Me and my dreams

One fine day...

I had this absolutely brilliant idea that I should learn baking. Sophie Kinsella's books, Nigella Lawson's cookery show and the movie Julie & Julia mounted to enough inspiration. My parents were not very keen on this new enterprise, considering the number of times I have ventured to learn stuff but never finished. As always I was adamant.

I spent considerable amount of time reading up on baking and decided that the best way to learn is by practice. So I enrolled for a baking class. Well, where there is a will there is a way. Off I go to discover the nuances of baking and what a joyful experience. Students aged 10 to 70 worked together to make cup cakes and tea cakes.

Sweet daughter that I am, I returned home with a box of delectable cupcakes and a footnote "get me an oven and mixer and pan and blah blah". It was like those coaching classes that kids go to. They go for a day and come back with a long list of required paraphernalia - without which they cannot go a step more in furthering their knowledge.

What a hassle. I set about browsing through web site after web site catering to baking implements. Made endless lists of the stuff that I needed, picked the brand, compared the price and what not. As luck would have it, they stopped shipping to my state of residence. Something to do with taxes and import (or was it export, I always get it wrong).

I wasn't ready to give up. I shifted my focus to getting an oven. The process of browsing and comparing was repeated. But this time my effort was fruitful. I bought an oven.

That done, I pored over recipes available on-line. I came across this web site which give a detailed tutorial on baking basics for beginners and they suggested a simple recipe to begin with. So simple that even kids can do it. That sounded like the best one to start off my baking experiments.

I bought all the ingredients and found substitutes for stuff that I didn't want to buy right away - like a glass bowl gifted by a textile showroom, a mini mixer borrowed from my friend and cup cake liners instead of the pan. I was so excited I was literally bouncing on my toes.

One fine day...

I followed the instructions to the letter. I measured everything precisely, chopped, sieved, sautéed the ingredients, whisked away and set everything out in neat little bowls. I felt one step closer to Nigella :) Beautifully decorated brownies went into the oven with the temperature and time set as suggested in the recipe. 5 mins down and it smelled awesome. Fragrance of vanilla extract and butter spread around the kitchen and I revelled in it. I was sceptical about the 10 mins suggested in the recipe, but I decided to give it a go.

One minute later, the fragrance turned into smoke. Ouch!!!!! I quickly opened the oven to find the little cups of brownie mixture emitting deadly fumes. I was hopeful. It was just 1 min of burning. How bad could it be. I snatched one and peeled of the paper cup. And I realised the bitter truth. Only the bottom half was burnt, the top half was charred black. I couldn't even bite down :( Oh the woe.

I dutifully cleaned up the kitchen, put everything back into its place and decided that I was giving up on baking forever.

Lo, behold. I forgot about my parents. They would never let me get disheartened by such epic failures. My Mom insisted that I try again. My Dad blamed it all on the oven, obviously I could never do anything wrong :D But I conceded defeat.

I slept over it and woke up with renewed enthusiasm. I decided to try it again. What was the worse that I could do?? Burn it?? Been there, done that.

So I gave it another shot. The same recipe, the same ingredients and the same steps. I did it all over again, but with lesser bounce in my step. I was heedful every minute, after all I knew what a minute could do to my poor brownies.

Thankfully, the second attempt came out well. It wasn't as good as the brownies that you get in hotshot bakeries. But, mind you, it was edible and tasty too.

And thus,

one fine day... I began living another dream. Baking :)

Proud owner :-)

Never thought I would say this, but here I am. Admitting I was wrong. About e-readers, smartphones, diamonds, friendship and true love.

Wonderful days..

Wonderful days like today are rare. When you get to meet old friends. Share gossip. Talk about past and future. Meet their mini-versions, running around on small feet.

Dhanya got married today. Giving us 25K girls a chance to meet up again.

Congrats Dhanya on getting married. Wish you and Deepak a wonderful life together.

And thanks to both of you from all of us for giving a chance to re-unite :)

Isn't it nice?

What you can do today, don't keep it for tomorrow. Ha ha ha.

I am not being philosophical. I tried this and it really felt nice.

I emailed a long lost friend. To be honest, I wasn't expecting a response. But when the email alert popped up on my screen, I felt exalted. Seriously!

Reminiscing, recollecting, relishing those memories. We mailed each other about things that were, and things that are. And I truly want her to be part of things that will come.

Who said cyber world kills friendships? I don't think it is true. In fact calling her up seemed so difficult. Explaining what my life is now, asking questions about her life. Excuses for the long gap in between. All that were major hurdles which stopped me from calling. But what the heck! A two-line email sorted out all that.

If you are reading this (doesn't matter if you are a stranger), I want you to send an email to a friend. A long lost one, preferably.

And when their reply pops up on your screen, a smile spreads on your face. Isn't it a nice feeling?

Long time, no see...

It has been a very very very long time since I wrote something. Apart from the contribution to our in-house newsletter or the odd rephrasing of a paragraph, I haven't written anything.

That is not a major loss, considering the fact that I am no published author. And I don't have a fanfare awaiting my next work (Thank God for small favours :D).

65 years of independence, has blessed me with the power to speak freely.

So here I go. From today on, I will write something every time a silly thought occurs. Even if it is only me who is going to read it.

My thoughts today.... How come the most implausible relationships work out?

Where everyone saw doom, some couples managed to work it out. I'm unashamed to say, I am JEALOUS!!! And congratulations to all of you, who achieved it :)

Memories of her

I heard the distant sounds of the muezzin calling out the adhan. Somewhere in my mind I knew it was the second one that evening. The Isha'a. That felt odd, because I heard the Maghrib few minutes back. Or was that one hour back? I was not sure.

The past hour was a blur to me. So was the past couple of days and the people whom I had met during those days. All of it had become one confusion. I had smiled solemnly and asked the appropriate questions. Served the food and drinks, depending on the time of the day and the preference of the guest. But now I couldn't recollect faces nor their choices.

I had walked the length of the huge house at least a hundred times. Carrying messages, plates, glasses. Dragging along aching feet and a heavy heart.

Given a chance I would have run to some corner and drowned myself in tears.

But I couldn't do that. There were guests to attend to. People who had come to pay their respects to an old lady, who had lived a full life and passed on to another world.

They were here to show that they had cared about her and they too felt the loss.

She was no saint. She had the virtues and vices of being a woman.

During her 84 years on earth my grandmother had touched many lives. Given shelter to many in her home. Been a guide to children and grandchildren.

My sister and I had grown up under her watch in our ancestral home. She was an integral part of our childhood. There were few memories that would not include her.

She had sat with me during midnight studies and late night movies. She had enjoyed watching cricket and she adored Sachin. She had cried when Rajiv Gandhi passed away. She told us stories from the epics, while feeding us dinner. She encouraged us to play with kids in the neighborhood. She insisted that we should be back home before dark(being children, we used to hate it). She scolded us when we didn't study well. She prepared 'paayasam' on special occasions and would let us help her. She taught us about being children, being girls and then about being women.

Walking around the house, devoid of her presence, felt like walking over broken glass pieces. Each piece a memory, that pierced you and hurt you.

I watched her leave the house for the last time, carried by her sons, nephews and grandsons. My sister and I hugged each other and cried our hearts out. After that we had been busy with the guests.

I was listening to the adhan two nights later sitting at the table in our kitchen. My family was also there around the table. All busy with their tasks. We were cleaning and chopping, preparing for the next day.

Amongst all the hustle and bustle of the days, we forgot to cry. The people around us gave us a reason to remain sane. Their presence pushed us hard to go through daily chores. The pain was there but it was not tearing us down. They were around us like a shield, keeping us away from the pain.

I knew they wouldn't be there forever. It was just for a couple of days and after that they would be gone. But this would help us to get over the worst.

I know I will remember her always and all the values that she instilled would remain in me.

I know I can only treasure whatever she gave me and that I cannot create any more memories about her.

These days of sorrow, struggling and support would be the last chapter in the book of memories of my grandmother.

Tear

A tear is born.

It emerges from its birth place into a new world. It slips from my eyes and rolls down my cheek.

Beginning a long journey. Not knowing that at end of the journey it will be shattered into droplets.

While slipping it hopes that somebody will catch it. Someone will stop it from falling, by a loving gesture or a warm smile.

It wishes to be saved before it loses itself in the earth's womb.

Little does it know that the world doesnt have any tear-stoppers. Its only tear-makers that walk the earth.

When it reaches its destination it joins millions of it cousins, who suffered the same fate of hope and dejection.

And together they wait for the next one.

Hop on and enjoy!!

The noise level around me was rising above the threshold of tolerance. It was confusion. It was chaos. It was the beginning of a journey. A journey like none other; a journey by Indian Railway locomotive.

Many have gone through this experience. Some of them who were talented writers have penned down their experiences. Some travellers who are not so good at writing, have poured ink into scores of pages in an attempt to describe them. Personally, I think both types have failed to recreate the experience. They cannot be faulted. Like bungee jumping or scuba diving, its something that is best experienced firsthand. You can read hundreds of books, but the experience will never be the same. No offense to all the famous authors out there, but nobody can capture the exact feel.

Smoke that curls up from the engine of a train, thick, black and sooty, touches the clean air and changes it irrevocably. It may not be evident, but the change is sure to have happened. The same way a journey in Indian Railways is sure to touch you.

If you want the real deal, the ideal choice would be an interstate train from a major station. Thanks to the varied culture across the states, you will get to see a lot of different stuff. From the language that swirls around you, the food that is sold in the train, the scenery, the people, dwellings, clothing. Its like a journey through a live-museum.

The stations where you embark on a journey is as entertaining as the journey. The noise level at the major stations are unbelievable.

Porters and vendors shouting. Luggage being bustled around. Long queues at the ticket counters and take-away counters. Announcements blaring at frequent intervals, in different languages. Mothers screaming at children, to keep them in control. Babies wailing at a high-pitch. And the cavernous station would seem like its trapping in all the noise.

You bump into people, individuals and groups of them. You will spill your coffee, drop your bags, stumble over people sleeping on the floor(yes, it does happen - you might even come across a make-shift kitchen), get sworn at by the porter for blocking his way and be jostled around by the crowd. The crowd is worse than at a carnival. You will be surprised to know only a quarter of the people who are at a station actually go on a journey. The rest are there to see off a loved one. Some people think that such a fuss is not necessary. But for some its a loving farewell, from their near and dear ones. The smells are as vivid as the sights.

Trains have a special smell. Its unique and indescribable. Its a mixture of the engine's smoke, metal frames and wooden berths. Smell of refuse is something common to all stations and trains. Smell of people getting ready for a journey and people arriving after long journeys. Trust me, you don't want to be around the second category.

Then there is the universal smell - the smell of coffee. Vendors shouting "Coffee, coffee" with big steel cans, hot coffee in paper cups and the smell wafting down the aisles. These are a part of everyone's memories of Indian Railways.

The shouts of vendors inside the compartments are sporadic. The noise levels of the passengers take a different curve. They peak at stations. At other times its a flat line. Not of silence, but of conversation amongst passengers and the ringtones of mobiles too. For a train that carries people coming from varying backgrounds, you will find it amusing that the passengers are friendly with each other. Though some are wary of socializing in trains, there are others who would give you their whole history with the least encouragement. There are some who are reluctant to ask the time of the day and some who don't mind asking really personal questions.

Come nightfall and the whole scene changes. Dinner packets torn open and shared(mostly home-packed meals). Confusion on berths sorted out. Sheets spread and pillows laid. Arguments on the window shutters (which one to be closed and to what height). Babies put to sleep after hours of cuddling and coaxing(cradles made out of sarees are a common sight). Meanwhile the children devise a game of climbing up and down the berths, intrigued by the novelty (in turn they stamp on your head and kick your back). All grandpas and grandmas turn in early and drift of to sleep easily. By the time the late-sleepers climb on they have trouble finding sleep amongst their snores. The lamps are switched on and off depending on whether a child is travelling(they need to go pee, then they need water and again they want to go pee..its an endless cycle).

Then there is the ruler on the travelling empire. The Travelling Ticket Examiner. Familiar to the passengers as TT. Adorned in black & white, he comes poking around to check tickets. Nine out of ten times, he will come after you have settled down to sleep. Cant blame him, because he has the difficult job of finding the illegally travelling ones. Fine them or shove them out, depending on his mood. Sort out odd complaints amongst passengers. Allot unoccupied seats to others in need. Deal with miscreants. Walk up and down whenever the train crosses a major station. Tough job.

During your journey, you will encounter children singing in different languages in the hope of earning money (if you actually know the language, you can make out that the lyrics are rubbish). Then the regular bunch of beggars - blind ones, ones with the yellow/pink/blue cards summarizing the tragedy that occurred in their life, invalid ones who sweep the train, young mothers with tiny, malnourished babies and many other heart-wrenching ones. Vendors are many and wares being sold on the train are innumerable - pirated CDs/DVDs, handbooks on everything under the sun(Internet made easy, Indian recipes, Exercise tips, Your stars and future, Lyrics of songs, Gardening, etc), homemade snacks, musical instruments, curios to attract children.

Passengers who travel on daily basis have a fraternity of their own. A friendship that was developed somewhere between their home-office shuttles. They look out for each other. Have woes and joys to share. They talk about matters regarding their office and their struggles at home. Some of them catch up on sleep during these journeys, while others cut vegetables or mend clothes. Students read up for tests in the morning and in the evening you can see their papers being evaluated by professors. On occasions that call for a celebration coffee and snacks are sponsored by the host. Such simple things bring joy to them. Break the monotony of their lives.

All these people, places, sights and noises makes the train journey on Indian Railways. And I love it. I admit, that there have been times when I wanted to tear out my hair. When couples decide to celebrate honeymoon in the midst of a packed train; when a passenger decide to become over-friendly and ask unnecessary questions; when men misbehave with lady travellers; when people brag about how things are different in US (aaaaahhhhhhh!!!!); when a loud-mouthed fellow decides to give a lecture to fellow passengers; when people ignore the rule of one person per ticket. And so many other instances too.

But more than these annoying incidents I like to recollect the nice memories of train journeys. The train journeys that excited me as a child, became a routine during my college life. Now I am a regular traveller to a neighboring state. Over the years I have had my share of experiences. I have travelled in compartments with AC and curtains that give you privacy. I have also travelled in general compartments where you cant get enough air to breathe.

Every journey was different. A concerned granny who asked if I had something to eat. A small boy who wanted to know if I had met his cousin on the way. A gang of friends enjoying the feeling of togetherness, singing into the wee hours of night. A baby pampered by his parents. A lady who fought for me against a huge crowd who was choking me. A sweet girl who was amused at meeting a new aunty (I have to confess, that I dint like the aunty part). A fellow-traveller(who was apparently from a foreign country) flustered at the sight of a group of young girls who were on a mehendi-applying spree.

Its not just me. I am sure everybody who has travelled in Indian Railways have their memories. Some bad, some good. I have read in newspapers about women giving birth on trains, passengers who were murdered, people who found their life partners during a journey, derailed trains resulting in loss of numerous lives. All those events are now memories in the minds of people who witnessed them.

In an abstract sense Indian Railways could be considered a representation of our country. A slow and steady development. Years ago it was born as a disconnected railway system, but now it is one amongst the world's largest rail networks. It provides employment to a large number of people, directly and indirectly. It provides a mode of transportation to all classes of people.

It is a mixture of the old and the new. The Indian Railways boasts of an on-line ticketing system(might not be the best, but a blessing for many of us) to book tickets on a network of rusted trains and dilapidated stations.

People come together everyday, contribute in small ways and with each passing day we are growing.

Welcome to Indian Railways. Hope you had a nice trip!!

Musings #2

A familiar question at every wake of life - 'What are your achievements?'.

Today I heard my colleague referring to a couple who dedicated their lives to the vocation of teaching. They had helped kids to learn and develop. To make something out of themselves. But my colleague thinks that they have not achieved anything in life.

That left me pondering over the question. What about me? Have I achieved anything?

What are the standards for assessing your achievements? What are the kind of achievements that matter? Is it the physical assets and monetary value of them that should be considered as achievements? Or is it the less tangible ones like friendship and family bonding that matters? Or maybe its the spiritual achievements that are important.

The question is simple. But who can answer it.

Musings #1

In this modern world of ours, we are so pressed for time, we cant express words in the way they were meant to be. 'Where are you' is now 'w r u'. 'What you see is what you get' becomes 'WYSIWYG' (thats actually funny, because what you see is not what it means). 'KISS' is not a way of expressing your affection. It just means 'KEEP IT STRAIGHT and SIMPLE' (wish we could apply KISS on a kiss).

It doesnt stop there. Twisting words is in. Cool is not cool anymore, its kewl. Thank you has not been twisted into danq. Love is just luv. And so many others too.

Sometimes, very rarely, I wish people would take the time to say things as they were meant to be said.

But then I couldnt insist on that, because who am I to say that this is the way it should be said. All these were words formed by people like us.

Someone, somewhere at some point of time decided that a particular word means something and there will be these many alphabets in that word and they will be pronounced in this manner (have you ever wondered who found words and who defined what a word is...strange).

Over the centuries, people have been inventing new words. They put together alphabets to give birth to new words.

In this world of change and improvisation, every thing in this world is getting smaller and lighter. Words are going through a similar transition. And its bound to go a long way too.

Maybe centuries down the lane, people will take a reverse route. Maybe they will form new words not knowing that long back these words were part of a vocabulary and the same were buried along with their ancestors. Maybe the words which were forgotten due to non-usage will be born again.

Maybe they will get a notion that 'danq' is not kewl and 'thank you' sounds cool.

And maybe someone will re-discover 'love'.

Die another day

Note : This story is based on real characters and incidents.

I paced the perimeter of the enclosure. I couldn't believe it. Tonight I had lost my reputation of being untouchable. This time I had crossed the limits I had set for myself. I had known I was playing with danger. But then what is life without a little danger and the excitement that comes with it. Many a time I had come across touch and go situations. But I had never been caught. This was my first time. I tried not to panic. I took deep breaths and settled into a corner of the enclosure.

I thought about Houdini and his skills. I wish I had read up on him. I wish I had allowed myself the luxury of browsing through few pages on the tricks of guys like him, who could get out of any kind of traps or enclosures. Being the sole bread winner of a big family I couldn't risk wasting time on such trivialities.

I thought about my family. In few more hours they will be expecting my return. They will worry about me and then they will worry about food. Cant blame them. That is basic nature. More than personal loss they would worry about survival. My wife would have to take up my role. She will have to take care of my blind parents and kids. How many were there?? Last time I counted there were 12. But no knowing, how many strays my wife had picked up. She was a softie when it came to kids.

The panic rose again. It was like an invisible force around my neck trying to strangle me. I stood up and extended myself to my full height, which was not much. I was short as compared to the standards. But then I never cared. I had taken up my deficiency in height as a challenge. I had worked hard to build a reputation for myself. I wouldn't be bragging if I said that I am somewhat a legend amongst people who know me. I chuckled to myself. Seems like my enemies know that too. Why else would they go to such lengths for an execution? The operation was well planned. It was obvious that they had been watching my movements for a while now. I was sure there were at least two people involved. This was not the kind of thing you can organize single-handedly. And I was glad too. It would have dented my pride if I was captured by a single one. It was something to be proud of. Except that I knew I wouldn't be getting out of here to brag about this adventure.

I looked around. Three of the walls were solid wood. There were small gaps in between; but they were too small. Above and below was the same wood but without gaps. The entrance was a slanting meshed gate, which could be operated only from outside. Artificial light was streaming in through the entrance and the gaps on either side. Too much light. Too much brightness. When I thought about the end of this adventure, the light seemed a depressing factor. I might not live to see another day in sunlight. I might not see my wife and kids. I stopped that train of thought. There was no point in going there. It would only make me more desperate.

I snuggled up in a corner and tried to sleep. Better to be bright and fresh during the last hours of life. As I drifted of scenes from my childhood flashed past. Growing up in a small house with lots of siblings around. It was always a survival of the fittest. Though small in demeanor I managed to stay ahead of my brothers and sisters.

I didn't always play by rules. But then I was a loyal guy. Had fallen in love with a female, managed few flings in between and then married another one. She was the right kind of wife any guy could find. Patient, good at taking care and the best part was that she never asked questions. No nagging from her. I don't know whether I love her, but then I couldn't live without her. So maybe there was some kind of affection that had bloomed between us. At my wedding, many had made fun of us. They said that we make a cute and tiny pair. I wouldn't say I took the 'tiny' part to heart, but then I sired 12 little ones and proved that we were no tiny pair. Oh no. We had 12 little ones to prove that. With the pride swelling my heart, I slept peacefully forgetting the impending danger.

Voices woke me from slumber. There were three of them. Yippee!!! My guess was right. Three of them had to pitch in to capture me. Not bad. I gave myself a pat on the back. But then I froze. My fate was being decided. Their conversation was no light-hearted banter. They were discussing cold blooded murder.

One suggested drowning. The other said poisoning. The third one kept quiet and watched me. The first one was getting impatient and wanted to know the action plan. The second one was contemplating the possibility of burying me alive. I tried to tune out the conversation. Brave as I was, I couldn't listen to the possible causes of my death impassively. How could they be so heartless, I wondered. Ironically they were all women. Women are known for their forgiving nature and sympathy for ones in trouble. There was no trace of sympathy in their voices. Some breed of women!!

The third one spoke up slowly and reluctantly. Why don't we take him some where far and let him free? Hope sprang up somewhere inside me.I listened intently to the other two. They were talking in raised voices. Are you crazy? We planned this capture for so long and now you want to set him free? Do you have any idea about the losses we have suffered because of this pest? Do you want to go through all of it again? Throughout the torrent the third one kept quiet. At the end of it she advocated for me, strongly and passionately. The other two gave in. They were not happy about it. But then the third one had picked on the moral side of their actions. Committing murder was not a good thing. So they decided to let me go.

They transported the enclosure to another location, far away from their base and opened the door. I scrambled out, turned around to look at them and thanked them with all my heart. My Charlie's angels. They watched me scamper into the gutter, wondering what the squeaking was all about.

My heart was soaring. I was lost. That was OK. I was alive. And that is what mattered. I could find my way to our mouse-hole, even if I had to travel all the way from Alaska.

I was to live today. And die another day.

LOC (Lines of Control)

I placed my hand in front of my face and stared at those funny lines that crisscrossed my palm. Are they really the ones which decide how your future will be? If so, which one of them got me into this current mess?

I stared and stared till all of it seemed to blur into confusion. Oh great!! Now even those lines are giving up. I mean, someone is responsible for all this mess. Its definitely not me.

So its either the lines on my palm or the letters in my name or my date of birth or the way the furniture is arranged in my room. Come to think of it, I don't have any furniture in my room. Its just me and the mattress on the floor where I sleep. So that could not be the cause. I love my date of birth. Really. I love the numbers in it and I am hundred percent positive that none of those numbers would do anything to hurt me. I am skeptical about my name. Its not one of my favorites. But it was the name given by my parents and I have faith that it wouldn't hurt me.

So the only plausible reason would be these lines. They don't have palmistry experts for no reason. I should get one of those guide books, with those catchy titles like 'Your future lies in your hands'. Then maybe these teeny weeny, criss-crossy, randomy lines would make sense.

A raised voice from the other end of the phone, ended my perusal of the lines. I tried to catch up with the conversation. My mother was trying to convince me that something was wrong with my sister.

I agree she is a little headstrong and something of a rebel. But she never does anything that can be termed as criminal offense.

For the past hour, I had been switching between calls to my sister and mother. Mom accuses and my sister denies. My sister would say something and Mom would find it unacceptable.

I thought of putting them in conference. But then that could lead to a disaster, so I refrained from that thought.

I knew my Mom was a little dramatic. And this time she was definitely going overboard.

Is it wrong to blow air? Literally just blowing air, is not sinful. Yeah I agree, my sister had rounded her lips and curled her tongue while blowing air. Due to some unknown law of physics, the end result was a whistle. My, my, isn't mother touchy about those shrill sounds.

In spite of repeated warnings my sister dared to whistle in front of my mother, hence the frantic calls. For my mother it was now or never. If she didn't take corrective action immediately, my sister may fall into the depths of doom. I tried to be level headed. But it was tough not to lose patience. My sister doesn't listen, nor does my mother. Why do they drag me into these arguments?

I drifted back to those lines. Please, please, please, cant one of you save me from this; I begged to my lined palms.

The drone of my mother's voice was being interrupted by the familiar beep-beep. I didn't check who the caller was. I knew it would be my sister. So why bother.

After few hours of slow and painful progress, I convinced Mom that my sister can still be saved. Not entirely satisfied, but tired of all the badgering she decided to take a break. I used those few moments to call my sister and give her the verdict. She was in trouble, but yes she could be saved. Call up Mom and apologize. She agreed reluctantly.

Few minutes later the phone rang again. The melodious ring-tone, specially meant for my family, sounded like a warning of imminent torture. I summoned patience; a lot of it and answered the call. "Darling", said my Mom. I couldn't believe it. Her voice sounded different. The reconciliation had happened. They were back to being Mom and favorite daughter.

Phew!!! I couldn't believe it. I looked at my palms and kissed those lines. I was saved. They had actually saved me.

My cubicle-mate gave me a strange look. I suppose kissing your own palms in a wild frenzy are not symptoms of sanity.

I smiled at him with sympathy. Poor fellow. What would he know about mothers, daughters and whistles? What would he know about palms, the innocent lines marking it and the story of how they saved me?

Feel it..

Imagine the sun gently warming your feet. Imagine the chirp of birds outside the window. Imagine the smell of coffee drifting to your nostrils. Imagine opening your eyes and stretching lazily on your bed. Imagine the start of a day. Feel the beauty of morning.

Imagine a wide road, littered with falling leaves of autumn. Imagine tall, wide-trunked trees on both sides of the road. Imagine the sky-high branches of these trees forming a canopy over the road. Imagine rays of the setting sun, drifting through the leaves of the trees, drawing patterns of golden yellow on the walk-way. Feel the beauty of evening.

Imagine standing on the top of a tall building. Imagine darkness enveloping you. Imagine the silence. Imagine the light breeze touching you. Imagine the sky studded with stars. Imagine the moon rising. Imagine the lights shining far away on the horizon. Imagine the blurred outline of trees around you. Feel the beauty of night.

Imagine a dark, cloudy day. Imagine the cool air. Imagine light drops of rain, falling on you. Imagine the smell of the earth on the touch of the droplets. Imagine the rain pelting down a glass surface. Imagine the winds accompanying the rain. Imagine rain drops dripping from leaves and flowers. Imagine watching a puddle fill up, water splashing around. Imagine getting wet in the rain. Feel the beauty of rain.

Imagine a baby's smile. Imagine a child's innocence. Imagine a beautiful bride. Imagine a proud father. Imagine an old couple, still in love with each other. Imagine a colorful butterfly. Imagine the sweet smell of a wild flower. Imagine a bird soaring. Imagine a trotting deer. Imagine a gurgling stream. Imagine the dolphin slicing the calm of the wide ocean. Feel the beauty of life.

Imagine feeling happy for no reason. Imagine few minutes with your partner, love shimmering around you. Imagine a stranger smiling at you. Imagine receiving a bunch of flowers for no reason. Imagine the satisfaction on doing something right. Imagine curling up on the couch after an exhausting day. Feel the beauty of small things in our lives.

Imagine a family function, with noisy cousins and nosy aunts. Imagine standing at a busy road, feeling the buzz and thrill of life. Imagine watching the sunset at a crowded, noisy, colorful beach. Imagine the excitement of doing something new. Imagine the bliss of being with friends. Imagine a long journey, meeting people on the way and making new acquaintances. Imagine the pleasure of birth and the pain of death. Feel the beauty of being alive.

The idiot's way

What I like most about the movie '3 idiots' is the portrayal of unconditional acceptance of friendship. Halfway through the movie Ranjho's (played by Aamir) friends realise that he was not the person who he had claimed to be. They come to know that all of the years that they had spent together in college was part of a scam and even the name by which they knew him was false. But their friendship does not falter. They still consider that guy, without a name, as their friend. His name, family or wealth does not affect their friendship. They still consider him their buddy because of the person that he had been; for his values, ideas & passions.

Absolute, total and complete acceptance. No conditions, no ifs, no buts. The kind of acceptance that each and everyone of us crave for.

I know many who are into relationships that involves promises of undying and everlasting love. They are serious about these promises and that is pretty obvious when they are together. You can literally see the sparks flying.

But in most cases they insist on changing things about their loved ones - habits, personal traits, dressing, hairstyle, footwear and sometimes their lingo too. Why do they do that?

Isn't love about accepting someone as they are? Or is it about finding a person, customising them to your tastes(in turn changing the essence of them) and then claiming that you love them. Is that what love is?

Idealistic as it may sound, I believe that love is not just another act, like shopping. You choose a dress, pick it in another color, alter the size, shorten the sleeves, bargain over the price and purchase it - and you feel proud about your purchase.

I dont want love to be like that. I want love to be accepting. It may not be possible to accept everything, but we can be accomodating. We can try to love them for what they are, not for what they can be. Of course, if any of their traits are leading them into trouble we should correct them.

If what they do is harmless, then isnt it better to have a partner who is a little towards the fat side, wears a sackcloth, has unruly hair but loves you with all that they have. For the simple reason that you accept and love them as they are.

Shards of a broken heart

After lightning comes thunder and then the showers,
After heartbreak comes silence and then the tears.



One day you'll need me, like I need you
One day you'll cry for me, as I cry for you
One day you'll miss me, the way I miss you
One day you'll love me, but never as much as I love you.

I thought you were looking for me, but now I realise I was mistaken. I thought you were meant for me, but you showed me that you were not. I thought you loved me and you showed me that you did; not me,but someone else. I thought you were happy to have me. But you showed me that I couldnt make you happy, ever. I thought that you were the one, but you told me that I was not the only one.

I close my eyes and lie down to sleep
My hands are warm, my mind is at rest.
I dream of heaven and angels
I am happy and my heart knows it.

The claws of fear grow up on my heart
Its clutches are inescapable
I try to breathe but cannot
My breath is lost.

I feel cold and I open my eyes
There is darkness around me
Pitch black and terrifying
I cant see anything anymore

I worry and look around
The warmth and happiness around me is gone
I look for the light that used to fill my life and
I realise the light is gone.

Being a Chrindu

[To all Non-Chrindus out there - Google cannot help you with this word, because this is not an accepted usage. As a pre-requisite for reading this you should be aware of the fact that I was born in a secular country. Though we preach secularism, we are not very accomodating in our actions. There is a clear demarcation amongst the religion, caste, sub-caste and so on.]

I am a Chrindu and I want to share few thoughts about what it is like to be one.

I am part of a close-knit family. My family meets all conditions for being classified as a normal Indian family. Four abnormal people, namely the father, mother and two kids put together(phew!!! sometimes the staying together part could be trying) makes a normal Indian family.

Both my parents are religious, but not fanatics. They do the usual routine of daily prayers, visits to places of worship, offerings, fasting and celebrating all religious events(only if its a public holiday).

I forgot to mention a trivial fact there. They dont follow the same religion.

They were one of those couples who braved the inter-religious resistance to share a life. And till-date I have never heard them speak a negative word about the others' religion or faith. As it happens in most inter-religion or inter-caste marriages, my parents' marriage was accepted by their families after my birth. Their first-born, became their re-entry visa.

Owing to their choice of life-partners, I turned out to be a Hindu by law and a Christian by faith. In other words a Chrindu. An odd sense of humor, inspired me and my sister to coin that term. Infact my partner-in-crime(my sister) came up with two suggestions, Chrindu and Histian. Using my privilege of being the elder one, I made the final choice.

I was baptised and I attend church regularly. I also go to temples and attend poojas. My family celebrates Christmas and Onam with the same fervour. We participate whole-heartedly.

All this was the fun part. But it was not easy growing up, torn between two faiths.

One that claimed to have 33 crores gods and one that claimed that there was only one God.

One where the god-figure has 16008 wives and one where the god-figure is a chronic bachelor.

One which mandates that the body should be clean when visiting the diety and one that says your mind should be clean before praying.

One which doesnt complain about your attention and worship wandering elsewhere and one which commands you to believe only in one God or suffer forever in hell.

One in which the god destroyed creation in a fit of anger and one in which a father gave up His son to save all humanity.

I grew up with my grandmother who told me stories from the epics and vedas, and attended a school run by nuns who taught Catechism for an hour everyday. I was taken to the temple by my Mom and to the church by my Dad. My Mom insisted that I be clean and neatly dressed when going to a temple. My Dad insisted that I dont miss church or Sunday school. It might sound odd, but my Mom was the Christian and my Dad the Hindu.

I was so confused about which was right and which was wrong. My parents, thankfully, didnt try to influence my views. While growing up I realised that not many men allow their children to be brought up in their wife's beliefs. I asked my father about this and he replied that our ancestors were Hindus until St. Thomas turned up. Smart answer!! But that still didnt help me overcome my confusion.

As with everything else, I was able to understand things better with the passage of time. I realised that I didnt have to make a choice between them and I didnt have to judge which was right. All I had to do was pick the best things in both and build my faith on that.

I didnt care if God was a bachelor or had wives; to me only His teachings mattered. I didnt care if He was depicted as half-human, half-elephant or with a snake around His neck or with a cross on His shoulders; I held equal reverence for all of them. I didnt care if there was only one God or crores of them, because I addressed Him as Father. And He has always answered my plea.

I have been blessed with knowledge of the rich culture of Hinduism and Christianity. I have read the Bible and the Mahabharatha. I know of the trinity in Christianity and that in Hinduism. I am familiar with the stories of Ganesha and Muruga, as well as Noah and Moses. I can go to a church and make the sign of cross as easily as I can go to a temple and recite the mantras. I feel at peace when I am in a church and I feel the same serenity when I am in a temple.

I respect both religions and their teachings. And I would never say that one is above the other.

I am a Chrindu and proud of being one.

Journey to the city of temples

It was a journey of sorts, interspersed with smiles and tears. I lost some, I gained some.

For the very first time in my life, I attempted something very daring. I cannot say it was a brave act, because it may be judged as a negative deed by some. Throughout the journey I tried to convince myself that I was right. But to be honest, I was not entirely successful. I was supporting a close friend in her choice of marriage partner. I was also close to her parents and they had not given their consent to the wedding. Hence the haunting second thoughts.

My idea of a placid journey was turned upside down, with the appearance of some of her friends. Strangers to me then, memorable companions now. Sightseeing with them was a pleasure. We had immense fun. The kind of thoughtless fun, that happens only with guys. A day of sunshine, smiles and snaps. I enjoyed myself thoroughly.

The day of the wedding proved to be hectic, because I had to be her friend and kin-folk. I felt my heart swell when I saw her dressed up as a bride. She looked beautiful. The bride and groom was so happy, that I could see the green-eyed monster in everyone's eyes.

When the groom tied the traditional 'thaali' around her neck, my eyes welled up. I dont feel any embarassment in owning up to that show of emotion. There were many around me who would claim the same.

After spending a few more hours with the marriage party, I returned to the room where we had been staying. In that moment I realised what parents go through at weddings, after seeing off their daughters. The room felt so empty. Without her smiles, without her complaints, without her presence.

Few tears were shed on the loss of a friend's continuous presence in my life. And then back to the jolly gang for more fun. Another day spent in their company, helped me recover from the sudden void. We visited the adornments of Madurai, the city of temples.

That night my old friend and new friends came to see me off. As the train moved away from the station and they waved good-bye, I realised that I had gained more than I had lost. The memories of the journey would remain in my heart forever.

Yes, I do owe an apology to some people for making this journey. But one day when they realise that I had supported the right cause, that I had stood by the happiness of my friend and their daughter, I hope they will forgive me.

A prayer for my friend

I cannot make the sun rise in the night.
I cannot touch the moon shining above.
I cannot bring the stars down to the earth.

I cannot catch the wind that blows.
I cannot count the grains of sand on the beach.
I cannot touch the bottom of the ocean.

But for you my friend, I would try to do all that and more.

You have touched my life in so many ways.
You made me smile on the darkest of days.
You made me cry and at times you cried for me.

You made me see myself as a better person.
You made me wonder how anyone can be so full of goodness.
You made me understand the strange ways of the world.

May your life be filled with happiness in abundance.
May all the paths you take in your life, lead you to glory.
May joy alone be your companion and sorrow never cross your path.

May your blessings multiply and may no evil touch your life.
May humility be your friend; pride and haughtiness your foes.
May your life return all the goodness that you spread around you.

For you my friend, I pray for all that and more.

The bug called love

Love is beautiful. It changes your world. It turns you inside out and makes you a new person. You have eyes and ears only for them. All your thoughts, awake or asleep, is about your loved one. All your actions, revolve around your love. Wherever you go, whatever you do, whomever you meet - its love that stands prominent in your life.

Thats the good part of being in love. But is it really good?

Before you fell in love, you had a world around you. There were a whole lot of people in that world. People who felt for you and cared for you. People who knew you.

Then one day you chose to fall in love. You shed your skin, to become a new person. Your lover understands you, admires you and adores you. And you are so heady with these new feelings, that you dont realise whats happening around you. Sometimes you recognise a change, but you choose to ignore it.

Love is fast in its pace. Head over heels, happens in a matter of few seconds or minutes. But as weeks and months pass, things slow down a bit.

Thats when the realisation strikes, that you have lost some people along the journey. People who had been there with you through thick and thin are no more part of your life. You wonder if you had to lose some of them, for gaining your love.

But by then its too late and there is no turning back. You have already been infected by the bug called love.

Death

Of all the major events in life, there is only one which really scares me.

Death.

It is one which cannot be postponed. The one which arrives totally unexpected. The one which leaves you totally disoriented.

The violence of death is not in the fact that the person has died. It is in the permanence of their disappearance. They leave this world for ever; their virtues and vices disappear from the face of this world forever. You are left with a lot of memories. And they are just that, memories. You cannot share your them with anyone.

If ever you want someone else, to know abt this human being who had passed the face of this earth, you are left with nothing but words. Mayb a few photographs. Their voice, their smell, their words, their gestures, their passions, their dreams are all lost.

For as long as you live, you will miss their presence in your life. Nothing in this world, can give you another chance to see them again. To just listen to their voice or watch them smile.

Years later when you attempt to recollect you realise that you have forgotten what their voice was like. You try to snatch at your memories, to recollect small things about this person who was once dear to you.

But all that was theirs is lost. Lost to the all-engulfing power of death.