Macro

The Letter

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It was the cold february evening of 2005 when I had just scampered from the parking lot to the entrance of my building. It was a very cold evening, and even with multiple layers of clothes and gloves on my hands, I couldnt wait to get into the building. Our building has two glass doors, one of them which opens automatically leading you to a enclosure, and another door through the enclosure to which an access key is required. As I fumbled to get the keys out of my pockets, since my hands were gloved, the mand behind conceirge desk noticed me and opened the door himself; this was usual – the conceirge desk has full view of people in the enclosure and will many a times open the access door themselves. This usually leads to a “thank you” and then “how’re you doing?” and “its cold/hot/sunny/rainy” discussion with some pleasantries.

Right behind the conceirge desk also lie mail boxes for each appartment – they are different from the normal mailboxes in the sense that these boxes are used only for official purposes and handling of notices from management staff. On any other cold night, if I had opened the door myself I wouldnt have stopped to say hi-hellos, but since the man behind had done the deed, I had to make an obligatory nice talk to him. As I thanked and walked towards him to chat with him, I noticed that all the boxes had a yellow envelope stuck in. Must be another useless notice of fire alarm testing or water pump repairs, I thought while offering my pleasantries to the man.

After indulging myself in yet another small nice talk, the man handed over the yellow envelope meant for my appartment to me – the first look at it, and something about it stuck as odd – normally, building notices wouldnt come to us in such a polite way, but rather on a whilte plain paper with bold fonts – this was a proper evenlope, and there was certainly a letter inside. Must be another of those please-donate-to-building letters I amused myself (ever notice how all charity letters are always politely wrapped in a nice envelope whilst notices are always on a plain paper shouting at you on the face?), and decided to take a look at it once I entered my appartment.

Tearing open the letter in my appartment, I was in for a surprise. This was not a building notice, nor was it a charity letter. It was a “Thank You” letter, addressed personally to me. By the building manager – Elena.

Elena had written that Thank You letter, neatly typed on a nice cream colored paper. As I read on however, it was clear that it was more of a “Goodbye” letter than a Thank You letter. I must admit that she was an excellent writer. Elena was leaving her position as a building manager and would now join college to pursue her degree.

I was surprised – Elena looked old enough to be mother of three; and it intrigued me that why would she leave a good job and join a college again. I kept reading.

Elena talked about the wonderful time she had had in the building and the wonderful people she had met. She briefly mentioned about her co-workers and the work she did. And then she also delved on why at this stage of her life, she had made a decision to pursue a degree in college. Elena always dreamed of pursuing a college degree, but as bad luck would have it, she couldnt finish her college. She had to work her way up to where she was, and it had taken her many long years of her life to do it. But now, it was time for her to stop, go back, and achieve what she had really set out to do when she was younger. It had kept bothering her many a times about not being able to finish her degree and not being able to explore or use her education to something else.

Hence she had made the decision that she would leave the job and go back to college to pursue her degree, finish it and then take her life from there. She wished all of us good luck, thanked us for supporting her, and looked for our wishes in her times ahead when she would go back to college – to begin again. To start a new life, again.

She ended and signed off the letter, with a beautiful line:

“Its never too late to be what you want to be.”

Months ahead, I have lost the letter, but I have not forgotten the content or the message at the end of it. The last line had made me moist even that day – it was the inspiration I had been looking for in my worst times during my weight-loss journey. I had barely begun running, and I was being down with injuries, tiredness and the general sense of failure that I would not be able to reach my goal. And yet, this beautiful piece of line helped me during those times when I felt it was not worth it, or that it was not humanely possible for me to lose weight or when I had to take injury timeouts. I always looked back at that last line and then thought about how many times in my life had I wished i was thin and athletic instead of fat and obese, and yet how many times had I demotivated myself from doing anything about it. Whilst it seemed silly that when half the world around me supported me during those times, it was that line that inspired me the most.

When I think about it now, I have begun to feel that unless inspiration comes from within yourself, it does not matter how much the world supports you or not. Sometimes, somethings as irrelevant as a goodbye letter has the power to motivate you – you just have to look. Once I found the inspiration within myself, it didnt matter what happened around me anymore.

That line helps me to this day, and will forever – there are a thousand things that I didnt do that I wished I had done earlier. A thousand dreams that I wished I lived through earlier. A million things I could have been.

The good part about it though: it’s never going to be too late to be what I want to be.

Truer words were not spoken!

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(via Desipundit)

Some journalist (Shoban Saxena) from TOI has taken the desi bloggers to task in his article. As expected the desi blogosphere which is already brimming with more egoistic elites than it can handle, have not take his comments lightly. Even more expectedly, the usual suspects (Amit, Shivam and co) have responded in kind (trust me they are boring and nothing worth linking). I am expecting more famous “bloggers” to make their case felt.

Head over to Desipundit – they are constantly updating their feeds from reactions from expert panelists who must speak for us, and catch up on all the debate – (If you need to that is :P)

Though, the point of this post is not that. While I AGREE with most of what Shoban Saxena has to say, the ending comment was simply piece-de-cake (eh?).

I whole heartedly subscribe to this priceless comment:

“It’s easy to dismiss journalism as literature in a hurry, but blogging is just organised gossip.”

Jassi Comes to USA

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Ugly Ugly Betty Jassi

…in form of Ugly Betty. Catch it on Thursdays at 8.00 pm on ABC.

A 2 minute search revealed, both Betty and Jassi are umm remake of “Yo Soy Betty La Fea”

And for a few brief moments I almost felt Betty was inspired by Jassi!

And I must mention, the original Betty is the ugliest of them all! There. (The one featured in this post).

Damn!

Herge, the Genius. Part 2

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That I am a huge fan of Herge and Tintin is no big secret, but I came across something very recently (as recently as 2 days ago), while I was reading Tintin and Picaros, for the n-th time probably.

Note the image below – General Tapioca along with Tintin are now going to Tapiocapolis to take over the evil government dressed as circus clows – The air is full of festivities and its carnival atmosphere. Given Herge’s genius in carving minute details in such large canvas, to look for something unusual.

And unusual did I find 🙂 – If you notice carefully, somewhere in this carnival, you will see:

Asterix.

Yes. Asterix – I had least expected to find Asterix in a Tintin comic – given that they both existed around the same time, and both of them were equally famous in their own realm, I had never thought about the possibility of Tintin and Asterix being together. But then I guess, its only fair that this was bound to happen, and be very cleverly hidden by Herge’s artists.

Funnily enough, a little google search revealed that this favor was returned by Albert Uderzo in Asterix in Belgium (pretty appropriate when one would think about it!)

And who features from Tintin – land? No one else, but Thomson and Thomson – with a P.

(Original image from here)

Discover: Kent

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Although relatively unknown outside of Sweden or perhaps Europe, Kent since its early inception as an indie-rock band has been a hugely successful and popular band, especially in Sweden. I discovered Kent last year through Pandora, when the song “Sundance Kid” came up as one of the songs in my Coldplay radio station.

The first time I heard Sundance Kid, I was floored. It was just I had been waiting to hear on my play-list. I am a firm believer that music knows no language – hence the fact it was a Swedish song or a Swedish band didn’t matter. I was hooked to the song, the tune, the guitars, and the electric techno-rock. Mentally I had made up my mind to dig up more on Kent later.

Over the year and much listening, I have to say this: Kent is to Sweden as U2 is to Ireland or Coldplay to England. The fact that I am clubbing them with U2 and Coldplay doesn’t mean they are as good as both of them (nor is Coldplay as good as U2), but they come pretty close.

Both Coldplay and U2 however have one big advantage over Kent in that their language of choice has been English, a huge factor when coming to universal acceptance. Kent tried twice to re-record their albums in English for English audience; unfortunately the effort showed that they are clearly not comfortable in the English language. It is not much of a surprise then that the only reviews and 5-star ratings you read on Amazon for their albums stem out of English speaking population who heard of Kent either through their Swedish friends or in most cases listened to them in Sweden itself.

Mentioning about the band’s history and acting a smart ass is pretty much useless, as much of band’s progress, history, singles, #1s have all been covered in great detail on Wikipedia , and if you did be interested, you should definitely check it out about the band’s progress. What I do want to say here is why I like their music and why it has appealed to me more than any of recent European rock bands.

The first reason I like them, is well, they are a European rock band. That European rock rocks is a given; Almost all American rock bands sound like one another in recent times (Save for Red Hot Chilli Peppers), and frankly it’s a puzzle to figure out if a certain song was sung by Audioslave, Nickleback, Snow Patrol or Creed – they sound just the same! Contrast this to Europe – U2, Coldplay, Radiohead, Oasis – need I even say anything about any of them? And may I add another to that list – Kent.

The second reason I loved Kent is their style of music is follows a very techno-rock style, which I have come to be addicted to. Heavy beats with rock-ass guitars form a base for most (make that almost all) songs – clearly Kent knows their strength, and plays according to them. One can argue that they may not bring the variety to table as other European bands, but I am not complaining – because what they do, they do exceedingly well.

Another reason I highly recommend Kent is the lead vocals by Joakim Berg; I was highly impressed that their songs didn’t really need him to use false-highs to sing in high pitch (something which Chris Martin, does, and does very well). His English renditions don’t sound as appealing as Swedish (though I don’t understand a word), but one cant complain about his vocals in his native language. Like Bono, Berg would be another candidate I could listen to on and on.

Most of their music would be seem like a toned down version of Rammtien, but that is what sets apart Kent. While still using similar style, Kent could as easily be inspired by Coldplay (to some extent – though both bands came out together around the same time – so its not possible to say who inspired whom), U2 and most notably Radiohead. Interstingly, although its rock music at its core, most of Kent’s music can as easily be disguised as perfect dance tracks.

At this point you may wonder that I have gone on and on about Kent, without mentioning an album or single yet.

Kent has consistently dished out one good album after another, and I find it actually difficult to pinpoint any one album as a brilliant – they are all up with one another, but my personal favorite has to be Vapen & Ammunition. On the heels would be what many consider their back to back masterpieces – Isola and Hagnesta Hill (both of which were released in English versions which went unnoticed). They released their 5th album last year titled Du & Jag Doden, which again continues in the same vein, and contains a lot many hits. They also released a b-sides album, which frankly speaking contains so many good songs that many fans wonder if it actually deserved to be a b-side album.

While almost all their songs are good to great to brilliant, and I have hardly come across any band song by them, here’s a quick list of my favorite songs from Kent, which has dominated my music player for a while now.

Song (Album)

FF (Vapen & Ammunition)
Socker (Vapen & Ammunition)
Karleken Vant Ar (Vapen & Ammunition)
Dom Andra ( Vapen & Ammunition)
Parlor (Vapen & Ammunition)
Sundance Kid (Vapen & Ammunition)
Jag Vill Inte Vara Rddd (Kent)
Heavenly Junkies (Hagnesta Hill)
Music Non Stop (Hagnesta Hill)
The King is dead (Hagnesta Hill)
Mannen I Den Vita Hatten (Du & Jag Doden)
Romeo Atervander Ensam (Du & Jag Doden)
Max 500 (Du & Jag Doden)
Palace & Main (Du & Jag Doden)
Du Var Min Arme (Du & Jag Doden)
Den Doda Vinkeln (Du & Jag Doden)
400 Slag (Du & Jag Doden)

Do give Kent a try. You won’t be disappointed!

Vande Mataram

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It was the year 1995, the last year we would be in “school”, the 12th standard. Thanks to schooling system in Gujarat, unlike many other states, 11th and 12th were not pre-university colleges, but still schools, which meant we were not really college material, yet, but school kids, who needed to be taught and guided. I studied in a catholic school those years, which had a healthy mix of Christian, Hindu and Muslim students. The school also housed in what must be one of the most peaceful places around the campus – the church.

It was patriotic singing competition time during that year, near August 15th. After endless debates about which song to be sung, ultimately my class, class XII A decided we would do a rendition of Vande Mataram from an old Hindi film, and add a bit of our vocals. We practiced day in and out – several fellows provided the background with the tabla, the keyboard and the guitars, while one girl who had a good voice would hold high pitch that Lata Mangeshar does in the original. After the trials before the event with other competitors, it was pretty evident that we would be amongst the top contenders.

On 15th of August, when we sang the song in the patriotic day celebrations, the school and the judges were enthralled. As expected, we won that competition, making it a memorable 15th of August for us.

2006.

Nearly 11 years later when I learnt about the events surrounding the controversy of singing Vande Mataram, I was deported back to those days of my school. In that bunch of school kids who sang Vande Mataram that day were Muslim kids, Hindu kids, and Christian kids. The lead vocalist was a Christian without whom we would have not clinched it. Hindu kids rubbed shoulders with Muslim kids singing “sujalam suphalam malayaja sheetalam”, in chorus, while our background musicians gave great fillers with their instruments. It was a team effort, truly, by the “class” of 12th standard students. Who could have cared if the song addressed a man, a woman, a god or someone else – what mattered back then was we wanted the prize.

And we got the prize because we worked as one, towards a common goal, without letting our backgrounds and places we come from bother us.

Sadly, where is that spirit in my country today?

Why is Vande Mataram a debate of such proportion? It’s a sad issue to see that the fanatic Mullahs, who don’t really represent anybody but themselves have successfully created a furor about how the song addresses a god other than Allah, and hence it is sacrilegious to sing the song. An unnecessary controversy created both by the political parties and religious heads serving no purpose, because the fundamental logic behind each party’s logic is flawed.

When you put religion before state, anybody’s argument is a good as another – either for or against. Political parties can use Muslim religion’s hesitation to sing as a sign of disloyalty to the nation, while the Mullahs can use the same excuse as being “alienated” and “threatened” in the country.

Frankly, I am pretty sure that to an ordinary Muslim on the road, it would have hardly made any difference singing Vande Mataram tomorrow. But the fact the mullahs chose to highlight the issue to such an extent means that every single citizen tomorrow will first think – “Am I Hindu or Muslim?” “I am Muslim, so I must not sing” “He’s Indian, but he didn’t sing the song because he’s Muslim – what a loser” and such.

So on a day, when Vande Mataram needs to be remembered because it was the cry of a generation in our independence struggle, thanks to our local fanatics, we will successfully achieve exactly the opposite.

In a lighter vein, I believe Hindu leaders and Muslim leaders MUST come to a consensus on these important issues:

1. The song “Allah tero naam, Ishwar tero naam, sabko sanmati de bhagwan” must be immediately banned from Muslim religion as with Allah, Ishwar is also addressed in the song and that is absolutely insane. Any Muslim singer on Indian Idol or Sa Re Ga Ma or Fame Gurukul must be strictly forbidden to sing this song. If not obeyed, then the singer shall face fatwa.

2. Likewise, if Hindu singers want to sing the above song, they must put Ishwar before Allah, as Ishwar is addressed second and not first. Hell, Allah should be replaced by Vishnu or Brahma, and song can be sung then.

3. A. R. Rehman must banned from making any more patriotic albums, and his song “Vande Mataram” banned forever. All those Muslims who bought that album must now destroy that CD immediately and send hate mail to A. R. Rehman, and strictly advise him from composing it again.

4. Hindus must reject all filmy songs which address Allah or Ali or has Muslim references. “Ya Ali” must immediately change to “Hey Bhagwan”. Likewise, “Maar daala…. Allah… Maar Dalaa” must immediately change to “Maar daala…Shiva… Maar Daala”.

5. All Muslim school kids must immediately tear out the page from their school diary which has “Vande Mataram” listed as national song. Most school diaries do – and this is sacrilegious. Muslim parents must take special notes to see if their children’s school diaries contain references to “Vande Mataram”. Additionally if the school diaries have references to Saraswati or Jesus Christ, they must be promptly tore off too.

6. Hindus must reject any movies that have any actors of Muslim religion – that includes SRK, Salman Khan, Saif Ali Khan, Aamir Khan and the rest. In future, Hindus should only watch movies that have Hindus like Akshay Kumar, Tusshar Kappoor, or Esha Deol. Likewise, Muslims should not venture to see any movies which don’t feature their religion actors. They shouldn’t complain as they will walk away with 80% of Bollywood anyways.

And last but not the least:

7. From tomorrow Muslim bloggers should stop reading any material by Hindu bloggers…and vice versa!

Thank You Agassi

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Andre Agassi

Generations to come, it may be, will scarcely believe that such a one, as this, ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth. — Albert Einstein

Said once for Gandhi.

I’ll say it again for Andre Agassi.

Thank You Agassi, for being born in a generation so a fan like me could grow up, seeing you play, seeing you grow and seeing you become a legend; something that the next generation shall only hear about or speak of or see on recorded tube.

Thank you.

Photo taken from MSNBC.com. Original photo here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/14657204/displaymode/1176/rstry/14655945/

Narayanmurthy Retires, Washington Post makes a mess.

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I usually love Washington Post and their news coverage – be it their reporting or journalism, I think they have pretty high standards.

Until today.

Today, as I read this piece about Infosys’s chairman Narayanmurthy retiring from the company, I couldn’t help but notice the absurdity of the report, and its innumerable references to Indian lifestyle and mannerisms. To an extent, I am pretty offended by this article, and more so because the reporter of this article is a certain Rajesh Mahapatra.

Here are some excerpts of that report, and why I think its badly written, very biased and offensive:

Throughout his career, Infosys Technologies co-founder N.R. Narayana Murthy has defied the customs of his native land.

He was an entrepreneur in a nation dominated by family businesses and a modest-living executive in a country where the rich are known for their excess.

— Exactly what does that mean? “The rich known for the excess” – This is true for most rich people, India or otherwise. Larry Page and Sergie Brin are buying a Boeing 777 for partying. Perhaps its not excess is it? Why such a remark then about my country?

While Murthy’s willingness to abide by the rules of his software company would be unremarkable in the West, it is groundbreaking in India, where founders _ and often their descendants _ tend to rule their creations like lords, making rules but not following them.

— We are not a nation of Fidel Castros running their companies. And exactly where in the world do you see owners of the companies making rules and not following them? Half of America’s CEOs should have retired 10 years back. Again, this really offended me – using terms likie “rule their creation like lords” make for a very insipid and may I add pathetic writing.

“Infosys also showed India that professionals can run a company as well, if not better, than the families, many of which thrive largely through government protection.”

— Again, why a reference to anyone? The obvious digg here is Reliance, but why make it at all? If Rajesh Mahapatra has any knowledge then he would also know that lobbying is the biggest reason half the companies get away in US. Lobbying is what stopped Cigarette makers from labelling ingredients on their packs. Lobbying is what enabled Beer companies to get away with their Ads on TV.

And again, why the digg at families? The tatas, the birlas, the ambanis, HAVE led successful companies, whether familial or otherwise. This obvious digg again reeks of shoddy writing standards set by Rajesh on himself.

What seems certain, however, is that Murthy will continue to buck the trend in India and live modestly, despite his wealth that’s estimated at $1.2 billion.

Indians worth a fraction of that have servants to clean up after them, but Murthy is reputed to start each day by cleaning the toilet at his house in a middle-class neighborhood of Bangalore, India’s technology hub.

— This clearly offended me the MOST! Exactly why is it a problem that people have servants in their house to do the cleaning? Our culture is different, our lifestyle is different – and if this observation were made by a foreigner, I would have agreed – but an Indian doing the same? And please – dont berate others by showcasing Murthy’s “toilet cleaning” act as act of greatness, which we other Indians “worth a fraction of that” are incapable off.

What a shoddy piece of journalism this was. Shame on you Rajesh Mahapatra, for writing such an ill-concieved article, and shame on you Washington Post, for letting such a badly written article get by your editors.

Inquilaab Zindabad

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It was the 50th anniversary, the golden anniversary of India’s Independence, when this happened, and remained perhaps one of the most memorable Independence day ever for me.

It was the night of August 14th 1997; for a change, the sky was clear instead of being the usual rainy self. We were first year engineering students then, and as a privilege and safety measure to keep us away from ragging and “seniors” we were given a separate hostel. Since the first years lived, breathed and lived together away from anybody else, there was a natural bonding and brotherhood between us. It was as if we were a different family from the others, even though we’d known each other barely for a couple of months.

We rarely ventured out at night after 10.00pm in those days. Our hostel doors would close promptly at 10.00pm (of course there were thousand other ways to get out), but generally, the bizarre rule of locking the gates was in place to save the juniors from falling into hands of a monster senior looking for some ragging merry. The fact that locking the doors had neither prevented seniors from getting to their prey or hold us inside had not worked, never seemed to bother anyone; the guards at the hostel saw this as a quick way to make money – if we returned late from a movie, and didn’t exactly want to climb half the tree, then step on slab, squeeze ourselves through the bathroom window and reach our rooms, we would bribe the guard with a 5 or 10 rupee note to let us in. The warden couldn’t care less; as long as no one died, everything was safe and sound.

Anyways, on this night however things became different. Nobody slept in hostel (well almost nobody) before 3.00 am, and the overall buzz in the hostel was about Independence Day itself. After all, it was the 50th. At around 11.00pm, a sardar friend of hours stomped into our room and declared:

“Chalo march karne!”
“March?”
“Haan march. Abbe 50 years ka celebration karenge ke nahi? Sab ke sab ikaktha ho jaao neeche”

Invitation to gather up and do something together hardly required any more explanation. In a matter of minutes, the entire hostel had assembled downstairs.

“We are going to celebrate Independence Day today” declared the sardar to a buzzing crowd. The doors of the hostel had been locked as it was 11.00 pm, but it didn’t seem to deter our sardar’s plans.

“We will march from the hostel to the college, then take the road outside of the college, go through the residential area, and come back to the hostel passing senior hostel. And everyone has to march and shout “Inquilaab Zindabad” as loud as possible”.

Anything that had the “loud shouting” factor into it was enough to get our adrenalin pushing.

“Abbe surrdarjeee, how will we march without a flag?” asked a Gult. The sardar answered without a blink of an eye.

“Don’t worry gultee, I have arranged it all. We will use a branch of a tree as our mast and this paper flag as our flag”

We were stunned – the sardar had exhibited brilliance, much unexpectedly nearing midnight. The paper flag of course was not a huge flag by any means – in fact it was about the size of 3 notebooks put-together. But what’s size of a flag or a tree branch got to do with patriotism?

The next task was to get the doors opens by the guards. Though on another day the guards would have taken this opportunity to frisk money, perhaps sharing the sentiment of the momentous occasion, they let open the door without the slightest objection. (Or, it could have been that they didn’t necessarily want to challenge raw young patriotic blood of 150 odd men).

Once outside, one of my roommates who hailed from Bengal brought about a twist to the plan, which was immediately hailed by all. He was immediately proclaimed a true “son of soil” and “desh bhakth”.

His suggestion – “We should burn flags of Pakistan too as we raise our flag!”

A few more ideas were improvised then and there: Surprising, how patriotic fervor bought about unity amongst all of us. We would go about our march past, come back, and then we would create a bonfire outside the hostel, burn Pakistani flags, and generally celebrate this occasion.

We started our march past at 11.20pm – it would take us nearly half an hour we had reasoned for our past, but it actually took nearly 50 minutes for us to finish our march. March we did – initially the tempo was down; we were roaming in college, and shouting – the problem was, who would hear us? But as we neared residential colonies, our fervor and shouting got louder, because well, we could make sure people heard us patriots.

I still remember people switching their lights on, shocked on hearing loud shouting “Inqilaab Zindabad”. A couple of people swore at us, others complained about losing their sleep, and still some more actually had smiles on their faces as we passed through the area. Quite a few families smiled and joined in for a shout or two – maybe the fiftieth year celebration had indeed rubbed off on some people. Why we were even let off by a police patrol jeep on duty that night. By the time we had neared our hostel our shouting had gone from “Inquilaab Zindabad” to “Pakistan Murdabad”, making it a specifically India v/s Pakistan affair.

It was quite past midnight when we returned back at the hostel. Though our plans of hoisting and burning Pakistani flags at moment of midnight had passed, it didn’t make a difference to us. Nearing back the hostel, immediately hidden bottles of fire friendly liquids were brought, sticks and stumps gathered, basically anything that could be burnt were gathered and a bonfire was made.

However there was one small problem: Who would have a Pakistani flag anyways to burn?

The sardar simply suggested:

“Koi fikr nahi yaaron – if you have green shirts get them – Pakistan is green – that will be our flag!”

On a sunny day, such an idea would have sounded silly and preposterous, fitting a sardar only, but that night, it was the ultimate stroke of genius. Within minutes there were nearly ten to twelve assorted shirts and tees of various strokes of green. It was funny – those clothes were brought by friends who lived all over India. Though on other days, we would be cribbing about Northies and Southies, Punjus and Gults, perhaps the greater common hatred united us all that night.

Off those clothes went one by one. The choicest of abuses were hurled to Jinnah to almost anyone from Pakistan as the clothes were burnt. At the same time, we had our branch and our Indian paper flag flying high. As the last of the clothes was thrown into the bonfire, the celebration reached its climax – there was shouting, singing and dancing all around the bonfire. The ruckus had got the seniors interested as well, and quite a few of them joined us in the bonfire celebration. That one night, the senior-junior distance didn’t matter as well.

Eventually, the celebrations died down nearly 4.00 am in the morning. The bonfire had almost burnt out, perhaps signaling our end to celebration too. Our voices had gone hoarse and most of us were dead tired from the celebration. It was wee hours of the morning before anyone actually got up from the junior hostel on August 15 that day.

The next day, most of us had missed breakfast (the cook in the kitchen had rambled on and on about throwing a special breakfast as very few people showed up), but a rarity had surprised us – a good special lunch was provided for us by the cook. The adrenalin rush of the night was still there in many people – people recalled the last night, and how it was perhaps one of the best Independence Day celebrations for many of us.

9 years thence, I still believe it was the best Independence Day celebration I’ve been in; it was as if, we had been liberated.

—

Today, when I recalled that night, I wondered how a nation must have felt on August 15, 1947.

It must have been a special moment for a generation.

The Neighbor

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P.S: This is a true story.

It was a terrific swim practice today, I thought, satisfied, getting into the apartment. A quick email check before heading into the shower was on my mind when the doorbell rang.

Someone at 8.00 pm in the night? Not unless it was a friend, but then knowing them they wouldn’t let the ringing stop if I didn’t open the door in spilt seconds. No it was not any of them. It had to be her; my neighbor. She must have heard me opening the door and known I had come back. It was not the first time she had knocked on my door within seconds of me entering my apartment. Last year she needed help putting up some Christmas decoration. Then again she had bothered me with inane details about how one of her friends had died in the building – poor woman, her friend was old and died suddenly – and it was the first time I had heard of someone by her name in the building. Just two months ago she had again caught me, this time asking for a favor to collect her newspapers. Each time, it was the same: I’d enter my apartment and close the door, and within minutes she’d ring the bell. It had to be my neighbor.

I considered. In half state of undress, I was not exactly in a mood to talk to her. She was old, boring and she wouldn’t have anything important to say, I knew. So I just decided to wait it out – maybe if I didn’t make any sound for a few minutes, she might just go back thinking no one’s home. I had done it thrice before, and had successfully avoided her, so this would work. After a minute, I heard her door knob – good she had gone back – and it would be peaceful for next few months before she rang the bell again.

The problem with the woman was not that she was not a nice woman. She was boring. At least to me. The first time I had met her was when I had moved into my apartment, which was opposite hers. She lived in a one bedroom studio, limped a bit, and had a sqaurish face and not exactly attractive. The first time we had met, she had bitched about the previous tenants in the apartment I was about to live – they were a young couple, maybe married (she didn’t know), and always made a lot of sound, never bolted the door quietly but with loud bang. If I would be careful enough not to bang the door knob, she said, it would be great of me. It was not a big request she’d made, but it had bothered me that the lady had not waited even few days before telling me about the door knob. Since that day, it was clear that she would bother me only with mundane affairs and ridiculous favors like collecting newspapers or arranging flower vases. Today would have been one of those, had I not avoided her.

As I settled into my sofa after shower and turned on the TV, the doorbell rang again. Oh No!

This time I couldn’t avoid it – the TV was blaring, and it was obvious that I was home. Well, there really might be something she wants me to do, I wondered while opening the door. It is amazing how pleasant and friendly conversation could become between the two neighbors, with appropriate concern and fake happiness on meeting each other. I had mastered my art well.

“Hey, how nice to see you!” I said, looking at her holding four different serving trays of different colors. Not another ridiculous favor I thought, when she said –

“Great. Thank you. It is nice to see you as well! I was about to give these four trays away for free, so I thought I might ask you if you would like them”.

I considered – they were old, scratched and umm… boring.

“No thank you – so nice of you asking me that, but I already have a lot of such stuff…”

“That’s OK, then I will just throw them” she said, starting to turn back to her door. Good, this was ending fast.

“I also wanted to tell you that I am moving from the building. I am sorry.”

For a moment I didn’t know what to say. Why was this woman telling me if she was moving, and why was she sorry for me about it? How many times had we chatted in the last three years? Three? I didn’t really care lady.

“Oh really! That’s so sad to hear. I am sorry to hear that. Where are you moving?” I faked, hoping she wouldn’t answer my question.

“I am moving to this Tenley center few miles from here. Three of my friends live there too. I will be living in a two bedroom apartment there, I am going to be spoilt you know!”

“That’s so nice! And it’s a nice area too I heard”, I faked again, never having heard of that place till now.

“Yes it is. But you know, more than that, I think it was time for a change in my life. I’ve lived here alone in this apartment since 1984. Its 22 years since I have been in this building – I need a change finally”

22 years. Alone. I don’t know why, I just felt a lump form in my throat. I wanted to keep talking, suddenly.

“22 years? Wow – you’ve lived here a lot! You must have seen so many neighbors haven’t you?”

“Oh Yes. When I moved in, three of my friends and their family moved in with me in the same building. You know we’d hang out together always. We’d just married when we moved in. We used to do so many things together. And after a couple of years, my friend, Francesca, she moved to California after she had her first child. And Bethany moved out too 3 years later – her husband found a better job in New York, so they moved there. And I was left here”

“Didn’t you have a family?” I asked, perhaps treading her personal space I wondered.

“I did. But my husband divorced me after 2 years of marriage, right after we had moved in here; I decided never to marry again after that. It was bad”

“Oh I am sorry to hear that”, truly feeling sad for this time, wondering how long had she lived alone.

“I’ve lived alone for nearly 20 years in this apartment you know. Initially my friends kept me company, but after they went away, I think I’ve been alone here for nearly 15 years now”

“Didn’t you have any good friends in the building, or good neighbors?” I asked, at the same time asking myself, was I a good neighbor.

“Oh yes, I did. I made a couple of friends here in this building. But you know they also moved on. There was Mrs. Phellany down on the first floor, who died last year.” I had a faint recollection of her telling me this sometime before, and I knew I had heard about her friend’s death before. “Yeah, I got tired of the loneliness you know. There is nobody to talk to here in this building. Everyone is new here, and I hardly know anyone back from my time now. That’s why I am moving. At least three of my friends live there in the same colony – I will have someone to talk to.”

“Oh that’s great to know” I said, perhaps truly feeling happy for her “It will be sad to see you to go” I faked again, but this time hoping that it would console her that someone cared for her.

“Oh yes, I am sad about leaving this place too. I hope to find a neighbor like you there you know – you were always quiet, and never banged that door. You don’t know how much it meant to me. It will be sad leaving you too”

“Oh that’s not a big deal at all” I said, “Have a great stay ahead. If you need any help please let me know”, I offered with a heart, perhaps for the first time.

“Thanks for your offer. I will let you know. Have a good night ahead”

“You too” I said, and closed the door behind me. A second later, I heard her door knob shut.

As I slouched back again in my couch, I couldn’t help thinking about her – I hadn’t even invited her in during our talk; heck I had never wanted to talk to her, let alone invite. Perhaps I could have been a little more friendlier to here during my stay – she had lived alone for twenty years; perhaps all that she was trying to do while asking for those now ridiculous favors was talk to someone. I felt that lump in my throat again; it wouldn’t have hurt if I had spent a few more minutes exchanging pleasantries with her, so what if I would have faked it – it would have made her happy. Perhaps she knew it those times when I deliberately didn’t open the door that I didn’t want to talk – thinking back, I suddenly felt bad about it. Perhaps she wanted to share her sorrow with someone when she spoke about her friend’s death, and I didn’t care enough. As I looked around my apartment tonight, I wondered, I live in the same building as three of my friends. Sooner or later we all shall move on. Would I be left alone for the next twenty years alone in such a place? If it came to that, could I ever live in the same place for twenty long years, alone? With no one to talk to? As the TV blared on, I couldn’t help but feel moist, and put myself in her place for a while.

I wish I was a good neighbor. Heck, I wish I at least knew her name.