micro

micro posts unless they are macro

Thank You Agassi

by

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.

by

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

by

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

by

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.

Book Review : The Uprooted by S. L. Bhryappa

by

I wrote this on Sept 24, 2003 – I don’t know why I had not imported this review onto my blog THIS long. In any case here it is all over again.

Indian authors have never enjoyed world fame – Not many have been lucky in getting their work across the globe and show to people what fine writers India possesses. While most good authors have been vernacular authors in India, their works are rarely translated in put forward on the globe – While Bhyrappa was not as lucky as Marquez to get his work One Hundred Years Of Solitude to world and eventually win a Nobel prize for that, Bhyrappa’s most works evoke similar respect – For example, there is no better deserving book than Parva to sweep any kind of awards that exist in literary world, however, the lack of outreach has prevented this. For a long time I was in complete awe of Parva and though One Hundred years of Solitude did bring me out of that hang over, it required another of the same author’s work Vamshavriksha , translated The Uprooted (not quite literal translation, but very appropriate to the content), to bring me out of the magic of Parva . Incredibly simple and incredibly complex at the same time, this is a book that leaves its readers so drained, so full, so many answers, and so many questions, that in the end, a reader is bound by the duality of nature of the book.

’’Who are you? What are you? Where are you going? Ask these questions to yourself and watch these answers change…’’
— Richard Bach, Illusions

While Richard Bach merely chose to pose the questions and leave it to the reader, Bhyrappa asks the very same questions and more in the book.

Though, its not the questions that enthrall the reader, it’s the justification to the answers that enthrall you.

What is your purpose in life? Can faith be guided by greed? Do you love a person so much that you did give up your own child to be with him? Do you love your work so much that you did give up on your wife and family to pursue your goals? Are you strong enough to shed any kind of hatred towards another person? How much do you know about your child, and more importantly, yourself? Does your past make a difference to who you are? Does your past influence your future? Is devotion love? Is love devotion? Whose sorrow is great – a mother who lost her child or a child who lost her mother? Do you think you are firmly rooted in this circle of life?

Probably that is half the thinking a reader will do in reading this book. This is a book about two families whose lives intertwine with each other, and the complexities of each character touch upon almost everything in life. This is a story about a mother who lost her son to floods and feels the sorrow of it. It’s a story about a woman who lost her husband and her sorrow at becoming a widow so early in life. It’s a story of progressive thinking, that of a widow wishing to be happier in life. It’s a story of commitment to one’s dharma and karma by a person. Its also a story of man who is so passionate about his work that he forgets about his wife and his family for his work. It’s a story about a man who marries another lady out of pure love and greed of common goal. It’s a story of woman’s undivided love for her husband and the loneliness around her because her husband married someone else. It’s a story about a child loving man who is impotent, and his introspection of the various aspects of life that he has changed his opinion on. And its a story of a woman, a widow who mourns her husband, loves another man so much she wants to marry him. Yet she is also in the duality of her love to a man and duty of a widow, her unquestioning quest for the path that leads to mental peace.

Bhyrappa weaves his story around such principles and is able to bring about a justification which you cannot just help nodding with – Every character justifies his or her actions throughout their life, to the point, that their duality becomes an issue you think off, and not the characters. You cannot help sympathizing with the wife who longs for her husband, but you cannot help agreeing to the justification of the husband in leaving his wife for another woman. Such is the beauty of book – along with every character and their metamorphosis, you think the same way they do – to the point you ask the same questions to yourself. It’s a book that doesn’t play by characters, but becomes a study of human nature and its desires, the norms of the society, the regulations of the society imposed on life. At the very core lies in a story about two families, orthodox Hindu Brahmin families, trying to make sense of their duties as Brahmin, and at the same time find themselves uprooted of the very foundation of their life. Or like the author best describes in a passage – like a branch which fell from the tree as if the tree had no longer the use of that branch.

Another facet that caught my attention was the concept of using Nature and Man as metaphors through out the book. Prakirthi and Purusha, (Nature and Man) give this book an absolute Meta physical look to the book – while every event in the book derives a relation between nature and man in form of woman and man, it also derives beautifully the meaning of being uprooted of the nature (woman) and Purusha (man). To really grasp the meaning of this metaphysical line, its best left to the reader to understand it. And frankly I wont be able to explain it here.

Fortunately, the translation is again by my related grand-father Dr. K. Raghavendra Rao, and he doesn’t fail to deliver. This is a joint effort by him and his wife (who by the way is a very nice lady, and I shall always miss her tea that she used to prepare when I got home from college – can’t believe that was 9 years ago now!), and the effort shows. A translated version never really tells you the magic of author’s real wordings, but a great translation will captivate you in any language by the way it has been translated – same is with this book – the translation itself captivates you so much that you did desire to read the original too.

If Parva is possibly the best book I have read in my life, then The Uprooted comes a close second. Not a book to be missed at any cost in life.

The World This Week

by

So while the Desi Blogosphere went mad over Indian government’s ban on blogger, and then afterwards its post analysis of freedom expression, censorship and all, this is what has been happening in other parts of the world this past week.

Israel steps up its offensive against Lebanon – more and more civilians killed: I initially thought Israel’s step was a right one, but the more I think about it, I think its just another excuse for Israel to start a war and kill innocent people in the name of defending themselves. Israel’s war on a Middle East country works well with Bush as this fits perfectly with his grand scheme of Middle East domination, no wonder then as he says “Israel has right to defend herself” (he perhaps missed saying – so does India). What next US puppy… oops Israel? Syria? Jordan? Egypt?

But that doesnt stop Bush from protecting his other Puppy: Mush. Hence, he allows his crow Richard Boucher to hint that India is kidding about Pakistani hand in Mumbai Blasts

I know there’s a lot of speculation out there now. That happens in these cases. But I think we need to be led by the evidence before we start trying to draw conclusions and make policy pronouncements on it,"US assistant secretary of state Richard Boucher said on Monday.

And exactly what evidence was given when your own president invaded Iraq, Mr. Boucher?

So – On one had Bush thinks Israel’s war with Lebanon is justified, he chides India at the same time for suspecting Pakistan in Mumbai Blasts – Tch! We are so naive. Pakistan is holier than thou – what would we know?

I am sad that Pakistan doesnt have OIL. Then things would be different.

In other stories, there was a massive earthquake and a Tsunami in Indoneasia  of magnitude 7.7, resulting in a Tsumani of 6 feet, killing more than 600 people (officially). As if this were not enough, birds are causing havoc there, giving this country a dubious distinction of reporting the highest Bird Flu related deaths : 42.

But their inward problems doesnt seem to stop them from sending troops to Middle East

“In the current emergency situation, there has been readiness from Indonesia (to send troops). We expect the resolution to be issued in less than three months” said Percaya.

Indonesian President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono has sent a letter to U.N. Secretary General Kofi Annan, requesting the Security Council to result a resolution that allows the launch of peacekeeping operation in the Middle East.

Mr. President, there are more problems in your own country than you can handle – how about solving solving them first before heading into the Israel-Lebanon mess?

Which brings me back again to Israel – Lebanon mess and the civilians.

While we jump the gun to ridicule our Government and our Airlines, how about a simple gesture of thanks to Air India and Operation Sukoon  to save 12000 Indian nationals in Beirut.  Nah, Government against Blogspot is more important news. In the same vein, who will save the 80000  Sri  Lankans stranded in  Lebanon?  A "Special flight, courtesy Air Lanka?" – its a pity, most of these people including Sri Lankans and Indians are there either on labor work or maids and cooks. With a war raging on, I am sure they have been left by their employers to the sea.

Where do they go? What do they do? Those 12000 and 80000 people left their country to struggle and provide for their family back home. It is heartening to see India offering their helping hand to Sri Lanka and Nepalese for evacuation.

So MUCH happened in the world this week, yet, we are only concerned about Government’s nefarious plans against Bloggers, and inane discussions on censorship, should government ban sites or not and such.

Of Bus Rides Part 1

by

Thanks to Jedi and Karan, I am very inspired to pen my own memories of taking those bus rides back in life – this post is about those memories of India, while my next will be those of here.

As we trotted along the rickety 2 lane highway connecting Hubli and Dharwad, a couple of things always used to catch my interest. The temple at the edge of a lake, the Maruti showroom (believed to be one of the biggest at that time), the Cancer Research Hospital, and lastly, the most interesting, the Dental College, where it was well known that all the beautiful girls in the town studied there.

The last one being more important as I would always fantasize a scene where I would sit at the window, and the bus reached the dental hospital, where a beautiful girl step stepping inside the bus, would discover the only empty seat besides me, carefully adjusting her dupatta (if wearing salwar kameez), and sit down besides me, maintaining that one centimeter distance between me and her. She would give me a faint smile as she sat down, and I returned it with a big one, and then through rest of the journey, she would look back, asides, looking through the window of passenger seating on the other side of the bus, but never again in my direction. As my stop approached, I would excuse myself and get up to move out. It would be tricky – she wouldn’t get up to lose her seat, and there was just not too much space for me to move out. So she would turn sideways, still sitting, and as I gradually made my way out, she would slide in quickly to that window seat that I had occupied. I would smile again for the favor, and she would give that faint smile again, this time a little more comfortable. As I would get down from the bus, I would see now that she was looking out of the window, at no one in particular, to nothing in general. As the bus would pass by, she and I would suddenly lock eyes, perhaps one last time, or perhaps may be not, and smile again. The beginnings of a great romance I would pat myself, and move on.

Read more

One

by

July 5, 2005: Attack on Ayodhya, 1 Civilian dead, 2 security personnel seriously injured.

March 7, 2006: Varanasi Bombings, 20 dead, hundreds injured.

October 29, 2005: Delhi Bombings, Atleast 61 dead, hundreds injured.

July 28, 2005: Jaunpur Train Bombing, 13 dead, more than 50 injured.

May 3, 2006: J&K Massacre, 35 dead.

June 26, 2006: Vaishnodevi bombings, 1 dead, 35+ injured.

July 11, 2006: 5 Blasts rock Srinagar, 6 dead, Many injured.

July 11, 2006: 7 Blasts in Mumbai Trains, 174 dead, Hundreds Injured.

Our response:

“Blasts were cowardly act aimed at innocent people”

“We condemn such blasts”

“Terrorists want to disrupt harmony”

“This will not affect Indo-Pak peace dialogue”

“Those responsible will not be spared and brought to justice”

Talk, talk, and more talk…

June 25, 2007: ONE Israeli soldier is abducted by their enemines.

The response: A full fledged war to rescue him.

Shame on you, Manmohan Singh.