A bad hair day, a bad hair do

I had a hair cut

It was A chilly Friday afternoon, I was getting bored

And as I assiduously underlined, a cup of coffee i poured

and i thought life as i knew it ,has become a bit too dull

let's sneak up a trick on it, break this interminable lull

so i decided to give myself a hair cut

and save myself a barbershop trip

and armed with the requisite weapons

i let them loose, snip snip snip

The trimmer it seemed, has a mind of its own

i tried hard to quell the revolt

but it snipped and snapped with gay abandon

like an imperious, nasty colt

Well the long and short of it was that

i was left standing among the debris

as my tresses lay strewn on the ground

scythed down, like my fashion hubris

I tried in vain to gain lost grounds

but the act, i found was fait accompli

and without further ado, my hubris gone

i beckoned for my texan hat, promptly

and so i stand, with a thatch of hair

that looks more like a roadkill

there couldnt be phrase more apt for it

than 'a shock of hair' on the rotund hill

Cheerio,

DJ

The English Prude-nt

My sister and I had an interesting argument last night. As most discussions that take place at 3 am in the night go, this one didn't particularly distinguish itself as far as the subtlety of arguments, the inanity of the topic or the intensity of a verbal offensive is concerned. In fact, it occasionally veered dangerously close to the sort of points Demosthenes might make during his speech-making in one of his decadent orgies or towards questionable logical connectives, the sort that sound perfectly sensible provided you have had gaseous extracts from Cannabis sativa or a pint or two of Scotland's best, swirling around your insides for the better part of the last hour. Of course , it all ended like the best arguments do, with a pixel-lated, PG rated display (though completely amiable) of the middle finger from one party to another and there the matter rested.

Until now, that is.

The million bushels-of-Farmville-wheat question that reared its ugly head, after a long time if I might add, was whether, I, Divyanshu Jha, am an English snob. At this point, and at the risk of validating the utterly unsubstantiated allegation, but merely to set the record straight for the benefit of the jury that shall be sitting in judgment and make sure that a spade is referred to as nothing else but with its rightful name, I will now add some authoritative definitions , relevant to the case at hand.

Snob

–noun

1.

a person who imitates, cultivates, or slavishly admires social superiors and is condescending or overbearing to others.

2.

a person who believes himself or herself an expert or connoisseur in a given field and is condescending toward or disdainful of those who hold other opinions or have different tastes regarding this field.

There are a few things I will admit to, right away.

English is a wonderful language. And before the VHP and Bajrang Dal and Bal Tuckerey and his ilk of nephews, sons, grandsons, second cousin twice removed , those fascinating guardians of the glorious Indian culture get their adorably airy knickers into an ununravellable knot or burn my effigy down (with a smattering of rubber tyres, a whiff of hay and that ubiquitous scrawl on the scrawny neck of the scarecrow), citing "causing affront to delicate sensibilities of x crores of Hindus" - to them I say, "Don't you have another Rath yatra to mount to IIT Roorkee, bring down a disputed youth fest?"

With that truck of rabble rousers taken care of, let me explain what I mean.

For Macaulay or for worse, my first hand experience with works of English Literature has been far more diverse than with works in my mother tongues of Hindi or Maithili. And , that , sadly is more a reflection of the sparseness of experience of the latter rather than any erudition in the former. Outside of the awesome hasyaras (the names of its major exponents kind of set the stage for what comes next -------------) and veerras traditions(damn, there is so much 'kranti' bubbling inside after a well recited Ramdhari Singh 'Dinkar' , I feel like Sunny Deol kicking Pakistani asses on the sarhad) in hindi poetry, which I believe, yield to none in their awesomeness and deft little short stories I was lucky enough to be compelled to read at the risk of running afoul of my ghastly Hindi teacher, I have been remarkably untouched by pieces of hindi literature. If you discount(not that there's any reason you should) the sterling collection of comics (SCD, Nagraj, Doga, Bhokaal, Bankelaal, Gamraj, Parmanu... )compiled meticulously over the years on avidly awaited monthly trips to what we had christened the Super Commando Gali, there was little to speak of by way of refined highbrow stuff that delves into the intricacies of the human psyche.

And once the initial conditions are set, it takes quite a bit of effort to diversify. So, while I still enjoy the occasional short story in Hindi, any leisure time would find me comfortably ensconced with P G Wodehouse rather than Phanishwar Nath Renu , despite the close parochial ties. If however, somebody has a good suggestion in the department and is willing to gift me one.... then thats another matter. And I do have plans. Not just yet, but I do have them.

As to what I like about Queen's English , would take space and time that neither the readers nor I have, so let me rant for a bit on which of its myriad forms incurs my displeasure and if not outright scorn, then at least biases me pre-emptively against the perpetrator of the ghastliness.

- meh, mah, moh, frnzz and other such similar silliness. Contracting a word for convenience into an understandable entity(even if it is missing its vowels) makes sense and allowances can be made. But, misspellings that factor in a couple of additional alphabets that clearly would be better off , finding a dignified place in an appropriate word. I sense an underlying need to be 'kewl' and that does jar my senses a bit. I mean, its not like we are playing scrabble and you have zz's and mm's to spare, so hey! why not hike up the scores a bit with some self assembled words. If I needed that, I would read Finnegan's Wake, not be party to a correspondence with you

An associated malady that is oft seen, more often where females are concerned than with the other half of the demography, is the extended word endings. Maybe, it signifies your exuberance but it sure does screech like a nice sharp set of talons recreating the Ninth symphony on a blackboard. So, please, before you end it like thissssss(see how bad this sounds, And on top of it,it reminds you of Mallika Sherawat. Eurrgh!) take a step back, ponder, sense the word's elongated tale form on your lips and realise how very silly it sounds, looks and feels.

- That you like Chetan Bhagat, is none of my concern. So do millions of other people and I wish them all well and will continue to follow their exploits with some interest. I only ask you not to bandy his name like he is the Charles Dickens of our times. Maybe in the future, in more enlightened times, when we have IITs in every town ,zillions of IIT JEE training institutes that pepper the serene landscapes that recruit fresh out of college IITians to train wannabe IITians to get into the aforementioned IITs, in a land where IITians are dime a dozen, still topping India Today Surveys and maintaining their rockstar image, where top rankers are like rajnikanths and chuck norris combined into one, where FIITJEE has started IITJEE training programs from Kindergarten(hey, that day isn't too far. I give it a decade, 2 at maximum), maybe in such a world , you might be forgiven to adore Chetan bhagat and discuss its deeper meanings , revel in its beautiful imagery, the portrayal of the complex interplay of human emotions, the delicate art of his storytelling , its poignant use of vocalbulary that never fails to please, but please, I beg you, do not be so presumptuous as to presume that he is the best writer ever to write on topics that resonate with the innermost emotions of the common denominator of the human race. Liking him only makes me hopeful that you will graduate to better things, that you are primed for reading something else. Worshiping him does not lower you in my eyes, it merely implies there wont be any common ground for us to talk about.

- I DO NOT like people who hate P G Wodehouse. You haven't read him , fine. Not your fault. You found him bleh. Alright. Maybe you like Dostoevsky. Takes all sorts. But you go to the extent of maligning his style and ask for a bloody plot... Go to hell! Snob? Sure. Now shoo.

There are going to be a lot of irate people sriting a strongly worded letter to the Times or in this case, to the blog administrator, which sadly for their pro-free-speech bleedin hearts , is me. But this is restricted almost completely to people whom I haven't had the honor to have an extended conversation with. So, take a chill pill and do not drag me to court on this, dawg!

Cheerio

DJ

P.S. It needs a few more points to make the disclaimer iron clad but since I need to sleep now, I will let the glaring inconsistencies to be to allow people of all shapes and sizes take potshots at me and my snobbishness. And snobs of course, will malign me for not liking Joyce and Woolfe and other some such atrocity. I guess I had it coming. Ah well. Happy Diwali to everyone.

Hand to Feet existence

Amidst all the recent brouhaha about Obama's secretly being a Opus dei priest, Paris Hilton's newfound fondness for chihuahua meat and the never-ending breaking-news of Kallu Kalmadi's Next Big Scandal, I, in a rare moment of lucidity and clarity of thought brought out by these gut wrenching human element stories, was reminded of why I has started this blog in the first place: To write about things that actually affected and touched the lives of normal people , like you(If you are a regular, dont worry, I dont mean you, of course. You are about as normal as a ray at grazing incidence) and me(heh, that is just to complete the phrase). Stories and philosophical thoughts that people would relate to, that serve a purpose in society: of bringing to attention some existing malaise, some crooked institution and put a spotlight on it, start a debate, mobilize public opinion. And thanks to that epiphany, I would like to write about that most antiquated and, for the Z-next generation(I dont know which is the current one. I think I was the Y-generation, my dad was Generation X--), the most bizarre of all familial practices: 'paer chchoona'.

One of the major hurdles in getting this blog out was to find the english transliteration of this activity. Somehow, a translation("touching the leg/legs") reminds one more of Gangly-Long-Legs Deepika Padukone than a wizened old man with fake dentures; and the essence, as you would expect, is thus lost. Transliteration, too , wasn't perfect in the end and the imperative form "XYZ ke paer choo+o (the "choo" rhymes with glue and the "o" bringing up the rear is as the singleton letter) is tougher still to communicate via english text. But with the audience and I on the same page, and the imagery of the act intact (except for the ones with a leg fetish) let us proceed.

The act of paer chchoona is as old as the act of sucking up, which, as has been proven by recent archaeological findings of primate fossils, is very old indeed. As for its prevalence, it again mirrors the other quite well, which , needless to say, is omnipresent. In all its avatars and forms, this could go on endlessly, and so for the sake of brevity(one of my strengths) I will restrict my tirade as to how it affects the 15-25 segment of the demography.

..........................

For young, impressionable, mild mannered Calvin... sorry, yours truly, surrounded by a characteristically prolific maternal and paternal sides, bursting at the seams with uncles, aunts, grandmother's foofaas, pseudo nanajees, uncle in laws, aunts outside the law and even distant cousins, uncles and foofeejees, all residing in a 5 mile radius in one of civilizational backwaters, it didn't take long for the rite of Paer chchoona to invade my subconcious and cuddle up cosily in one corner , directing behavior for many a year before an internal audit found it out. Long summer vacations were invariably inaugurated by a grand assembly of all known and unknown relations , arranged in rank and file according to seniority, double their number of feet minus 1(one Old Timer had lost his in the Great War of 1857, or so he claimed; and counting the wrinkles on his pug like face, he must have been quite old even back then) laid out in rows upon rows of Paragon wearing appendages, all set to be touched, hands at the ready to either brush kindly on the top of the head or in a classic Cheek Pincher stance, to catch the blessing seeker unawares in a pinch to the death . A favorite of betelnut chewing aunts with equally abhorrent talons to boot, this act of human rights violation involved letting the blessing seeker feel the perfunctory brush against the frontal lobe and just as the quarry thought that the proceedings were over and that he could move on to the next set, the hands swooped down and rendering all evasive tactics futile, pinched young cheeks like Mr Gill having a go at female bottoms. I would like to bring to the attention of the discerning public that the Paer chchoona thingy is a crucial component of the attack, for we are caught in a vulnerable pose which makes evasive action impossible to effect and I strongly suspect that there is a strategic thought process behind this seemingly innocuous coincidence.

Relatively infrequent visits by relatives are met by flurries of bending over forwards; in case of sibling infested households, and small visiting contingents, the whole thing needs to be rehearsed carefully and streaming of participants should be smooth and the ceremony conducted in large open spaces , otherwise resulting in demand supply inequilibrium. This, in turn, leads to a major fracas, in milder form restricted to bumped elbows, in more serious form, head concussions, memory loss and death. And for what?All in the name of touching legs.

If home visits are mere skirmishes, marriages and other massive social get-togethers have to be the analogous World Wars. In such cases, it is futile, especially for the youngest bracket to think and ponder whether the man/woman in front is a relative worthy of a genuflection or a mere "namaste" would suffice. He would be well advised not to think but fall at the mere sight of ugly toes sticking out. Waiting for signals from an already overloaded(and possibly outdated) facial recognition system in his brain or facial twitches from a kindly mom or dad, inevitably lead to a major social faux pas, involving an outraged Toothless , letting out profanities on the "ku-sanskaari" younger generation and in some instances, pointing fingers at lax parental regulations for instilling values and bemoaning the going out of fashion of corporal punishment. Nothing good ever came out of skipping a valid pair of feet at such meetings. But more on the consequences later.

Marriage ceremonies are happy hunting ground for disgruntled old timers, a yearly convention if you will, to train the wayward youth in old values, cultural ethos and what-nots. Be forewarned, for they look at such small slip ups and instead of a long protracted investigation about whether you remember the 12 names of Durgavataars(or is it 13? Almost time for the yearly revision to commence :D ) it would be best to set your homing beacons sensitivity levels to "So Low as to be non existent" and fall down dandvat at every opportunity that presents itself to you.

A major problem with "paer chchoona" and its affiliated activities is to authenticate a candidate. If the predicate for authentication is "blood relation", how far a blood relation, does foofa's chachi's neice's granddaughter's sister in law work? The lack of a central database is disconcerting in itself. If you follow seniority of rank rather than of age, would you touch the feet of your so-called mausi who is barely a year old? If you include friendly acquaintances, how would you respond to a girl who you think is quite hot, falling down prostrate asking for your blessings as an elder brother and ask how to prepare for JEE? Quite a dampener, wouldn't you say?. And then there is the quintessential question of the twilight region of age: with people of plus minus 5 years of age, you are never really sure whether you do a shoulder bump, a nod of acknowledgement or a paer chchoona maneuver, especially in front of those with whom you have a yawning generational chasm. The ambiguity in the whole thing is frustrating and the margin for error , a wrong on-the-spot decision, is quite small.

Then there are the local variants of the practice. While the practice is dying out slowly in a few isolated pockets, the MTV generation has done well in working out a compromise, moving away from the conventional, two handed, multi fingered touch to a I-am-too-cool-to-do-that--single-finger,-tickle-the-knee action. With the body bent away from the subject and feet firmly planted on the ground, the pose gives enough space for a speedy exits in case of the aforementioned Cheek Pinch attack. The more subservient among us have to do with the dandvat pranaam, that village elders hailing from the time of the battle of Plassey insist upon, anything less being considered a sacrilege. Most ,however, are quite content with the two-fingered approach.

_________________________________________

All and all, a breathtakingly diverse and truly enervating experience for an inexperienced person who has wandered into ancient territory. A bit more of clarification in rules governing the maneuver and a bit of leeway in terms of errors of omission and commission would go a long way in getting the MTV generation to go the whole 9 yards, or in this case, go down on you.

dj

The Specialist

Note: Considering a surprisingly substantial amount of time has passed since the last time I picked up a book that tended to some sort of English literature, the current post will be shorn of its usual trappings : blatantly plagiarized and shoddily concealed phrases (and the occasional passage) picked from P G Wodehouse, Enid Blyton and the Bible(if you look closely enough) , and will veer dangerously towards what this medium of expression usually is about, the inanities that pepper lives of human beings who find elation in sharing with their equally inert audience(hey, no offence :) ), their daily adventures in Slo Mo Land.

With that lengthy premise and the concurrent lowering of expectations(and a proportionate dwindling in the readers(hey, thanks for sticking around btw ), let me talk about what Yours truly is currently engaged in. Its been a long time since I dispensed gyaan on the portal and I might as well get everyone up to speed.

I have reformed , so to speak, realigned myself, turning over a new leaf. Four years of inactive and rusting machinery is creaking back from lethargy, the self-dubbed but slightly misnomer-ish MCQ machine is rumbling back to life. In a life that has measured its age in terms of competitive exams given ( starting from the Holmes and Christie era of NTSEs and Scienc-y Olympiads to the Tom Clancy times of NSOs and real Olympiads, the JEE singularity led me into what I like to call the Wooster life, with all its trappings and concatenation of unfortunate coincidences - the occasional spreading of sunshine, hurtling in and out of love, assisting blokes in carrying out their escapades(romantic or otherwise) , concerned fathers(or in this case, the Girl Hostel guards) giving nightly pursuits , hunting crops in hand. I had a fair share of Aunts as well(figuratively speaking), some very nice( Aunt Dahlia) , others who ate broken glass and sucked blood by the full moon(not figuratively speaking) .

But unlike all Russian novels, things ultimately sorted out to everyones satisfaction, the only occasional casualty being my sanity being called into question.

However, after a rather prolonged stay in this mode( with a not insignificant number of times when the hand passed over a feverish brow) ,it was time for something new. God knows there have been enough petitions by my parents to , to risk paraphrasing, go get a life. High hopes were harbored, the IIT IIM combine glittered like a tonne of fool's gold at the other end of the rainbow, prospects of a new generation Jha starting to earn his boarding and lodging charges seemed likely, much to the incredulity of everyone. Thankfully, I shifted gears, and in a remarkable turn of events decided to take a year off for 'doing other stuff'.

So, here I am, filling the ranks of the educated unemployed, mooching off of my parent's hard earned money and time for another year at least, and feeling happy about it all. Preparing for civil services, for all its horror stories of 14 hour work days, 7 days a week for 2 years straight before you can even call yourself an aspirant, is something that I would recommend to anyone who unlike most people, has time to waste and then some, parents who are willing to finance their way through a couple'o years of grazing the pastures of multifarious books, commentaries and stuff so random you cant even begin to imagine. Especially, the more technically minded brethren of mine who have spent most of the past decade or so honing their formulaic brains to the single minded pursuit of science , technology and in the later part, girls. Its a fantastic journey to make if you are into that sort of masochistic stuff but I should perhaps , for the advantage of the ones with too much money and too much time on their hands, sieve out the parts that are fit for consumption by the general populace, however employed they might be at the time.

But all that perhaps, for a later post. For the moment, try out a couple of "Books I have read" on the right hand side of the blog. Ones that I would seriously recommend are R Guha's India After Gandhi, Sunil Khilnani's "The Idea of India" and Amartya Sen's " The Argumentative Indian". For the more hard core readers who want to go "in depth", go pick up the11th 5 Year plan :D

Bis dann,

dj

Autumns

Autumn: the season of bounteous fecundity and mellow fruitfulness, of the drizzle of amber leaves, of moments that stand suspended in mid air, languidly holding up its hand to the impatient summons of monotonous time, of Wordsworth’s figure of a solitary reaper and the silent swish of her scythe cutting through the heavy afternoon air in one fluid motion.

Of the sedate ochre, hiding, almost apologetically, in deeper folds of its fabric, a fiery dash of scarlet reds, incandescent oranges and a sliver of fuchsia thrown in as if on an afterthought, like the glowing embers of a cosy little fire that has curled up with the approaching dusk.

Of murmuring brooks that sigh contentedly, to no one in particular, as they meander to nowhere in particular singing a nonchalant lullaby and despite protestations, gently tucking in and putting the more tempestuous summer to sleep.

Of cobbled thoroughfares and the familiar crackle of leaves under early morning footsteps.

Of eternity tucked into a moment, a moment that lasts for all eternity.

To my Valentine

Considering my recent posts havent been any good, I thought this one of my recent favorites should be up there at the top till I come up with something better.

Blame it on the mellow season or the inevitability of my approaching flight from the confines of this place, on the propitious date that shall be upon us in a matter of days or on the bounteous moon that is shining with more than its usual fervor tonight. But in indicting them for the genesis of this letter , you will be gravely mistaken. For the instigation of this communique lies deeper in the mists of time, the mists that part deferentially under the intensity of your radiance so very often, yet so much darker, dreary and desolate for the rarity with which your countenance has been kind enough to exhilarate those who pine for that one glimpse of the face, the face that, a millennium ago, could have set sail a thousand ships. I do not profess to be an authority on romantic magniloquence but I could, in that first fleeting meeting of the eyes, Oh those eyes!, I could understand the helplessness that Byron envisaged when he wrote those immortal lines:

Thus much and more, and yet thou lov'st me not,
And never wilt, Love dwells not in our will
Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot
To strongly, wrongly, vainly, love thee still.

And ever since that one propinquitous moment, it has been impossible to restrain the flights of imagination, extraordinarily vivid in all their brilliance during promenades through the copper-hued drizzle of dried leaves, transmuting into something so surreal when you breeze in silently as I make my way past the crossroads, the lonely forlorn figure trudging through the white clouds hanging from the tranquil boughs above. And even as I walk ,engaged as I am, in the oft repeated and severely practiced conversations, all confessing to the irreversible enchantment , some professing undying love , the fraction that is still grounded in physical reality bitterly yearns for that elusive next encounter that providence has planned for us. The impulsive thought of forcing its hands has, not infrequently, crept up on the bleak, tempestuous horizon but as often slinks back just as it seems that the sun will finally come out. The perennial winter that I find myself in, though, is not ungrateful in this state of limbo, for the ethereal promise manifested in you. And you seem to be an enigma too pure and divine to desecrate. Better to pay unilateral obeisance to the flawlessness of the deity than to drag her into the dirt of human existence as a mortal being.

And so have I fallen , as is said colloquially, truly madly deeply in love. Not with you. The pedestal on which you are is as forbidding as the figure in repose on it is alluring. But an idea of you.

And this letter is addressed to that idea.

Yours ensorcelled,
DJ

Birthday Poems

I dug this out from my archives, two poems I had written for the birthdays of my Mom and my elder sister a couple of years back. Stumbled across them on my CSE Lab computer. Thought I should make this public and I dearly hope they wont mind. In fact, I am pretty sure they have forgotten about this already :D

To Dear Deedee,

I’m wishing you another year
Of laughter, joy and fun,
Surprises, love and happiness,
And when your birthday’s done,

I hope you feel deep in your heart,
As your birthdays come and go,
How very much you mean to me,
More than you can know.

my sister happy birthday dear
awake arise for comes along
another beautiful year!
of lots of studies and com-med classis 
and gold medals and rock show backstage passes
and treats and lovely chopsuey to eat (Manipal :awesome food joints)
and every other day deadlines to beat

and stop not here for u lead
a rocking life.so pay no heed
and enjoy this life to the hilt
spike ur haiir, and wear a kilt
and dance like an oaf on the mess table
and roll in the mud in the horses' stable
for your lovely countenance to grace this earth
we are blessed by God himself[and say i not this in mirth]

our very own little doctor madam
with a cute telescope,i beg ur pardon
for tis a stethocope that hangs around
that dainty neck on her Rounds
round the hospital she goes around
and diagnoses ailments to confound
her sorry profs ,they've got no clue
what this sweetheart can do

for behold all ye poeple
she is both beauty and brain
though how am i going to
marry her off it ain't certain


Notes: (Com-med= Community medicine, hated among medical students, almost like Moral Science in SChool)


I now think that I shouldnt upload the one for my mom. Might not be in my best interest. :) :)

Abhi na jaao chod kar

He looks at the watch. 7:45 am. The calendar. It’s the family’s vacation in Bali they had taken in June, exactly one year earlier. He smiles wistfully at the picture of his wife sitting on the golden sands, her hands trying to vainly avert the splash of a wave, beautifully blue under the radiant sun while his daughter, perched on her shoulders, is screaming out of sheer delight and fear. He looks out of his window and tries to , as he did every day since they moved in, in their new 4 bedroom penthouse on top of the city’s highest residential complex, he tries to absorb the sight of the city slowly coming alive. He tries hard to listen to the bustle of the 540 that should be coming along, anytime now, to ferry another platoon of suited up men and women to their workplaces but remembers he is too far away from it now.

Reverting his gaze, he absentmindedly flips open the newspapers and tries to make out the fine print of an array of figures spread out on the centrefold. But his attention wanders and his sight relaxes until his pupils indicate that he is looking not at the gramophone that sits right in the direction his eyes are pointing to but at something else, the past ,the future, the day ahead in office perhaps, we will never know.

“Abhi na jao chod kar ki dil abhi bharaa nahi”

The reverie is broken. The old gramophone, the last remaining possession of his mother, comes to life and he, sitting at the table, turns slightly to see his daughter put on the record. The tip of the needle plays out a melody he had not heard in a long long time. His daughter, like the forest nymph that she was, smiles mischievously in his general direction although their eyes haven’t met yet. She is still in her night clothes, a dazzlingly white summer frock, barely embellished with designs yet looking like an extravagant diamond as some errant beams of sunlight freed themselves from the billowing folds of the window shades and alighted on it.

And then, she starts to dance.

With an imaginary partner at her arms, she twirls gracefully with the rising cadence of the song, the frills of her simple frock following her every movement. With a gesture and that same smile playing on her childish face, she silently beckons him to join her even as her bare toes execute adorable gyrations on the rug-covered floor. She is glittering like the moon, and he feels the sun lose its intensity. He goes over to her and takes her arm. She has her arm on his waist and his hand rests lightly on her left shoulder. By his other, he clasps her tiny, delicate hands and they continue dancing, an incongruous sight to behold. As the song reaches its final crescendo

He looks around and he sees himself on a rickety old bus throttling along MG Road. He looks outside the windows and immediately catches a speck in the eye. The sudden blip catches him unawares and he frantically tries to get it out. And then he feels her hand on his fingers and time slows down. He squints through the blur to catch sight of her lush hair playing truant on her face even as she tries to give them a semblance of order. Taking his face in her hands, she gently upturns his face and with a zephyr of magic , rids him of the speck of dust lodged in his eye. The soft breeze of the evening is mildly accentuated by the unhurried gait of the bus on this long bare stretch of road. The overhead lights pass them in a staccato of alternating darkness and light, sometimes flickering with an unrequited passion quite unlike them under the ethereal shower of silver. The palette of the moment, this intermingling of silver with speckles of gold dust strewn and suspended in mid air is, however, paid no attention to by either of them. For them, the world has contracted into the black texture-less background of nothingness as their eyes drink the other in, in large gulps of that something which the dictionary so foolishly calls, love.

Which is surprising, the directness of the unbroken gaze, the smallest hint of a smile flickering at the edges of their eyes, eyes that had first met each other 3 months ago in the most incoherent of places, in a quaint little shop of old records, up a flight of stairs at the back of an odds-and-ends leather goods shop in Chandni Chowk. They had met again in a cozy old establishment off CP, Wengers , and continued over a chocolate shake in Keventers. And again, every week, sometimes in the Crosswords lounge, anon impulsively under her one storey balcony with the understanding, benevolent approval of her sister.

He can feel her tear herself away as the empty bus stops come and go. The conductor, sensing another day rapidly approaching its end, removes his vintage radio from under his seat and tunes in to the late night station on All India Radio. After a few seconds of white noise and intermittent, indecipherable chatter, it breaks out, thin, reedy but unmistakable

“Abhi abhi to aaye ho, bahaar ban ke chhaye ho...”

It was their old favourite and they smile involuntarily at the timing of the song. His eyes see longingly into hers and his lament echoes the tunes of the song. She replies but not in words. She takes his hands into her own and they both rise. She stumbles but he is quick to pull her close, keep her safe. The bus slows down for another stop and then they start to dance on the most bizarre of dance floors. The aisle isn’t very liberal in space but they swing back and forth lightly, tightly pressed against each other, comfortable in their own world. Another pothole throws her off balance but he absorbs the movement and the next instant finds her half reclining on a seat, with his strong hands balancing her in a perfect waltz pose. She laughs, throwing her face backwards, her luxuriant locks following suit and he lands a light peck on her bare neck. That very instant, he feels insanely happy. He doesn’t want the bus to stop. He wants it to move on forever, never reaching its destination, ever. He is happy and so is she.

Good Morning. My name is Russell.

i thought the shoes were immensely cute. unfortunately there was too much detail in the wallpaper to replicate in 2D(and withtout colors too, the red that u see was my spare diwali candle) without cluttering :( :(
sad.
the scale is arnd 3 feet on my wall.
this is the original.

a bit better than the earlier version(photoshopped)

Conversations

1

“Arjun Singh will be the end of us all. The new reservation act is outrageous. The nerve of the man to give away half the seats for free to people who, I daresay, haven’t done half a days’ honest work in their lives, counting on some such half-assed scheme to pull them out of the ditch they have dug themselves into. Do you think giving free sops to the so called “disadvantaged sections” will solve the problem one whit? I don’t . Listen, I do not deny that the government has its heart at the right place but have they given a thought about the thousands of talented candidates who are burning the midnight oil in far off towns and cities, studying incessantly for dreams that are being handed on a silver platter to the less than deserving ones who wont even work for it, secure in the knowledge of the selective bias they enjoy? ”

“Yeah, dude, I totally agree with you...And do you think its cheap being a high class Bramhin who wants to buy in to the IIT dream? My nephew, I swear, is working 16 hours a day in Kota a thousand kilometres away from his parents who have paid 57,000 rupees for the best coaching institute in India.  I hear it gets so hot, he can’t even get by without the cooler, they have had installed, not to mention the tasteless hostel food he gets there. Talk about hardships! Hah! Can you imagine two consecutive years of that added to the breathless pace of instruction, unebbing flow of mock tests every two days and peer pressure there is! These SCs and OBCs have got it so easy. Not an ounce of respect for merit. If they had any self respect, they would denounce the government policies or at the very least, compete in the general category on equal terms. Why hide behind some half cracked legislation? If somebody offered me a shortcut that denigrated me further as ‘backward’ I would spit on the face of that bastard!”

“But what about history, man! They haven’t had it so easy, you know. You read these articles of how , post independence, they were yet to get freedom from higher class oppression, that in the rural areas, there were areas, occasions even meetings they couldn’t go to. I think it’s justified if we are giving them back a semblance of respect and authority allowing them...”

“Bullshit! That was 60 years ago. They have developed enough on our expense. And to just say something about the state of affairs this wanton reservations have brought the country to, I should tell you about my father’s office scenario. He is in the Public Works department . Only the other day, the new promotion lists came out and guess what? They overlooked my dad’s 20 years of service to give the post, the post my dad had been in line for 5 years, to one of your ‘backwards’ who is 5 years his junior. And now, he has to report to the corrupt bastard. And he is eating through government funds like a starved beggar in a 5 star bouquet. No wonder the country is going to the dogs!”

2

“You heard about Dr Sharma’s daughter. Yes, the one who was doing a diploma course in Delhi. In Mass Communication I think. I received an invitation to her wedding in today’s mail in the office. Such a bright, beautiful girl too. I had already asked Mishraji from the office to drop hints that we are interested in her for our Manu. And the next thing I hear , she is going to get married to this Siddharth. But I knew there was something wrong immediately, because I had heard from Mishra that he too was quite eager towards our Manu. After all, he has an MBA and a job in Bangalore. Who wouldn’t want his daughter to get married to such a gem! So I had inquiries made. And lo, I was correct all along. It’s not an actual arranged marriage, it’s just a blatant cover-up for a love marriage.”

“What! Really? Sonal is having a love marriage! I tell you it’s these new fangled ‘modern’ notion of independence and freedom that is getting to these youngsters’ heads.”

“Arre... thats not all. You see , in that heavily embossed invitation card of theirs, they have very conveniently missed the groom’s title as well as the names of the parents of the groom. I found out from Sonal’s uncle-in law, yes, Sahoo ji from NTPC that the boy is a Paswan, no less. And the girl’s family is mighty incensed with this too. Except for the father who is standing up for this unholy reunion. Marrying out of her caste. This is what happens when you let young blood loose, they take your kindness to be your weakness. I don’t have anything against love marriages, after all we all live in enlightened times, but what next? Marrying off girls from our family to muslims! Christians! “

“Dad. Seriously man! Where are you from? 1900? It’s time you guys started becoming more progressive and less narrowminded. The girl obviously loves him and thats what matters. Not which caste or religion he belongs to. And he has a good government job and his dad too is MD in Coal India so he is financially secure enough and has a good family background. I don’t see what is there to be so critical about? I have half a mind to go marry a muslim girl. You would like that, wouldn’t you? There is this girl in our course, Asmin. Very cute and a very well read. I think I am in love with her. Even took her out for a ride on our new Honda Civic. She was totally floored.”

“Nonsense! I have seen my fair share of this “inter caste openness” and trust me , it doesn’t work. Tell him, only last month one of these love marriages met disaster when a child was still born. The father was crushed to see his daughter suffer while that bastard Yadav son-in-law stood by. And just the other day, I heard of another inter-religion marriage go kaput. The muslim bride divorced her husband after 6 months accusing her in-laws of coercing her to change her religion. I am not justifying the in-laws. Just that she should have understood the sensibilities of society before deciding on such a union.  It’s not like we didn’t have love in our times. But we made sure that we remained in our own groups and if any one had liaisons with anyone else, they usually met their parent’s approval without much haggling. But today, no concern for parents. Such ungratefulness. Always these kids forget that we think the best for them. Well, I hope Dr Sharma isn’t paying any dowry for a son-in-law like that. That would be a bad deal going worse. Hah! And don’t you dare marry into a Muslim family. Cute or not, I won’t have any burqaas in my house.”

“Chill Dad! Just pulling your leg.... Or, maybe not!”

3

“When are we going back home, dad? I am already fed up to my gills with the ‘serene calmness’ of this backwater village besides having had enough of defecating in the open. My IPod has ran out of charge and my laptop cannot make it through another one of the ever- lasting power cuts. I am sure your yearly accounting of the jameen’s produce and incomes is complete so lets get out of here. I know Mom would be ecstatic to use her microwave after an eternity. Her face is half soot covered with the makeshift wood stove.”

“Ha ha. Good for her. Let her see what life in villages is like. She has had enough of hairdressers and chauffeur driven cars. I should be done in another couple of days. There is this problem that has cropped up with the Gram Pradhan with regards to the water canal system the district administration is putting up in the village this year. They are taking it out from the Son about 3 kilometers upstream from here and man! We can’t wait to get it going.  Should push up produce threefold in its first year , is the most conservative estimate we have.”

“So, what is the problem? More profits for you? What is to be worried about?”

“The Pradhan is the freakin’ problem. Apparently, he is in cohorts with the District Commissioner and he is going ahead with the plan that would leave around a third of our land too far away from the main canal to be of any use.  And that , despite us being the largest landowner of this village. I thought after my father’s land ownerships would get curtailed after that blasphemous Land Ceiling Act in  1954 , nothing could top the shame and ignominy of getting your land take away from you. But no Sir, I spoke too soon. This Pasi Pradhan, who is strutting around like a peacock with the DM in his pocket, his father once worked as a clerk for my father and it was his large heartedness to allow him and his kid inside the house premises and eat the same food with us. And today, that kid has grown up and refuses to let the canal flow through my lands. Instead, he is hiding behind ‘community welfare’ and ‘maximum utility’ fundas to stifle my progress. He has always been jealous and see him now, a government servant . And all that talk about unbiasedness during election campaigns. Hogwash! Its obvious he is trying to get the canal through the lands his people own and till. Who made him the representative, anyways! Perhaps it was better in  the days before when such people weren’t pulling you d Take your cousin ,Kishan here. Remember him? You two played together during your summer vacations 5-6 years back. He hasn’t inherited any land from his drunken father all of which went in paying debt and now he does odd jobs for the family here. Even the others from the Pasi groups are punching above their weight. I like to take care of people here and I offered one of them to come and tend the house , help around with kitchen work , cleaning etc but the nerve! He refused the more than generous pay and decided to go to Patna to try his luck there. Will probably starve to death there, without any work. Serve him right, if he does. They just don’t see what is good for them.

Aah! Pradhan Ji. Please, come on in. Kishan, nimboo sherbet lao Pradhan ji ke liye, ekdum thandaa. So , Pradhan babu! A visit to the Gareebkhana! How is that?”

“Nothing much, Lalaji. No need for the sherbet, please. I am good. Just wanted to discuss your apprehensions about the new plans. I was very anxious to answer them since you are such a respected figure of this village and I wouldn’t wish to get this project on ...."

Now , more than ever, I need feedback :)

Scene 1

One of my attempts at creating atmosphere. How do you like it?

The city had long since settled down, lending to the pearly sodium lamps that lined the Raj Path, barely hours earlier shrouded under a diaphanous veil of dust and smoke, a surreal clarity that seemed almost magical to behold; hear closely enough and you could almost hear the silent, murmuring sighs of the evening relapsing into the night. The astral necklace of yellow that embraced the boulevard flickered every now and then as if in silent assent to the hypnotic impression of a sheer capriciousness that the vista seemed to radiate, like the undisturbed, undulating surface of a serene lake that, with the slightest human touch or by the mere indolent descent of a dry, desiccated leaf , would dissolve into a thousand asynchronous ripples, taking away with it, the star speckled skies and the flamboyant moon that found rest and respite in its silvery expanse. The somnolent breeze meandered through the tableau, causing here a torpid feline to curl up closer to its mother, whistling there through the crevices of an improperly barred gate, playing a rhythm of its own with the staccato of the catch striking intermittently against the half fastened bolt. It caressed the trees lining the street with its fingers, the oh so gentle fingers, causing every leaf to revel in its moment of personal attention that it afforded even as the mild rustle of the dried brown umbrage added its own unique tune to the masterful symphony that seemed to permeate the landscape. Indeed, if one were to assume that that moment in space and time was one of the rare trysts when the realms of reality get entangled in the meshes of another more ethereal dimension, and that any moment now it would vanish in a sparkling shower of shimmering magic dust he wouldn't be too far off the mark.

To my Valentine

Blame it on the mellow season or the inevitability of my approaching flight from the confines of this place, on the propitious date that shall be upon us in a matter of days or on the bounteous moon that is shining with more than its usual fervor tonight. But in indicting them for the genesis of this letter , you will be gravely mistaken. For the instigation of this communique lies deeper in the mists of time, the mists that part deferentially under the intensity of your radiance so very often, yet so much darker, dreary and desolate for the rarity with which your countenance has been kind enough to exhilarate those who pine for that one glimpse of the face, the face that, a millennium ago, could have set sail a thousand ships. I do not profess to be an authority on romantic magniloquence but I could, in that first fleeting meeting of the eyes, Oh those eyes!, I could understand the helplessness that Byron envisaged when he wrote those immortal lines:

Thus much and more, and yet thou lov'st me not,

And never wilt, Love dwells not in our will

Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot

To strongly, wrongly, vainly, love thee still.

And ever since that one propinquitous moment, it has been impossible to restrain the flights of imagination, extraordinarily vivid in all their brilliance during promenades through the copper-hued drizzle of dried leaves, transmuting into something so surreal when you breeze in silently as I make my way past the crossroads, the lonely forlorn figure trudging through the white clouds hanging from the tranquil boughs above. And even as I walk ,engaged as I am, in the oft repeated and severely practiced conversations, all confessing to the irreversible enchantment , some professing undying love , the fraction that is still grounded in physical reality bitterly yearns for that elusive next encounter that providence has planned for us. The impulsive thought of forcing its hands has, not infrequently, crept up on the bleak, tempestuous horizon but as often slinks back just as it seems that the sun will finally come out. The perennial winter that I find myself in, though, is not ungrateful in this state of limbo, for the ethereal promise manifested in you. And you seem to be an enigma too pure and divine to desecrate. Better to pay unilateral obeisance to the flawlessness of the deity than to drag her into the dirt of human existence as a mortal being.

And so have I fallen , as is said colloquially, truly madly deeply in love. Not with you. The pedestal on which you are is as forbidding as the figure in repose on it is alluring. But an idea of you.

And this letter is addressed to that idea.

Yours ensorcelled,

DJ