel they have done the right thing. One gets post-graduate degrees in any damned correspondence course from any non-descript university and that too in peanuts if it was just the degree that they were interested in. But no… they are always correct.

Yeah, I am frustrated. Anyone will be. Everything seems to predict just doom. Doom Doom Doom and Boom, I just blew up. Some day IP University, you are gonna pay. And I will make sure that day comes soon.

The friends who weren't

Life charts its own course and there are things that are beyond your control. This is what Bhavya learnt the wrong way. A strong personality and a real hot-headed one too, she really trusted her friends. Although in school, she had always felt alone, she used to help her friends with their homework and all. She had been waging a battle against herself from the time she felt she had grown-up and her parents thought that she hadn’t. So, she decided in her parents’ favour and decided she hadn’t. She did whatever she was told, and learnt to keep a tight control over her needs and desires. She learnt how to pretend that she was happy, when she was not. She felt like committing suicide.

These friends of hers were her lifeline. They managed to keep her alive and kicking during those difficult days. They were able to bring a genuine smile on her lips even though her heart used to cry out at all times. Although she never told them her real feelings because she knew they wouldn’t understand, Bhavya still lived her life and tried to do that happily. She knew that these friends weren’t for real, that they would go away once they reached the first crossroad, but still she felt comforted in an odd manner. Perhaps, it was the fact that there were some people, who though cannot provide comfort, can at least provide her laughter though a short-lived one. She yearned for those bouts of laughter. Her fiery ways were gone as she was too busy trying to fight with herself and to hide her real feelings from the world outside—a world in which her parents lived and lived these so-called-friends. She helped them whenever she could, even though she knew she was being used. She let it happen and to feel happiness in a true manner, turned to books like Harry Potter, which although were a bit flighty in character, nonetheless, provided her the warmth of friendship.

Time passed by and it was time for the crossroad. She was thrown in a state of confusion, whether to be happy or to feel sad. However, it seemed that Mother Nature was smiling on her and she finally got what she wanted. Her parents deciding that she had finally grown-up, allowed her what she really wanted. She got it. She was ecstatic but had really no one except her parents to share her joy with as all her so-called-friends had deserted her and had become busy with their own careers. She didn’t blame them, for partly she was happy that this was a new beginning of sorts. And it was. She made new friends— good friends, real friends—who loved her for what she was, re-discovered herself. Discovered that she could be good, that there are people who respected her and her beliefs. That made Bhavya strong. That self-esteem which had taken a beating, raised its head yet again. She learnt how to live and live happily. Came another crossroad, but this time the friends remained with her. What’s more, she found a means to re-connect to her so-called-friends.

She got a job. She met those so-called-friends through Orkut. She thought may be we can really be friends this time. She met them quite some times and thought that they can be real good friends. But guess what, Mother Nature had thought of something else this time too. She gave a good dressing down to a school mate one day on what she thought and felt was wrong. But guess what, it turned out that the guy was one of the popular ones, and now nobody can come and take her side. Those people feel embarrassed to even wish her. They feel Bhavya is wrong, they feel she should not have said so. They know she is a strong girl and would not care about what they say and may be even give them a dressing down, they have left her alone. No one to talk to. Guess, she was wrong yet again. Guess, she again chose wrong people to be friends with. Guess, all those people are wrong about her as she still cares. Stop caring, will you? Be strong as always Bhavya, there are people in this world who care for you. Stop looking for those who were never there.

hehehehehehehehe

http://next-stop-insanity.blogspot.com

ENJOY!!!!!!!!!

Wanted to say something

Just wanted to say that it would be better if the readers of my blog post their names along with their comments. Just can't stand this anonymous thingy please. Not really in my nature to stand all kinds of suspense that anonymous posts bring with them. I am that sort of a person who reads the last pages of a mystery novel first just to know who-done-it. And imagine what sort of a torture you guys are inflicting on your poor devil by posting anonymous comments.

So, put down your real names please. I am not going to eat you up. See, am a pseudo-vegetarian. I do not eat non-veg until really forced to.

Miles to go...

The woods are lovely dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

-By Robert Frost

(Quoted from his poem: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening)

The sting

Yesterday while observing the people around me in the Metro train and looking for a story to put here, a sudden thought struck me. Considering the fact that I have been solving a lot of love-related problems over the week, I think I have become quite a pro. So yesterday I was merely thinking, what exactly is love. Pop comes the answer—it's a sting operation.

Just when your defences are on the lowest, it attacks you and that too at the most sensitive area—the heart. Just like in a sting operation, the journalist attacks a personality when his defences are at the lowest and at the most sensitive place—his fame, love does the same. The sting scars the personality's fame, love scars the heart. The heart bleeds and the fame bleeds.

One look at your face betrays the fact that you are in love; one look at the personality's face betrays that this is the bad guy. And you know that once you are in love, the news is sure going to leak—if not now, then at some other time, and you are gone. Same way, the news that you have done something wrong is going to leak any way. So an interesting comparison also crops up: LOVE=BAD GUY. And when you are a bad guy, the sting is deemed to follow.


And both—sting operation and love hurt. Both give you sleepless nights and both give you illusions of happiness. When the sting takes place, the celebrity feels happy as they have got a victim, you feel happy as you think you have found someone who may love you. But when reality dawns, life gets hell, and you go mad.

So beware, beware of the sting of love. And protect yourself.

Song that celebrates life

Ever heard of this song from Hum Dono. This is a Sahir Ludhianvi creation and can best describe the way life should be led.

Main Zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya... Har fikr ko dhuen me udata chala gaya...

A song that conveys the essence of life. One shouldn't let worries bog us down and continue to live life as if nothing happened.

Barbadiyon ka soudh manana fizool tha... barbadiyon ka jashn manata chala gaya...
Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya... har fikr ko dhuen me.....

This is how you should take failures. One shouldn't let failure distract you from the real goal. Like sucess, failure also teaches us something and thus, should be a cause for happiness as well.

Jo mil gaya usi ko muqaddar samajh liya... jo kho gaya main usko bhulata chala gaya...
Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya... har fikr ko dhen me....

This is how you should losses. There is nothing on this Earth which is worth crying for; nothing without which you cannot live. Even if you loose something, that pain shouldn't keep you off from trying to attain greater heights.

Gham aur khushi me fark na mehsoos ho jahan... main dil ko us muqaam par laata chala gaya...
Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya... har fikr ko dhen me....

This is how you should handle happiness and sadness. One should't feel too elated in happiness and too dejected during times of distress.

However, this doesn't mean that you start living a mechanical life. One can be still human enough without letting small things bother us. Just remember nothing can be greater than life itself.

In want of something

It’s just today I felt like writing something. Unable to find a real topic, I really don’t know what I am doing. It’s just this feeling of being able to write that gives me a high. But suddenly this feeling engulfs me—there are people who are unable to read and write, people who are still in the clutches of a disease called illiteracy, people who are still unable to get a high that I derive from being able to write. Even after we have entered the 21st century, even when we go on and on about India being on the brink of being a superpower, I see those kids clutching a bag full of rags, shivering in the harsh Delhi winter.

The government is trying, but what about us? Are we doing anything about this? We do feel outrage at the sight of these kids and people, but that feeling of outrage ebbs away when we step back into our own lives, we forget all about them as the humdrum of our lives gets too loud for us to hear the questions that their eyes ask of us. That feeling of kindness slowly and steadily gives way to indifference. We move away because by that time our ears have been rendered a little deaf by that loud noise of our life; but only a little as we can hear the noise not the whisper.

And then there are the complaints. The complaints about not having enough to lead a comfortable life; ask them what it means to be comfortable. For them it means being able to eat two decent meals, getting proper clothes to wear and a sound roof on there heads. Even that we haven’t been able to provide these people.

Okay, it seems the writing fever is wearing down. And me, it seems am slowly getting back to my old self; to that daily humdrum of life, too deaf to listen to their silent pleads for help and care. Back to my old guiltless self now.

P.S. It seems I finally found a topic to write on.

That Wretched feeling

Sometimes this feeling of worthlessness creeps in your heart, casting a chill on all the other feelings. It makes you feel dreadful; it makes you feel negative and unable to understand anything that is going on in your life. You are unable to concentrate and get over it. Something or the other consistently bogs you down. And you… you just want to run away. Run away from everything and everyone who does that you to you; run away to a place that offers you the warmth of friendship and laughter. You long for a friend to come to your rescue and take you away to a place where nobody makes you feel uncomfortable, nobody discourages you and makes you feel wretched. Is there a place that can take this refugee and provide all the comfort and warmth, just to make her little heart feel a little less dreary?

A few questions...

Where do you belong… I mean which state? What’s your caste? What religion do you belong to? These are the first questions that one is asked.

How does it matter where I belong? Is it really important to know which state I am from? How much does my religion play a role in my being a good or a bad person? Why does my caste matter so much? I have often seen my mother bobbing up and down whenever someone mentions that they are a Bhatnagar, she seems so happy just to meet them as if they belong to her family. I feel a pang of pain whenever she says that she won’t give her daughter to a Saxena family. Heaven forbid if I fall in love with a Muslim or a Scheduled Caste. She doesn’t look amused whenever my dad even jestingly says that he will marry me to a Scheduled caste as that would be a quite advantageous for my kids.

People say that India is the most discriminating society in this world. And I seem to agree. We may all rave about the tolerance levels of our country, about how secular we are, about how India is a country of unity in diversity, that how so many cultures are blended within that Indianness, that how we are one; the truth is that we may be one but that one betrays the many decimals that make that number, the cultures may have blended but there are people who seem to know just how to disintegrate that blend, there may be unity but sometimes the diversity defeats that unity, our secularism betrays signs of pseudo-secularism, and the tolerance levels are nothing to rave about. Gujarat witnesses small communal riots on a daily basis, which largely go unreported. Malegaon in Maharashtra is a communal tinderbox.

Why is it that today every Muslim is looked upon with a suspicious gaze? Why is it that many Christians do charity in the name of their religion? Why is it that Hindus are treated as second-rate citizens here? Why is it that vote-bank politics as well caste-based politics is still practiced in India? We get the leaders that we deserve and today our politics and politicians are playing politics of hatred, then we are to blame. We do vote on caste and religion lines.

Why? It is time, perhaps, that we ask ourselves these questions before it gets too late. Too late for us to be called a nation.

A Crazy Saturday Morning

Sitting at the back and listening to a crazy woman speaking, can be like hell. But yes, being a devil, I am able to take things pretty comfortably at this point of time. That is beacuse, I am not really listerning to whatever crap she's belting out.

The crazy woman is talking about attitude, speaking all wrong English. I am trying to control my urge to go ahead and correct her. Hearing someone using all sorts of cliches like a glass of water half empty or half full, can seriously get you. But the fact that I am able to write without her noticing it, has come something as a fresh breeze of air. As it is the weather outside is so very 'sexy' (as my good friend Priyanka describes), I am really restraining myself to ask her to stop blabbing away.

She's asking me to bear with her, but I think that I really can't grant her that privilege. She's a nobody for me, and I don't think I can love her as a teacher because this God damn course has made me give up my weekends. And I hate anyone and anything that makes me do that. I love my weekends and giving them up is a pain in the most uncompfortable part (I think you know what part am talking about).

As another of my uncle-cum-classmate walks in, I wonder what made me crazy enough to give up my weekends just to let this shit of a woman spoil it by chattering her heart away. On this crazy Saturday, I can do nothing except repent at my foolhardyness

The villain

Say villain and the first image that comes to the mind is:
Gabbar Singh saying, "Kitne aadmi they."
And then, Amrish Puri. "Mogambo khush hua."
Gulshan Grover. "Bad Man."
Shahrukh Khan. "K-K-K-K-Kiran" (Uff, the stutterer)

The last example is something that is very true to all love stories. Where is a love story, there is a villain. All the problems that occur in the love story are because of that villain. The vilalin will surface after the honeymoon period is over and leave behind a tale of destruction, agonies and loades of tears. (Sniff... Sniff... Pass that tissue please... The villain will leave behind a trail of trissues too.)

In Munnabhai MBBS, the villain was +(no, you guessed it wrong... it wasn't Boman Irani) Dr. Suman's love for her father.
In Page 3, it was the guy's ambition and his unscrupulous ways who were the villain.
In Darr, it was Shahrukh Khan.
In Padosan, it was Bhola's inability to sing.

Moving on to the world of books. In Romeo and Juliet, the lovers' families were the villains. In Harry Potter, it is Harry's destiny. In Othello, it was Iago who was the villain. Closer home, in Ramayana, it was Ravana who was the villain. (O a personal note though, I would rather have Ravana than three mothers-in-law.) In Devdas, it was the caste system that was the villain.

In my world, there have been several villains too. Although I have never been the protagonist of the love stories (more of the extra character), I have seen things going horribly wrong. The villains were: the physical distance between the two, the tendency to lie, libido, a troubled past, family.

Wonder who would be the villain if I am the protagonist of a love story. Hmmm hmmm hmmm. Eureka!!! I know it. It;s gonna be the devil and that's me, me, me.

A dangerous game may soon begin... (Abhishek Bachchan's dad. Oh! I love Abhishek Bachchan. Now if only I get him, I promise not to play villain.)