www.heaven.com

Back in those days when we didn't have email attachments with pictures of us and our family members grinning away those mega pixels taken on that 'smaller-than-my-palm' cyber-shots, when we didn't have messengers and skypes and what-have-yous, we had something that connected directly with our hearts: Picture post cards. You had this lovely sunset from somewhere, which you held lovingly in your fingers, and turned the card around to read even more lovingly, the scribbled letters of a friend, thousands of miles away. You probably received the card a month after the season shown in the card, but you didn't 'delete' the post card. You adorned it lovingly on your loving black n white TV, for the world to see, that you had a dear friend overseas who sent you lovely colorful picture post-cards.

My father was one such lucky person. And he received his card from a colleague who he'd befriended while on a trip abroad. He'd receive the cards every christmas and new year, sometimes even out of the blue...and read out the tiny, scrawly letter etched on the back of the card to us. Sometimes, he'd get a full letter in an envelope. The letter even smelled good! And we kids would pride at the fact that dad had an 'American' friend.

We received countless cards and letters, until one year they just stopped coming. Just like that. Stopped (much before the internet and emails...even STD calls). We spoke about it for a year or two and then carried on with life. One day, last year, we remembered this friend and wondered what would've made the guy stop writing.

"I guess, he passed away."

In truth, this might really have been the case. Because he was the only person who my father knew. We didn't know his whereabouts, we didn't know his changed address, if any (father tried writing to him years back, but the letters just returned to him).

I even googled him out for father, came up with a couple of close matches, but perished the thought, because of the age differences. I guess he really did pass away. But just think - at least for father, his very existence depended on just the cards and letters he wrote; the wishes he sent across the oceans.

Now, if only there was an email service in heaven.

red ice

"It's a diffusive injury to the brain".

"Doctor, could you be more specific?"

"Look, in plain words, your brother has had a minor concussion. There's a blood clot. We've to take a CT scan and then decide whether or not to operate on him".

"Is it..is it serious?"

"It is."

******

The blood oozes out of his left ear. We've run out of cotton. The nurse hands out another wad, with a casual wave of her hand.

The smell of antiseptic, mixed with the iron smell of deep dark blood can send waves of nausea through even the most stoic of digestive systems.

We wait. 2, 3, 4... hours.

The effect of the pain-killer's beginning to wear off. The groans have begun.

Outside, an ambulance screeches to a halt and then, like a scene straight out of ER, paramedics wheel in another accident victim.

Time stands still in a casualty ward. Because everybody hopes that in that momentarily suspended strand of time, we might see recovery. Some recover. For some, time remains still. Just like the victims.

All that mind thinks at this time: thus far, and no more.

For the mechanics of the human workshop, shop opens mostly at night.

******

Here and now...

Close to three and a half months is a pretty long time to be away from blogging, and I think this has been my longest period away from mine. Well, I don't wanna go into the nitty-gritties of why I was off it; it doesn't matter anyways. I've missed you guys helluva lot (no kidding). I guess I've been even trying to visit a few of you in this time. But well...

I know blogdom is a pretty amoebic world, where nothing ever really stays constant, be it emotions, thoughts, opinions or plain interest. But that said, I must also say that somewhere deep down, when I visited you guys, despite not having penned anything the last 3 months, I did feel a sense of security, a warmth that said 'hey, these guys are around, and it's still fun being here'. So, that's motivation enough to join in...whenever. It's like falling out of a steady stream of people walking and then one fine day you come back to the road and fall back in. No eyebrows raised, no questions. A pat or two on the back perhaps. A smile.

It feels good to be back.

Call me if you can...

This was the time when there were no cell-phones, way back in college. A phone conversation between my friend D and a wrong caller. Incidentally he used to get so many wrong numbers, he decided to spend some quality time with the poor guys lest they felt their calls were wasted.

"Hello..?"

"Hello. Ajit Timbers?"

"Tell me."

"The load hasn't come yet."

Puzzled expression. "But I sent it tomorrow?"

"Huh?"

"yes. And tomorrow's load I'm sending it yesterday."

"Wha...? Who is speaking?"

"D."

" D? Which D?"

"Which D? This D. There's no other D. "

Line goes dead.

*******

And this one, the day D wanted to know if it was a holiday in the college due to a strike. Those days, engineering colleges resumed after an hour or so after the strike. He was in no mood to go to college, so he decided to do some good to his class-mates as well.

"Hello, NIE college?"

"Yes."

"Put me on to Muthuswamy."

"Sorry, sir he's not coming today. There's a strike."

"He's the principal and he's not coming today? what kind of a principal is he?"

"Uh...sorry sir, I didn't get your name."

"I'm Inspector Puttuswamy here."

"Oh, good morning sir." I'm sure the guy stood up, whoever he was.

"Have my men come there?"

"Yes sir. The constables are here. We're not allowing any student inside."

"You have declared a holiday haven't you?"

"Yes sir. half day."

"NO, no...give a full day off. I got a tip that there'll be trouble."

"Ok sir."

"Good. I'll be there in a half hour. And please call Mr. Muthu also to come and meet me."

"Ok sir. Thank you sir."

"Thank you? What for?"

I wonder if the writer of Hera-Pheri consulted with D...

A picture worth a ...?

I watched 'The Da Vinci Code' last week. Wish I hadn't. I'm saying this because this is the nth time that I've watched a movie adapted from a novel and though it's not surprising at all, it was a bit of a let-down that the movie did not do justice to the novel. That said, I guess it's in the very nature of some movies to fall short of expectations when it comes to recreating the same magic of its raw material. We all know that a novel offers much more in terms of imagination, characterisations, and narration; and a movie has to cover all this and more in just under 2 - 3 hours. Unfair, one might say. But still, it isn't like there haven't been movies that have been as successful as novels, if not more. I feel it's to do with what parts the director/screenplay writer decides to include and take out, aside from the main plot of the story. Cinematic liberties notwithstanding, some movies just fail to perk up and take the viewers by the b**** and rivet them to watch on. This is just a personal opinion, so please don't crucify me, but I felt Da Vinci Code was one of them. There was no magic, no feeling of mystery and intrigue that the novel had. There was no, as they say - soul.

Some movies I felt were as good, if not better than novels they were adapted from:

The God Father

The Color Purple
A
couple of John Grisham movies ( The Firm, Pelican Brief, The Rainmaker, A time to kill...And there on his novels became cookie cutters. So much so that whenever I read his later novels now, I imagine a hollywood star/actor in the lead characters)

The day of the jackal ( well not exactly, but it was gripping)

Devdas ( The old one, not the ne-ne-ne-new one)

Some Alistair Mclain movies (Where Eagles Dare, Force 10 from Navarone, Guns of Navarone)
The Jungle Book (Animated)

Get Shorty

Jackie Brown (Elmore Leonard's novel was called Rum Punch)

Any more....? (Am sure I don't remember all)

A rose is a rose...

The_hitman: Hi, gorgeous!

Rose: Hi

The_hitman: asl?

Rose: You first

The_hitman: male, 35 years

Rose: Oh..

The_hitman: Why? Am I too old for you? *wink*

Rose: NO..no, nothing. forget it.

Rose: So...what do you hit?

The_hitman: Excuse me?

Rose: Your user name...

The_hitman: oh that! :)) Yeah, I am a hitman

Rose: What is that?

The_hitman: You don't know?

Rose: Why would I ask?

The_hitman: Be prepared, you might get scared. But you should not...

Rose: Tell me first.

The_hitman: I do contract killings...

A beat

The_hitman: I told you you'd be scared.

Rose: No

The_hitman: Really?

Rose: Yeah.

The_hitman: wow, I like courageous women.

Rose: lol

A week later...

The_hitman: So, how's it like being in a travel agency?

Rose: Better than being a killer (if you are one, that is) :)

The_hitman: Lol.You know what, you are a nice girl, I'd like to meet you.

Rose: And kill me? ;)

The_hitman: Come on, be serious. Can we meet?

Rose: That depends...

The_hitman: Depends on?

Rose: On one condition. You should tell me all about your profession. I want to know more.

The_hitman: Forget it, it's not for women like you.

Rose: Look, if you want me to meet a hitman, I might as well know more about his profession, no?

The_hitman: Hmm, you have a point. Ok...

The next evening, this time face to face...

Rose (sipping coffee): You don't look like a hitman. (Giggles)

The_hitman: Well, you do look every bit like a travel agency executive.They smile. An hour later, they're walking down the road, feeling the gentle evening breeze on their faces.

"So what are you really?"

"Huh?"

"Come on, I know when I see men. You cannot be a hitman."

"Is it written on a hitman's face that he's a hitman?" He laughs.She laughs, but is serious the next moment. "Tell me".

He watches the traffic silently for a minute and sighs."Ok, I might as well tell the truth, why fib? I'm a builder."

"You could've told me that straight away, the other day."

"Yeah, I know, I should have."

They walk and talk for another half hour and walk back to the parking lot inside the empty compound. It's late in the night now.

"So being a builder is equally dangerous, hmm?"

He smiles. "It is. But we have to take our risks. It's a part of the job."

She smiles and nods in agreement.

"Do we get to meet again?" Mr builder asks.

Rose smiles. "I don't think so."

"Why?" He puts on his best smile.She doesn't answer him. She gets on her bike.

He looks at it for a moment, unsure. "Hmmm, that's quite a ride for a travel agency executive."

"How can you be so sure I'm an executive?" She smiles mysteriously now. In fact he's a little uncomfortable with that smile.

"Yeah, but...you...you told me..." He smiles, but barely...

******

The little pea sized hole in his forehead looks like a third eye, written by a cartoonist. Now, which cartoon character had those eyes, she wonders. Ah, Tintin, she smiles. She looks around and then down at his startled half-smiling face, the trickle of blood from his forehead slowly reddening his teeth.

"Am so sorry we cannot meet again. You were kind of cute. But you know what, I have to take my risks too.That's a part of my job."

She sighs, and kickstarts the bike to life.

******

Double take

It's funny how people stare at you, and you in turn are tempted to stare back. Notice how somebody stares at you from inside a bus. You're walking on the road and this person continues staring, even when the bus passes you by. Sometimes, if you care to turn around, this person also would be craning his/her neck around and looking at you. I mean, what's it with this 'recognizing' stare? Does he or she know you? Certainly not. You're ready to throw in your wallet for it. You know that you don't know this person. Then? I guess it's an Indian thing. Happens to me all the time. Not that we do it on purpose. It comes naturally to us (Ok, not all the time though). I know it's impolite to stare. The other person also I guess, knows...but this continues to happen. And once, it was kinda funny. I stopped at a traffic light, generally preoccupied. And from the opposite lane, a guy halts on his two-wheeler. We look at each other. It's 'that' knowing stare again, I reckon. And then it dawns on us simultaneously. We do know each other. He was a year senior to me in school. A bit on the heavier side, with a thick moustache, but it was unmistakable. We both raise our eyebrows, smile and then wave. (This guy was pretty close to me back then. We'd been in together for some cultural activities, drama etc. Very expressive guy, I must say.) And then the light turns green. But before I can motion him to stop ahead so I can turn around and go upto him, he's gone.

In a city like Bangalore, there are all the chances that I bump into an old school-mate, an old acquaintance. And well, I guess I'm not the only one thinking this. And so, the staring continues.

'Woh Kaagaz ki kashti...'

No matter which corner of this world we lived in, no matter how our financial and social position was back then, but for all of us who've been children at some point in our lives, we've had a special friend. Someone who we were inseparable with. Someone, for who we were ready to lay down our lives (though we didn't exactly know what that meant then). Anything special made at home, any special eatable, had to first reach this friend's hands. Any occasion - 'mom, can we call xyz for this function?'. We played games in the sand, we fought, we cried and we laughed. Time would stand still when with this special friend. He or she was our 'bestest' friend, and we vowed never to separate. Remember? "I'll never forget this time. I don't think I'm ever gonna forget you." We sailed paper boats in the rains, splashed our way back from school, the overflowing puddles our pool. We did each other's homework, we helped each other in studies (sometimes inspiring each other not to study at all, because, what the heck, who wanted to work boring desk jobs?), we knew each other's 'girl-friends' or those ones we 'silently admired' (girls, it'd be boys in your case) and knew all the secrets; we knew that casting an eye on that girl was next to committing the ultimate sin on earth, so we kept quiet about it. 'Sacrifice' we told ourselves. And we couldn't spend a single 'vacation' minute without this person. Life had some meaning only with this person around. And then something terrible happened. We grew up.

I wonder where my friend is today...

Thus Spook Phatichar...

Don't be afraid of ghosts. Remember, they were also human beings just like us.

Boo!

Funny thing, these horror movies. Some of the most scary are the ones featuring kids in them. Take 'The Others', 'poltergiest', 'Exorcist', 'child's play', 'Vaastu-shastra' and many more for example. And kids aren't supposed to watch them. Do the kids acting in them watch them? I don't know, it's really very strange to think about it. Kids make darn good actors. They can emote naturally, because they're such natural actors in real life as well. 'No mom, I didn't take the cookie from the jar. Honest." I'm sure kids acting in horror movies go watch them, at least during the premiere. Accompanied by their parents, of course (I presume). But the point is - why make horror movies with kids in them at all? And I think the answer is quite natural. Grown ups are so boring, that horror movies featuring them wouldn't scare kids. So make horror movies with kids to scare the adults. I think the basic usp is this. We get scared when something bad happens to innocent people. Unsuspecting people who're vulnerable to violence and fear. And that's what makes the blood freeze. And children are the epitome of innocence, aren't they? Hence, a very successful horror movie. But having said that, and having watched countless horror movies since my childhood (yeah, I'd sneak in once a while), I sometimes feel, we humans are funny beings. We get scared of the unknown, of ghosts and demons and such...but still pay money to go watch them on the screen. It's a good thing ghosts and demons aren't, or don't make themselves present so often in real life. Wonder if that happened...

Cat got their tongues...

This one's a re-run from my own blurty blog a long time ago. It was dedicated to Khushee. :)


The shorter guy whispered harshly. "Don't touch that."

"Why?" The taller one, who the other guy kept calling 'sting' for whatever reason, replaced the black velvet form on the floor. A small 'mew' escaped its lips.

"Cats are evil", shorter said.

"But he's so...he's so warm" sting said. "And fuzzy." He looked puzzled and even slightly disappointed at having to keep the cat back.

He sighed and continued stuffing the huge gunny sack with other 'important' things like the mantelpiece clock and littered jewellery like a bracelet and ear rings. The owner of these was surely not bothered about theft, it was obvious.The black furry animal blinked at sting once. He smiled in the semi darkness as the two glowing eyes met his.

"Nick," Sting said. "What if the folks come back sooner than we know?"

Nick waved him away. "No they won't. Trust me? Now hurry up and stop gazing at that beast. We've a long night ahead of us. Remember we've to rob at least 5 more houses to keep us going this month."

Sting shrugged and continued stealing. Then something caught his eyes. "hey."

"What?" Nick almost jumped. "Don't you ever scare me like that. What is it?"Sting pointed to the corner of the room, on the other side of the huge bed.

"Yeah, it's a computer. So?"

"Aren't we gonna take that?"Nick looked at it for a minute. It wasn't a very good looking one he decided. Moreover, he had a bigger, meaner machine back in their dump.

"Nah." He shrugged. "It's no good. And nobody's gonna buy it anyway. That's the funny thing about these things. They're not valued for their appearance. or even price. The juice is in the software, memory and such. And this one's a goner" He chuckled.

"You think so?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, you're the boss."

They were almost done. A half hour later they were gone like they'd never come in here. Outside on the dark street, you could hear a 'mew' every now and then from the house.

****

The local newspaper carried a picture of two local thieves a couple of days later. Nick and Sting. The report said the two were identified by a video of theirs, captured in a webcam.

****

Salma stroked her fingers gently over the fur as she gazed at the blue light in her monitor. The house slept. She'd logged on as usual to write her online journal and check emails. But the events over the past few days had baffled her. She still didn't have an explanation. The police had had no trouble nabbing the two thieves who'd burgled their house. Her webcam was on when they were going about their job.

"But...I thought I'd shut it off," She'd stammered when the cops had come sniffing.

"But evidently it wasn't, ma'am", the bushy moustached officer had beamed. "You must've been video mailing someone and left in a hurry. Maybe you could ask your cat, he was there." He laughed heartily, his belly heaving.

She frowned.

"Well, thanks to you, they're ours now."

Salma had placed an icon of the webcam on her desktop and all she had to do was click on it. The thing came on. Yeah, she video chatted with her friends now and then, but...she was puzzled. She was dead sure she'd switched off the computer the other evening before heading off for her cousin's wedding. She never forgot to do that. Never. If Devil could speak, he'd say the same thing. He was always watching her when she sat in front of the computer.

She nuzzled her face against Devil's "What do you say, Devil? Did you switch my cam on?" She said, and laughed at her own silliness.

She looked at Devil. He blinked and mewed. She could swear she saw him smile, as he leaped off her lap and settled on the bed, looking at her from there. She turned to her monitor and opened her mailbox.

******

once bitten..

Vanaja was watering the plants when Karthik walked in, his shirt a mess and face all bloodied, and his school bag dragging behind him like a corpse. She dropped the hose-pipe and rushed to him.

"What happened?"

Karthik just looked at her and proceeded to his room. She pulled him back.

"I said what happened? who did this? Who did you fight with?"

"Nobody."

Funnily, he didn't seem to be in great pain despite a bleeding lip and bruised cheek. Like some big cat had mauled him.

Vanaja took off his shirt and immediately pulled him to the bathroom.

"I knew it. I knew one day this would happen. Picking up fights with classmates, fighting..are you a boy or are you a...?" She ran the hot water and prepared the scrub, while searching for the Dettol. Then she turned to look at him. His eyes were red, and his lips quivered.

She pulled him close and waved her hand over his ruffled hair.

"Oh, I'm sorry sweetie..."

She held him at arm's length, studying the wounds.

"Does it hurt a lot?"

He nodded.

"Oh, my poor baby.." She washed the wounds and gave him a bath.

Later...

"I've told you na chinna (darling in kannada), not to pick fights with the other boys? This time see, it's hurt you so bad."

"Ma..."

"Hmm?"

"I wasn't fighting with the boys."

Vanaja placed the milk cup on the table and sat beside him.

"Then?"

Karthik bowed his head.

"What? Who was it then?" She found her voice rising again. She sighed deeply and turned his chin up.

"Who?"

"Rinki"

"What?"

She couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

"Why would Rinki do this? And why did you have to go fight with her?"

Rinki was Karthik's music school classmate from two lanes down the road. And to think that music wasn't the only thing they practised.

"I was teasing her sister."

"And..?"

"Rinki came to her rescue."

Vanaja looked at her little tiger sipping milk. And then burst out laughing.

********

Eye of the beholder...

Geeta entered the park through the west gate and followed the jogger's path that deviated to the right soon after the entrance. She was in an upbeat mood today. Her ad copy had been accepted by the client last evening, and a round of pats had done her back some good. She inhaled the fresh dawn air and almost smiled to herself. She had also decided to run an extra lap today. She wondered how humans adapted themselves to their surroundings. This was a city she hated four years ago when she landed here on a new assignment. She looked at the familiar faces and smiled. And now, it was all different. She was fiercely protective about the same city now and wouldn't leave for all the wealth in the world. Funny, she shook her head. She would've almost passed by the hunched figure sitting on the bench, had it not been for the distinct actions of his hands. She continued running and turned back. When she came around, she saw his fingers nervously running over the text of the book. And then it dawned on her. Obviously! How could he've seen her? He was reading in Braille. She hadn't seen him around earlier. Must be new to town. She stopped after her quota of rounds and sat beside him. He looked up toward her - through her. She smiled. If it were the movies, he'd have fluttered his eyelashes and asked, 'kaun hai?'. But not now. He just went back to his book, his fingers slowly moving over the pages.
"Hello."

"Hmm?"

"Hi.."

"Oh, hello. I'm sorry, I was so involved in reading.. I.."

"It's ok." She smiled.

"What're you reading?"

"Oh, it's about Zen."

"Really? Interesting."

He smiled. "I'm Arun."

"Geeta."

"New around here?" It amazed her how she'd so easily started a conversation with a blind person. She'd never done it before. But there was something about him...

"Yeah."

They made small talk for a few more minutes before she rose. She had an early meeting to attend. She wanted to ask him if he needed help out of the park. But she knew how fiercely independent differently abled people were, so she let it be.

********

Arun was a nice guy with a great sense of humor. Jogging in the park was not just another morning routine for Geeta anymore. She looked forward to meeting him and talking with him. For more than a fortnight, the new routine was she finishing her jog, and then talking to Arun. Then they walked to the nearby tea-stall where he had his tea and cigarette, and then she walked him to the edge of the park, outside. She decided that it was time to call him home and bring him into her circle of friends and family.

********

"Geeta, it's fine, but..."

"Please Reena, you don't start that thing about him being blind etc." Reena was her close pal at office, who had started out with her around the same time in the city.

"I know, I know..but..hope you've thought about this, hmm?"

"Trust me."

********

He wasn't there. Her first thought was, "I hope he's ok." And she now felt bad that she didn't know where he stayed. She'd told him almost everything about herself - where she lived, where her parents were, who her friends were, where she worked. And he'd never divulged anything more than his interests, not even his background. She suddenly realized she didn't even know if he lived in this city - he'd never mentioned it. Maybe his blindness had somehow stopped her from being more inquisitive than she'd normally be.

She finished her jog and waited on the bench for more than a half hour, but he didn't show up. She felt a pang of disappointment. She shook herself. "Relax Geeta, don't be so restless now."
He wasn't there the next day either. And the next, and the next. And the next. A month later, Geeta only turned to look at the bench while jogging, but was now sure that he'd gone. But she felt cheated. He could've at least come by to say bye. But then, well, he might've had his own reasons. She accepted his absence and carried on with life.

*********

Sunday afternoons were the most boring, according to Geeta. As she flicked through the channels, her droopy eyes almost closing, the loud door-bell jolted her out of her senses. God, she must have that bell replaced, she muttered, dragging herself to the door.

"Hi."

"Arun? Wha..how?"

He was looking different. And she realized he was not looking through her. He was looking at her. Into her eyes. It took her a moment to realize.

She gently pulled his hand and got him into the house, but his eyes won't leave hers.

"You...you're.."

"Yeah, that's right Geeta. I'm not blind now."

"Uh..." She didn't know how to react.

"I've come to invite you to premiere of my movie this evening."

"Movie?"

"Yeah. I play the same character that you saw in the park all those days."

She sat down in disbelief.

"how was I?"

"Huh?"

He smiled. "My acting. How was it?"

She didn't reply. She didn't know how to reply.

"We had to wrap up the shoot and the other post production work. So I couldn't come to the park. I wanted to surprise you by inviting you to the movie."

She just kept looking at him.

"It's my directorial debut. It's a small film, but...."

She was staring ahead.

"Geeta. Geeta?"

"Huh..?"

"Look I'm sorry for all this...but...you'll come to the movie, won't you?"

He smiled that same innocent smile. She slowly smiled back.

"Of course, I'll come...you Oscar winner" She replied, hitting him gently on his shoulder.

********

Ok, now what?

"If you wanna write, write. Don't think". That's precisely how the better half put things in perspective when yours truly cribbed about the 'bloggers block' and all that jazz about not being able to post for so long now. Well, taking a serious cue from that one, I thought, yeah well, if thinking about writing a story on my blog could lock up my fingers from writing just about anything else, then I probably shouldn't blog - I should maintain a diary where I jot down my so called stories and wait for eternity until the next idea strolled up my brain. But for now I'm doing just what the doc prescribed - just write. And this is something we as writers are advised and instructed to do, right from the time we learn that we could do some serious damage with the alphabet. But still we talk about writer's block as if it were some privileged five star condition that only we were entitled to. "Oh, I have writer's block." The common cold feet.

Wondering, should I post what I just wrote?

What the... well, here it is. Now it's just a matter of 'just writing' everyday. Hmm? I feel better already.

Making history...

It was a typical museum with dark, long corridors and huge halls with high ceilings. This one almost resembled the insides of a cathedral. Rohit and Seema gazed around in awe. One of the most beautiful museums they'd seen. And to think they'd get to visit one on an unlikely trek such as this. They'd been planning on the trek for quite some time now, and this museum literally waylaid them, as if it wanted them to walk in and take in the rare artefacts, before they proceeded in the hot sun. Seema smiled and clutched Rohit's palm. She was like Alice in wonderland. Rohit smiled back and sighed. This was a great place, no doubts.

The trek organizer had left them a few kilometers back at the foot of the Jogi mountain, with detailed instructions about first aid, food and other helpful tips in case they got lost. This was their first trek before they tied the knot a month hence. They just wanted to have a blast and do what they both loved doing - exploring nature.

"Funny, I thought the building looked much smaller from the outside" Rohit commented, gently running his fingers on a tiger, so realistic, he felt it would roar and bite his finger any time.

It never struck them as odd, the appearance of a museum such as this, in the middle of virtually nowhere. Even the organizer hadn't mentioned this in the route. But it didn't matter. Rohit had checked. From the window of the museum, they could see the nearby town. Well, a lot of folks preferred to drive up to a place like this; it was good tourism. Even if Rohit had any doubts it had slowly perished, after having walked around for a while now.

"This way please," The curator who'd welcomed them in flashed a typical curator smile that said, see it but don't touch it. He'd called himself Guru.

Seema rolled her eyes and exchanged a brief knowing glance with Rohit. The curator watched the lovers from the corner of his eye and smiled to himself before leading them to the room at the far end of the museum.

"And this.." He said opening a door that led to some kind of a basement, "is something you would'nt have seen anywhere in the world."

Rohit raised his eyebrows. There was a rare confidence in Guru's voice. They simply smiled and followed him downstairs.

"Wow".

"See? I told you." Guru looked around proudly, as if he'd built this place with his own hands.
Rohit had never seen anything like this before. Statuettes, caskets, jewelry, pottery, and more...indeed he'd never seen anything like this before.

"Original. From the 10th and 12th centuries. All these belonged to the Rastrakutas."

"Rastrakutas? But...how..?" Seema had read a bit of history, and knew that the valiant dynasty had indeed existed in India between 752-985 A.C.E and that their contribution in the field of art and architecture was unmatched. But to openly claim that all of this belonged to them was being a little too confident.

But before she could continue to quiz him about the Rastrakutas, Guru led them to an adjoining room with massive blinds and the walls adorned huge life-size paintings of various temple and historic monuments. They would've missed it had they not stopped by to see the paintings closely. And funnily, this part of the museum was lit poorly. And the air suddenly felt as heavy as lead. Seema's throat felt dry.

"Hey, isn't that..?" Rohit stopped. Guru turned. Seema grasped Rohit's shoulder, her eyes round with bewilderment.

"That's as you can see.." Guru stepped closer.

"The Taj Mahal" Seema completed the sentence.

"Yes. Quite right, ma'am."

"Why's it in shambles? Who could've painted it this way?" She wondered aloud.

"Ah, that's the specialty of these paintings ma'am. All these paintings represent buildings that are going to perish in the near future."

"But how gross. How can somebody think about our national wonder in this way?"

"That's how it is, ma'am."

Rohit and Seema turned to Guru, who had an almost diabolic smile now, instead of his warm, friendly countenance.

They looked at the Eiffel Tower, Mount Rushmore, the Qutub-Minar, Vidhana Soudha...all in pieces. And then they came to the last painting.

"Isn't this...?"

"Yes. It is."

It was the museum they were in.

"Wh..when is this going to happen?"

"Anytime now," Guru said, as the floor beneath them began to rumble and they started shaking violently.


***********

On the same page...?

"Who are these people? Do I know them?"

"Who? These? Why would you know them, ma? And..how would you?"

"Then? They've written their names like they were celebrities we all recognize. See - Meena and Nikhil. Anil and Sania. Mohan and Preeti. How does it matter what their names are if I can't relate to them?" She frowned and adjusted her glasses. "Wait a minute. This girl...is she a model?"

"No, ma. She's not. And most of them shown here aren't."

"Then? Why the names...?"

"Ma. They're just there because someone paid the newspaper to have their pictures on print. It's publicity, that's all. They're called the 'Page 3' people."

"Ah. That movie. They acted in that movie?"

"Aaargh, no ma, they didn't. Page 3 is...it's a name for...for these socialite kinds. Celebrities too are featured in it. It's just like you know, the 'editorial' page where you find editorials? (Sheesh...what a comparison). But it's just as an example, no please don't draw parallels." But it was too late. She was already at it.

"Editorial? You mean, these people have written all that's written here, on this...this Page 3?"

"Maaaa...".

(Remind me to raise some money and pay it to a newspaper the next time we have a get-together at home. And oh, remind me to take my mom's pics and have 'em printed as well. With her name.)

Will you...?

It's funny how we tend to remember dates in our minds. Well, yeah there are some (in my case most) dates that we don't remember, aside from the regular birthdays, anniversaries, and other special occasions. I guess as we grow, these special dates become the glue that holds so many memories together. I for one, used to always forget birthdays and important dates right from school, until I stepped into college. Though I'd not reckoned, it so happened that I met Anu. It wasn't anything special to begin with. We were the cliched 'good friends'. Actually we were. ;) To me, she was just someone I was comfortable with, could talk about anything under the sun. And we were human examples of all the cliches man could ever think of. I was frivolous, she was the silent types. I didn't know when to close my mouth at times, she didn't know when to open up. And yet, there was this quiet understanding, a friendship that had nowhere else to go but together, for life. So I decided to ensure that we were going to be just that. Together for life. And so fourteen years ago, today, I proposed. (Of course we got married 8 years later, but that's another thing...)

And this is one day I cannot forget till I die.

Love you, honey.

Tag(ged) by He(u)r

Have lived (still do) my entire working life with tags (tech writers'll know what I mean) :), so here I am, facing yet another tag (Pre? Happy?), though of a different kind. This one's a little difficult because I've never believed in perfect love. But hmmm, well, these points could come closest:

1. Good sense of humor (fair would do as well)

2. Charming

3. Understanding

4. Lovable (I know...vague, but can't put it any better)

5 - 8. All of the above ;)

The skinny on this...

Some things grow on you, like your own skin. Take for example this old Tee that I've been slipping into for quite some time now at home. It's showing signs of aging in that there are stitches coming out from here and there like hostelites trying to sneak out for a late night booze party. And though this tee was once a very bright, striking apparel on my being that I used to wear to work even, lately it's retired; but I feel mighty comfortable slipping into it. It's warm, it's home. It's like my skin. Though the wife has been trying to wiggle it out of my wardrobe and into that bag of clothes we donate to charity every year, I tell her 'not this one'. And am sure each of us has our own 'rag doll' that makes us secure in the fact that they've traveled time with us; still with us. No matter what, we won't wanna give 'em up. For anything. For life. Right?

hitch hiked!

Uma started the car. She'd barely stepped on the accelerator when the door behind her opened and snapped shut. And she'd barely begun to turn when she felt the cold muzzle on her neck.

"Drive, woman. Don't you dare look back."

She pulled out onto the main road. Calm now, she auto suggested. No point asking where he wanted her to go. And moreoever, she didn't want to feel like a cabbie. She sniffed. Her cold suddenly worsened, and she'd this urge to sneeze. It passed.

"Take a left here."

A thousand re-runs of a thousand bollywood/hollywood movies zipped in her mind. Well, not that she was an avid movie watcher in any case, but a part of her mind now chided her for not watching all those DVDs her husband rented. She drove on. They were on the ring road now; oh, they were going on a long drive alright. She spotted her cell lying in between the steering wheel and the odo.

Almost as if he'd read her mind, "Pass me your cell phone."

She could hear the clicking and snapping. The sim card was out of the window. Dumb move, she thought. Then he flashed his own cell out. She managed to look into the rear view mirror. She wanted to laugh out as she noticed what he realized.

"You could've used my phone, you know. Yours might be traced..."

"Shut up and drive."

She shrugged. She'd caught a glimpse of his face. Looked decent. Glasses. A light stubble. Hmm, not bad looking, actually. They rode in silence for a few minutes, the traffic outside the only sound. Suddenly she liked the sound of traffic.

"Drive out of town."

"Listen, we've to fill up..."

"Next bunk, on the right. And make it fast." he ducked.

At the bunk, he lay low.

"I've to go...you know...." She said.

"I'm watching you. And no tricks, ok? This isn't like the movies. Don't try to call the cops from the bunk."

She handed over the keys to the bunk assistant, instructing him to fill the tank up. When she returned, her passenger was still lying low in the back seat. She shook her head and got in. A few minutes later they were speeding out of the city. She looked at her watch. Some more driving in silence.

"Working?"

"Huh?"

"You work?"

Before she could open her mouth, he spoke again.

"You don't look like you work."

Yeah right, I carry my ID around, she thought.

A white innova overtook them and blocked them, forcing the car to stop. Now what...
Four men stepped out.

"I'll handle this. You keep quiet."

She shrugged. He inched the muzzle closer to her neck.

One of the men pulled the rear door open, pointing at him what looked like an automatic.

"I'll...I'll kill her. Don't step forward. Who are you?"

He'd barely uttered the words, when without his own knowledge a howl of pain escaped his lips, and he felt his hand snap. The woman in front had used the distraction to pull his hand and break his wrist. The gun fell from his hand. Uma stepped out. The leader of the group stood in attention and saluted her.

As the perpetrator was handcuffed, she couldn't help but notice with amusement, the look in his face.

"Not your day, man." She smiled. He didn't know what to say.

"And oh, one more thing."

They stopped.

"Next time, make sure you get your basics right, hmm? Read the newspapers, it's a good habit. Guys like you should know who you're pitching against, shouldn't you? And last - never, never leave the victim out of your sight. ok?"

This too shall pass...

Another day. Another year. New beginning? Of what? It's just a calendar, with a different number. But well, let's not get too cynical about it, cause there's always something to be cynical about in life. So, yeah...let's look ahead and try and achieve things that we haven't already. As for this space, yep, there'll be more stories, more updates...it's just another day at the blog. :)

A Happy New Year to all of you! (...it's great having you all around)

'hic'ory dickory doc

What is the correct remedy for a hiccup? Drink water, inhale deep, scare the person shitless so that the hiccup is dispelled like a bubble..or some such thing. Right? Well, so I tried that method with my daughter the other day. She went 'hic, hic, hic' for more than half an hour. So I and wifey waited for the right moment and then I went 'bow!' on my unsuspecting tot. And lo and behold. She was cured. But then I heard my wife from behind me - "hic". I guess I was a wee bit loud. Talk about blowing out fire with fire. Or starting it. Or..whatever.

Moving on to TV shows, the one show that really tickles my funnybone is this one on Pogo - Takeshi's castle. And it's not the weird antics of the gamers that get me; it's Javed Jaffrey's commentary, in his inimitable style. And the game itself is a non-stop nonsense for a half hour, offering full timepass. It's one helluva stress-buster. Go watch it.

No comments

Finally did it. Made Anu read all my stories. And this is what she had to say - "hmmm, nice...but your stories are like somebody wearing the trousers first, then underwear, then shoes, then the shirt, and then finally...the socks." She also compared my shorties to a college student hurriedly making notes in class to be elaborated at home (which the student rarely does). Interesting analogies, but given the fact that she doesn't much prefer spooky stuff, and she's not a frequent browser; doesnt have a blog, doesn't want to have one; she was patient enough to go through every single one of 'em and critique 'em. You know, she's been my worst critic, and I say this at the cost of sounding cliched, but that's how it's always been. Her critiques pack more punch than my stories and every once a while, I lug them to her. Helps for some creative defragmentation.

Her parting shot? "I like the comments on your blog better than your stories".

"Gale mein khich khich..."

He thought he heard someone cough in the adjacent room. It startled him, because he was alone and his brother wasn't due till morning. But you never knew with him, sneaked in like a cat most times.

"Nikhil?"

No answer. He went and checked the room. Nobody. But he was 100% sure he wasn't hearing things. He had distinctly heard a cough. He scanned the room. It was silly. How could someone be here? It was plain as daylight. The windows were closed, so it couldn't be the neighbors. He switched the lights off and went back to his room.

There was a lot of talk about thefts in the area lately, but he knew a thief would be much smarter than to be just coughing around the house he intended to burgle. He smiled to himself, shaking his head. He got back to his novel.

And somebody coughed, again.

He didn't want to admit, but his heart skipped a beat as he sat up.

He looked around for something to hold, something he could use as a weapon. He tiptoed to the door, his hands a little shaky. He didn't want to forewarn the intruder, whoever it was. He just sneaked to the door and looked out of the room. Suddenly the silence screamed at his ears. For a minute, he again felt silly doing this. He couldn't afford to be seen dead in this position, not in the least by Nikhil. Five minutes. No sound. He stepped out of the room, moving to the adjacent room again. The glow from the street light outside spread vaguely on the bed. Did he see something move? His hand slid on the wall to the switch board. Click. Nothing.

******

He groggily opened the door to his brother who walked in, shaking his head. Should he tell him about the weird incident last night? He silently closed the door behind him and followed his brother to his room.

"Drats, I left my cell here last night. I must've got a hundred messages." He grabbed the little instrument and started checking.

"That's funny; only two messages." Nikhil said, pushing his hair back.

Just then a new message came in.

A cough.

"Cool tone, huh?" He smiled at his brother, who looked as if he'd swallowed a lot of tooth paste.

Lights, camera, action replay...

Had written this article on Sulekha a few years ago. Conversing with Pre, I suddenly chanced upon it and thought, 'hey, why not lug it to my blog?" So, here it is. A word of caution tho'. From the time I wrote it until now, a few of my own opinions about the article's content have...well, not changed, but let's just say I've grown up to accepting, and I realized later that I did in fact falter here and there writing it...so please if you feel strongly about something I wrote in here, hold that thought a moment. The article's 4 years old and a lot has changed since then.


Making Films in India. It's Different!

Snippets from a typical Indian movie promo on TV:
Director: “Yeh film hat ke hai. It's different. Achchi story hai” (This film is different. Good story).We see a boy and girl dancing and singing in Switzerland. Great. What a different story!

Actor: “Uh, jab maine script pada, to mujhe laga ki yeh role bada hi challenging hoga” (When I read the script, I realised the role must be very challenging).We see some shots from song no. 2. True. Those steps are indeed challenging.

Actress: “Uh, mera role bahut hi bold hai. Do achche gaane hain”(I play a bold character. There are a couple of good songs).A wet number follows. It does take courage to prance in the rain with your saree clinging to you and of course, more than two dozen folks watching.

I've been watching movies ever since I was a little boy. Having grown up in a very culturally inclined family, dining table (heck, just about any table) conversations always began and ended with the arts.

“Which raga did Bhimsen Joshi render on television last night?”

“No, Shyam Benegal has not directed any regional language film.”

“Ma, stop making fun of my favourite actor!”

“I'm not gonna miss that Steve Martin movie tonight.”

Now I know for a fact that movies told stories and entertained. Then came music. Background score. Dubbing. The rest, as the clichéd phrase goes, is history. As technology advanced, so did the other aspects of filmmaking -- from the traditional 'drama' form of just mouthing written dialogue and emoting, we graduated to the more realistic portrayal of life around us. Real life locations, gripping dialogue in 'life-like' clipped tones, advanced cinematography, etc.

When movies came to life on the American screens, musicals were the in thing. The song and drama format captured the essence of life in a more surrealistic atmosphere. That was another era. Movies back here too started out pretty much the same way. A basic story. A love angle. Studio settings. Songs, dances, emotion, drama. The works. Good time pass.

Cut to present day India. People are more exposed to the outer world, thanks to cable TV. But in terms of our movies, I don't think we have made much progress. Oh yes, technically we have improved. Production values have gone up. But then the very foundation of a good movie has got buried in the process of churning out movie after movie, ensuring that the Indian film industry is the largest in the world, thank you, but in terms of quality -- uh huh, needs work.

Two things. Why only love stories? And why so many songs? Come to think of it, can't movies be made without songs? Why are we so stuck up on them? Doesn't it sort of make stories so very artificial? And kill the continuity of a good story? This song and dance routine in some movies goes to ridiculous lengths. Things were different back then when the only medium of entertainment was the movies. But now, after TV, do we still need to see those countless songs thrown into song-like commercial breaks? We have music video channels. We could watch them there. Why show them in well-made movies at all?

Suffering mother -- sing a song to cure her. Dying brother -- sing a song to make his dying easier. Boy falls in love with girl -- sing a song to show his feelings. Any eventful scene in an Indian film -- sing a song.

Just watch a movie of the 70s and then watch a present day one. How different is the treatment? How much has the basic premise changed? I'll bet my last penny -- not much. Why? “Because the people want that.” “Because we're Indians, we love songs and emotions. Loud dialogues.” “Because we are a country of villages, of the masses. And they can't appreciate quality stuff.” Bull. And more bull. We all know that these reasons are illogical and childish. We have the capacity to digest more themes and topics in movies than any other country in the world. And why not? We are such a diverse culture. Each family, each house has a story to tell. Our country's history has so much to tell. Then why this cheap fixation for 'boy meets girl, boy fights baddies, boy gets girl' theme that has been done to death? “Hey, that's not true! We have changed themes nowadays,” you may counter. Well, yeah, ok. It might have. But ultimately that's what forms the very core of the film. How many movies have you seen in the last few years and come out confidently telling, “Hey, this one was different.”

Bottom line: A good story doesn't need songs and heaving cleavages to set the box office on fire. What it needs is a good story line and a sharp script. Remember, it's how you put it across what sells a good story. Yeah, yeah, commercial interests, popularity charts and all that. The producer has to make money. Ditto the entire crew. But tell me something, isn't it high time we invested in quality projects rather than making this another 'assembly line' profession? Let the intensity show in the dialogue itself rather than the 'loud' way in which it is delivered. Silent anger can be more effective than shouting your lungs off. And love, well do you really think romance is only possible when a dozen nymphets shake a leg behind you? Doesn't it touch your heart when eyes speak? Cannot a gesture touch your heart? And most of all, do you think a dramatic situation really needs loud background score to chill your spine? If you ask me, deafening silence makes it more realistic.

Ok, a few guys from the movie industry could rough me up and say – “Lay off, pal. You don't know a thing about entertainment. That's what people want. So we give it to them.” Oh, really? Why, have they taken a door to door consensus on what people want? Or have directors held press conferences and invited people to ask questions on how they want films made? If you bring up a tiger on grass, it doesn't know the taste of anything else. We have been brought up on songs and dances from Alam Ara, so it's obvious we don't know how to make any other kind of film. A formula is a formula is a formula.

The truth is, directors and producers have never really bothered with what people want. Aren't the recent debacles in the box office proof enough that this song and dance formula doesn't work anymore? People want to see substance. They want to see good stories being told. Considering India's cultural diversity, imagine her potential to provide stories. The topics that could be generated are immense. Not just urban, even rural stories that have substance can click. Why stick to the same old story of boy meets girl? Do humans have these feelings only for one another?

And please, stop blaming people for your inefficiency as a director or a screenplay writer (that's another article altogether, what say Abbas?). Ok, so you want to have a song in your movie, without which you will suffocate to death? Fine. Just have a background number when something important happens in a movie. Won't it work? Of course it will. We've never tried it. Never taken the risk. Remember, unless you show people what good films are, how will they know?

Stop feeding the tiger grass. Let us have some meat please. Bon appetit!

game for it..

Do kids play as much as we did in our times? I doubt it. Well, I do see kids running around in family-dos and other social gatherings, but they seem to be doing only that - run around. But do these guys play the games we used to? 'ice-pice', 'laal pathar', 'satkhopdi', 'kith-kiththa'(essentially a girls' game) and there are so many others. I know most of these games by their hindi/bihari names, but am sure they are the same for kids all over the country. Oh, what fun. And we used to enjoy playing these games in summer and especially on a moonlit night. 'Satkhopdi' was a favorite with us guys. Also marbles. And oh yes, tops.. we used to call these crazy li'l things lattu. I remember once my father had made one such top for me. He'd taken great pains to make me one and boy, were the other guys envious of me. See, as kids the novelty or pride was not in the sleekness of such toys but the crude, home-made kinda feel. They'd gun me for my top, borrowing every now and then...made me feel really special. And then there was this neighboring kid who had a real 'clint-eastwood'ish toy pistol. It had this really long barrel and was metallic black. *sigh*, I don't mind owning one like that even at this age (only the cops and anti-terrorist squad would be on my trail now). And those kite flying sessions. Sheer pleasure. Having lived in a colony, we kids were a real close-knit gang and always upto something or the other. We'd climb trees, walls and steal fruits and we'd wait eagerly for festivals when we could really test our limits as mischief-mongers. We had a great time with all these games. I for one, wouldn't have imagined a childhood without these. We had so much to look forward to.

And then came the TV.

Short story long...

Drat, I don't seem to be able to post anything aside from stories. Or maybe I'm just getting plain old and have nothing to contribute to the effervescent blogworld. I remember I started blogging at the behest of a friend/colleague two and a half years ago. It's funny 'cause I remember being very reluctant to enter this world.

"An online diary? Whatever for?"

"Well, it's a great way to vent your thoughts, feelings etc. And you may try penning down those weird stories of yours there instead of feeding on my brains" was the answer my friend had for me.

"And how do I get into this...weblog, or blog, or whatever it is that you call it?"

"Simple. I'll give you a link. Just go there, sign up and that's it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. You just open your diary each day and type away."

"And..."

"There's nothing much to it actually. Well, there are other ways to customize it the way you want it to look. But that's a long way. Start by just writing something."

So there it was. Got an account with blurty and started 'typing away'. I found it a little odd initially. A diary is something very private, something very close to one's heart. But here, it was diferent. Here it was like, you enter a stage, do your mono act and then wait for the audience to critique you on the spot. Or you don't, if you didn't want others to read it. I said to myself - awww, what's the fun if others can't read what you have to say. And hey, it'll be good fun to exchange thoughts and ideas, read other writers. So there I went, not looking back since then.
In between, I even shifted to rediffblogs once...but eventually returned to Blurty. And stayed there until recently when I shifted once again to blogspot. It's like you change drama companies on the move.

Going by most of my co-bloggers, I felt I was a tad old to be in the crowd. And then slowly I blended in. And it's been great fun. And I get to flick some of my own posts from blurty and paste 'em here whenever I want to repeat myself. Cool, huh?

Drat, I just posted something other than a story. :)

Long story short...

Ok, the stories. How do they come? How do they form inside of my head and spill forth here? Who was it...? Yeah, it was Shub who asked me this in one of her comments..These are questions that don't have easy answers, even from me. I mean...but I sat back and mulled over it for a moment. And looking back, it all begins with an idea that just springs up and I build a story round it, with characters, some a figment of my own imagination, some inspired by people around me. And funnily, the stories are much better when I just caught on to a germ of an idea and put it down, then and there. Not much thought, not much mulling, no editing whatsoever. Straight from the heart, as they say. And whenever I've played around with an idea for a few days and then written it, it's got diluted. And I end up feeling, 'sheesh, this could've been better'. And I always wonder about this. Does the impact lie in the spontaneity of the thought? The freshness? Maybe...that's when the characters are still onstage in your mind. But isn't your story supposed to be well etched if you write it after much thought? I guess that's just a problem with my mind. :)

I guess the difference is in the thought process. The shorties are best for...well, shorties. They come in spurts. The slower ideas need more processing time. Maybe I should try writing longer versions of those. Maybe some idea will find it's way into a bigger book someday.

It's like the difference between a 100m dash runner and a marathon runner. Well...

whodunnit?

He sat smoking silently on the dark stairway when it all began. Heard like crackers at first. But it was unlikely - no cricket match,Diwali was still months away and the celebrations (of any kind) couldn't have started so suddenly; at least not in this area. He heard running footsteps, several of them. Then car doors opened and slammed shut. The shots continued. The stairway was half hidden behind a pile of boxes. He started descending, slowly, like a cat, to get a better view. Just then a figure appeared at the foot of the stairway, blocking the street light for a moment. Staggered, in fact. Their eyes met. He leaned against the wall, clutching his waist. Then a lone shot rang out, pushing him forward against the stairs and he slumped. He was not down yet. He lay there and pointed his gun at the half illuminated stranger, who now stood still.

"Aye! What are you doing here? Do you want to die?"

And in a moment, that face was clear. The dreaded gangster Madhav. He started getting up. But it was too late, the small swiss knife blade shone in the light for a fraction of a second, in front of his eyes before plunging deep in his neck.

******

The encounter was not a new thing that the city witnessed that night. But the cops were having a hard time trying to figure out the post mortem report. They were damn sure they'd shot the gangster down. But death due to a knife wound?

Guess who...

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Just like that...

I love the smell of old books. Whenever I pick up one of the classics or a really old book, you know the ones where the pages are almost like papyrus, crumbling at your touch (ok, maybe I went too far with that), and I smell the pages,mmmmm, it literally transports me back to that time when the book was written, or well, whenever, donno what, but the feeling's really good. You feel one with the characters of the book or the author who's penned it. It's comforting. Especially on a lazy afternoon. And hey, has this happened to you anytime - you're listening to this familiar number that you've heard at home countless times, and when the track stops, you half expect to hear the song which came right after that in your compilation. It's like the jukebox in your head has already begun playing that number.

Well, just a rant...

Well...

They sat at the kitchen table. She munched. He sipped. They didn't speak. Just munched and sipped. She was hungry. He was thirsty. Jussst...munching and sipping. No speaking.

She wiped her mouth with the napkin and cleared her throat. He looked at her. Kept looking.

She bit into her food again. "Mmmhmm, mhhmm?"

He placed the glass down. "Sorry?"

She swallowed hurriedly. Boy, was she hungry.

"I'm sorry. What I meant was, Do you want more?"

He shook his head.

She nodded and went back to her munching. He was done sipping.

He rose.

She sat watching.

He wanted to leave, obviously. He just raised his hand, but didn't wave.

She smiled through her mouthful. Or was it just his imagination?

He left. She munched some more. A few moments later, she stood watching him from the kitchen window. He turned at her one last time and disappeared into the darkness.

She looked down at her bulging tummy and waved her palm on it. The baby moved. She looked into the darkness again.

She wondered if she should tell her sister about the Indian burglar, who didn't have the heart to rob them. After all, this was a country foreign to him as well. Poor guy. She thought about her husband, snoring so lovingly. Should she tell him?

She let it be. For now, she wanted to rob the entire kitchen off all the goodies. Boy, this guy's one helluva eater, she thought, looking down again.

Chasing cars and unfinished dreams...

The hot car chase. Adrenalin rushing. You watch with your heart pounding. You want the hero to somehow shake his trail off. You want him to disappear into thin air. You want him to lose the big guy driving like a madman behind him. And you probably didn’t even notice that there were a dozen cars that got mowed down in the rat race.

Imagine the scene after the hero and villain vanished in the cloud of exhaust smoke. Imagine you’re a bystander and you watch the carnage they left behind. You move your eyes slowly toward the pile up. Time stands still. Crowds flock to the mangled remains of the cars. Innocent, unsuspecting people. That guy you see pasted to his wheel was probably rushing to office because he had a presentation to make that would bag him his first promotion. That woman who’s trying to step out of her car, screaming when she realizes she’s left both her feet in the floor of the car; probably a mother of two, rushing to pick her children up from school, or probably going to the mall to buy her mother that lemon green saree she’d promised her. You see that brand new hatch-back resting on its back, its driver clambering out? He’s had multiple fractures, probably even a hemorrhage that the doctor later that day, would mournfully announce to his family members. The new car was bought after much discussion with wife and parents, after considering a myriad opinions and factors so it would not be hard on him and his family. He wanted only comfort for them, nothing more. And…and that cute little red car you see pasted atop another sleek looking machine? That car was probably an emotional attachment of an old retired man, whose son didn’t have the heart to sell it, despite having enough money to buy him an SUV.

I know it’s only a movie. But just imagine.

The thin read line...

Some time back, I watched this movie 'Meenaxi - A tale of three cities'. Well, the movie was nothing to write home about, but the premise was interesting. For those of you who've not seen it, first advice - you didn't miss a lot, so relax. Next - The central character (well, might not be wise to call him that, but well, for convention sake) is a writer who goes through some trying times while penning a novel. The character of his novel appears in his thoughts (to us, she appears as another character in the movie) and leads him through the story. Often luring him into areas that he normally won't go as a writer, because he as a writer believes in a certain style, a certain plot idea. But this girl, his main character, coaxes, goads, cajoles him into coming out with different plot ideas for her.

Interesting plot...like I said. I've always imagined that myself. What if my characters come to life and start telling me what to do with my work? Going by the kind of stories I dish out, it would be a living nightmare, for me at least. But we're digressing. The point I like to make here is that, this idea is intriguing and the director could've done better with the material, rather than treating it like one of his paintings. You can appreciate a piece of canvass with colors and patterns that don't make head or tail to you, but lemme tell you - it's a totally different thing when you're trying to tell a story on celluloid. You need to have your story on the screen like an architect's blue print. Clear. Sharp. Oh well, there are those other kind of movies as well, but we're not going there today...

But I've thought about this idea often - character of a novel comes to life and talks to the writer. And slowly the character takes the wheel and it's a drive to hell. Ok, here's the deal. How about you guys building on this basic premise and sharing your thoughts here? Something. Anything. Go wild. It would be great...since some of you have some great stuff on your blogs.

Just for a lark.

Raksha Bandhan revisited...

Something I posted in Blurty long ago... And when I saw a friend's niece 'n' nephew battle it out at a party the other day, I couldn't help recalling this particular incident. This was something I witnessed near my ex-office. And I kid you not, this is real, not made up. Read on..


I saw the small girl punch the boy almost double her size. He sat down, holding his bleeding nose. The mother came running out.

"Why did you hit him?"

"Because he pulled my hair."

Turning to the boy now...

"Why did you pull her hair?"

"Because called me a thief."

"What did you steal?" (Note how there's no effort on the mom's part to corroborate this piece of information)

"I didn't steal anything. I borrowed her pen."

"He stole it. He didn't ask me."

The little fist was still clenched. The mother just shakes her head and goes back in. The boy looks at his hand, now red with the bloodied nose.They're silent for a few moments. I bend down to tie my shoelace. My document can wait. This is getting too interesting a plot to walk away from. What next, I wonder. The girl brings out a small hankie from her pocket and wipes his nose. "Sorry."

The boy doesn't know what to say. He pushes her away. She gives him the hankie. "Keep it."

He throws it down. The next moment, Mohammad Ali says, 'Want to fight? Hmm?' He starts prancing, sparring, with his fists at his chin.

The plot thickens. The girl says, 'Don't be silly."

''Yeah? Let's see...' he comes near her and tries to hit her. The little girl moves at lightning speed and kicks him in the knee. He yowls and crouches. And before he can bring up his protesting face, contorted with agony, a small hard fist lands on his left cheekbone, keeling him over.Now I'm realllly impressed. Is this a Charlie's angel in the making or what? The mother comes out now, livid.

"Enough Meena. Don't practice your karate on your brother.'

Then she looks at the brother. 'See? I told you to attend classes regularly. This is what happens if you bunk."

I couldn't take it anymore. Chuckling, I continue walking, leaving behind a triumphant sis.

When this duo reaches college, I know who needs to be saved from the baddies. Heheheh...

Between worlds...

Violence begets violence. He knew it. But he didn't care. He fed on it. He could breathe when he was violent. It was like recharging his batteries. There was no moral battle inside of him. It was something he didn't know about. He'd heard about it, seen it on TV and the silver screen. But he didn't care. He did what came naturally to him. And violence was the food he grew up on, on the streets. Survival was not some fancy word used in history text-books, but a way of life for him. He knew that if he had to survive the day, he had to push his way through. He had to fight. He had to be violent. That was his world.
And then, to this world, she came. Like a whiff of fresh air from an open window. She stepped in accidentally to this world. To his world. He didn't know whether to welcome her or to send her away. She explored. She questioned. She was distressed with the way he existed. She wanted to hold his hand and lead him out into the other world. A world not so much violent as his. A world that had happy faces. Of people. The civilized world, she told him. He raised his eye-brows. Civilization? Where was it? They argued. They argued about it at length. But he was tempted. He knew it was going to be difficult. And he knew he might not fit. But he wanted to do it. The very change of heart in him, surprised him. He'd never felt like this before. He'd seen it happening in movies. But this was life as he'd known. And it was happening to him. Should he relent? But what would he get? For that matter, what did he have? He knew only one way of living. He had forgotten how to smile. He didn't know how to talk to people not from his world. She was his only contact.
Was it love? He didn't know. And then, with this thought came fear. Something which he'd not known for a long time. His heart never beat any faster than this before. He knew it was fear. He had feared once, but that was a different kind of fear. That fear was not accompanied by another fear. But this fear had companions. And it troubled him. The fear of loss was supreme to any other fear he'd known in a long time. But then the feeling of hope slowly rose its head higher. Hope that he might not have to be violent anymore. He might not have to play the game of death every other day. He had to change. For her. It was numbing that she could change his feelings in this way. Almost humiliate his soul in this manner, but he pushed those thoughts away.
She waited. For him. For his decision. And then he came and gave her his hand. To go to the new world. There was no looking back now. He was about to throw the gun away when she held his hand.
"If ever this forces you to go back to your world, this will remind me to accompany you."

Happy Deepawali!!

Here's wishing all my bloggerheads a very Happy Diwali! Have fun, but safely, folks...

Wonder Years

The process of growing up is intriguing if you don't see the subject grow up in front of your eyes. And this is so especially in the case of childhood friends (yeah, girls), who turn out to be totally, absolutely unlike their earlier selves as kids. Funnily enough, I don't know if many of you have observed, girls who don't so much as raise eyebrows as kids, tend to blow you off your mind when they grow up into fine young women.

As a kid, I used to be friends with a lot of neighborhood girls. And you know how it is right, the 'wonder-years' kinda atmosphere where you trade loyalties and even love interests for tops (the spinning ones) and marbles? Well, we used to live in a colony and there was this pesky, spectacled girl who was NOT a tomboy (as we see the transformation in bollywood movies), but more like plainer than plain Jane in her appearance. She was the no-nonsense types who could turn you to pulp with her candidness. There were other pretty girls in class who the guys would give up their marble games for, but this one - uh huh..she didn't garner enough interest. And she wasn't bothered either.

As someone who used to participate in a lot of these school plays and functions, I used to be the butt of major ribbing when it came to her. She was a good dancer ( but required a can of makeup to make her presentable onstage, so you get my drift)..And without her specs on she was...well, let's just leave it at that - don't wanna be impolite to her in case she happens to read this (duh!). And more often than not, we'd end up backstage arguing about something or the other, with her having the last word of course. But none of the other kids saw that. They only saw us onstage smiling and laughing and acting out our parts. (Now you know how those rumors about filmi pairs start, hmm?) It was frustrating, these teasers from classmates, cause I didn't want to be even mentioned alongside her name, forget having her as my girlfriend.

Years later, by which time I didn't even remember someone like that existed in my childhood, in the first year of college, I happened to spot her in Bangalore. In a bookstore. Imagine, of all the places. She recognized me first (don't ask me how) and walked up to me.

"Ummm...Ramana?"

"Yeah?"

Wow, this is some girl.

"Remember me?"

Make that a trillion wows, she thinks I know her.

"Umm...sorry, I don't..." Sheepish smile. Followed by some serious memory jogging. I must've lost 10 kgs if I were really jogging that hard.

"Reena*."

"Reena? Ummm..." Sheepish smile returns. It's embarrassing.

"From Jaduguda. Remember? The school plays..?"

A million light bulbs go up inside of my head. You could play cricket in this flood light.

"Aaaah! What a pleasant surprise. How come here?" What am I saying? I should say - where were you all my life???

"I..my fiance lives here. We're moving to the US in a couple of months."

Now she tells me. Well, to cut a long story short, we small-talked for a while, exchanged addresses, phone nos. etc etc etc..and she was out of the bookstore and my life faster than I could say Reena.

For a minute I thought, is this the same Reena? How do girls manage to do that? How do they manage to transform from plain janes to fairies?

And how come they always recognize you? Speaks a lot about OUR change, huh? And how come they always get engaged or married to someone else?

Well, anyway....that's that..

*Name changed to protect Reena's privacy.

;

It's not difficult to post everyday. I mean, all you gotta do is write what comes to your mind (or life, not necessarily in that order), right? But then again, it's not about blogger's block or writer's block. That's not what's holding up this page. On the highway called blog, I just pulled over to a side, to smell the rose called life. The road trip's not over yet...be back soon. Pretty soon.

Don't mind...

Man's strength lies not in physical or mental prowess. It's in the fact that his mind can't be read. The moment you read a person's mind, you can bring anybody on earth down to his or her knees. Well, how they go about kneeling is a different matter altogether, but that's besides the point. Most of us hide some of the world's deepest, darkest, most dangerous, damaging secrets that we sometimes don't reveal even to ourselves, lest some face reader read those secrets through our expressions. So imagine if somebody just walked across the road to you and disclosed your inner most thoughts to you? But it's just so and all's well and wisely made. There are some things that were specifically excluded from the human design document. After all, whatever brought about this world and all of us along with it, might've given this whole concept of the brain being the strongest vault in the entire universe as we know, a long good thought. And our brain is not for nothing, called the most lethal weapon. And the beautiful way in which this organ compartmentalizes it's functions is what's amazing. The ability to forget is perhaps another fantastic feature in this program, much more helpful and life saving than the ability to remember. And there are a host of other features, am sure. And sometimes, some bugs in the program do crop up contradicting the basic cerebral design. As a result, you have psychics and other mind-game players walking the planet. But I sometimes wonder how it would've been...just so...

Long story short...

(I was tagged into this...)

The elevator climbed. He looked at her tall frame. He’d never kissed a tall girl. Not that these ‘man’ things bothered him a lot. But he preferred someone shorter. His hands accidentally brushed her bag, dropping it. She bent.

*******

He unwound the metal string off her neck, easing her onto the floor. Lovely eyes…

Twitch in the tail

It's funny how some things have this strange effect on you. If somebody's voice suddenly goes hoarse while talking to you, you get this urge to clear your throat. And remember that favorite prank while in school? You want to irritate someone just for time pass, just run your finger nails on the black-board (Exhilirating experience, huh?). Each time I clean my ears with an ear-bud, for some godforsaken reason, my eyes start to itch. Can you believe it? My eyes. And this has different effects on different people. That's what makes it so much fun. My wife's throat acts up every time she does this. And remember that concentrated 'nimbu' squash you had in summer? Did your throat go sore or your ears? With me it's always the throat; it would happen so much that now I start clearing my throat at the very mention of squash. And then there are these weird things like deja vu' and all happening all the time. Sometimes I feel, we're not humans, but some kind of loony guinea pigs, planted on this planet by some loony guy sitting in some other planet, planet years...errr, light years away. And..pray what's it about yawning being contagious? You open your mouth, and the entire room lights up with all the other pearly whites shining and the air suddenly going all warm and danky due to the bad breaths. Sheesh! But well, I guess these are all the manufacturing bugs we come with. After all, the great God of knowledge and good beginnings Himself had to make do with a pachyderm's head. But it didn't stop him, did it?

Happy Vinayaka Chaturthi to all of you!!

House arrest

You've got to move on in life. Well, that's a cliched philosophy which all of us know, almost from our mothers' wombs. But you know, it's a funny thing how it feels when you get to see, touch or feel that particular item from your past. Recently we moved residence. We lived in that house for almost 6 years. So, we were pretty close to our neighbors and especially close to the couple right opposite. We hook up every now and then, over weekends, for a drink or two, generally just chatting up. They love Aayu and the li'l one goes all nuts at the mention of their names. We were there last night. As we tiptoed out at about midnight, I saw our old house. 6 years. A whole truck load of memories associated with it. Aayu learned to walk in that house, Aayu did this, did that. There is a memory sticking to every window pane, every brick of that house. And strangely, last night, in the pale street light, an unfamiliar car parked in front, new set of curtains hanging inside the windows, suddenly I felt detached, like I were watching a house I never lived in. I know it's funny, cause even now, when I think of all those cozy moments we three had in the house, or whenever I think of some family activity that brings a smile on my lips, I imagine that house. But when I stood in front of it in person, expecting that magical moment, it never came. It felt strange.

Made for each other

He'd first seen her at the shopping center. Well, that's what it had been, back in those days. They'd brought the entire structure down a year back and now it donned a new look. A new name even - mall. It was called the Sphere. It was sphrerical in shape, maybe that's why. And here's where he'd first seen her, falling in love with her, almost instantly. She had not noticed him,though. How could she? He was a pretty plain looking guy, somebody who'd be lost in a crowd. But she was something else. Her long flowing tresses complemented her fair skin, her almost flawless features could win her a beauty pageant anywhere in the world. But it wasn't about her beauty. It wasn't about how pure in thought and soul she looked either. It was something else. Something which told him that he had to talk to her, get to know her.

They had got talking in front of the cinema.

"Hi."

She turned and his heart skipped a beat.

"Hi."

"Arun."

She smiled. Another beat.

"Krishnaa."

"Krishnaa?" His eyebrows went up.

She giggled innocently, looking around her.

"It's spelt with an extra 'a'. And that differentiates the gender."

"Oh, that's new."

He sat down beside her and looked at the movie poster above her.

"Same movie?"

"Um hm."

"You're alone."

She gazed at his face, her eyes doing all the talking. She nodded.

"Would you mind a lot if I join you?"

"No, why should I?"

They made small talk for a few minutes before entering the dark hall.

And that's how it all began. A year back, almost.

**********
They were seated at the park, watching the ducks. He turned to her.

"Remember that movie where I first met you?"

Krishnaa pushed back a lock of hair from her face and nodded.

"I felt you'd snub me and leave."

"I'd felt the same. After all, I've not had guys just coming up to me and offering to watch a movie with me."

They laughed.

"But then I realized that you were different."

"Just like you."

"Yes."

"I'm glad I found you."

She smiled and gazed at his face like she usually did.

He looked at the ducks and spoke, almost to himself. "I'm glad I didn't survive that accident."

"And me, that fire."

They rose, held hands and walked on the pond, smiling, looking at the ducks around them. The ducks suddenly scattered. Perhaps they also knew their secret.

*********

guts & glory

We never think about certain things in life, do we? How's it that the newspaper never (well, almost) fails to fall in front of our doorsteps.The milk packets that make their way into our homes. Several things, fresh produce from the farms, petrol, medicines and other essentials. They are just there for our consumption, right, come rain, come shine? It rained heavily last night, sorry no milk. Rarely hear such things, huh? (Maybe Mumbai was an exception this time) Forget milk, the newspaper? Those guys brave all kinds of weather to be up and about much before the Sun is up. Just so you get to read your favorite comic strip on time. Says a lot about guts, grime and will power huh? Yeah, for them it's just another day at work. And you might say, someone has to do it. Yeah, why them? Why not us? Oh we're 'well read' 'well bred' and all that...When I sometimes grumble at my work place, I think - what if I were a paper delivery boy? Perhaps I should've. Then, no matter how much I read or which business school I attended, I'd be a more gutsier guy than any kick ass manager in the world. And then, perhaps that'd be my real education.I feel it's not the degree. It's the degree of hardship you face that teaches you some of the most valuable lessons of work, leadership and management.

Street smartness. Will get you through anything. Well, almost...and that's enough, ain't it?

ouch!

If dog bites man, it's not news, but if man bites dog it is news. And if man bites man? Stop press!Some guys are prone to things naturally. Like my friend who's naturally prone to dog bites. I mean, dogs like to bite him naturally, I mean...dogs bite him frequently. I mean...forget it. This is the 2nd time in three months. "Saale, kutta tere ko kaata ke tu kutte ko kaatne gaya?"Might be, he says. You know, as kids we'd be scared shitless of dog bites not because of the bite itself, but because of the aftermath - BIG SYRINGES pierced in your stomach. Gosh!But now I heard it's less scary. The syringes have shrunk in size as well as numbers. Well, looks like the dogs know that too.

Let's not even talk about snake bites today.

'Aao twist karein'

Someone asked me the other day, 'hey, why are there only murders and deaths in your stories?' That got me thinking. Though my answer to that question was 'err...uhh...um..dunno', I asked that question to myself. Indeed, why do I write morbid stories? Certainly not for the attention. Stories, especially on my blog, which has a select audience, will be read anyway, good or bad. And honestly, I'm nothing like any of my characters in real life. Am the usual everyman kinda guy leading a normal life. So why? Well, maybe the 'twist' is what sets my mind thinking. When I look at people around me, hear them talk, watch them go about doing their bit, I always think, 'what if that happens now? What if..?" And it's this 'what if' of life is what gets my pulse racing and the next moment it's there on paper, errr...on my screen, in the form of a story. I guess now it's become my style to twist the stories in the end. And I prefer a morbid twist. Of course, a romantic story can have a twist as well; a sad story, a funny story...any story can have a twist. But maybe I've just not thought about it. Maybe I should. Maybe I will. I will write the lighter side of twists.

This time round, kill someone with a lighter... perhaps. Hehehehe (diabolical chuckle).

Sisters, mangled dolls and raksha bandhan...

When my sister was born, my dad was quite happy. Contented. A few years later, my mom wanted to have another baby. “But we’re doing just fine. Why do we need another one?” My father asked. Now, he wasn’t being rude or anything. Only puzzled. Not that he had anything against a second baby, but…that was his opinion. He was happy with a single child. Not my mom. She wanted another. “I want a boy. And something tells me this time round we’ll have him.”My dad’s a scientist. So you can well imagine his reaction to that ‘intuitive’ sentence. But well, they went ahead and had another one. Me.

My sister was one of the most over-protective big sisters in the locality. “Give him back, your one minute is over.” Yeah, THAT over protective. And as a small kid I’d tag along like a pooh doll wherever she went. And she didn’t mind one bit. She’d bully me, boss over me, give me a dressing down, but in the end, I was her li’l brother, her ‘puppy’ as she’d call me lovingly.
Some boys are destructive by nature. Well....most are. No prizes for guessing what I was. My sister had a doll with lovely hair. One day she returned from school to find Persis Khambatta of Star Trek instead of her beautiful doll. Awash in tears, she ran to mom. When they stood over me, my answer? ‘But it’ll grow right back, won’t it?’

When in her 6th standard, she went away to boarding school. She’s been an independent person all her life and the fact that she’d have to live hundreds of miles away from her parents and little brother did sadden her, but didn’t break her. She wanted to be a dancer. And she’d do anything for it. Kalakshetra, Chennai. She trained in Bharathanatyam (A classical dance) and completed her post graduation after ten long years at boarding school. Of course she visited us twice every year. I think only once dad went all the way to Chennai to bring her home. The next time on, she was on her own. ‘I’ll be fine, appa,” was all she said. My father agreed. He was confident about her. She was his ‘big’ girl.

I myself was in boarding school for 5 years. I’ve never thought about my 'akka' (big sister in our mother tongue) and me consciously. We were a pair of ordinary siblings. We’ve never been very expressive about each other’s love. But during our teens and adolescence she was always there to guide me when I needed a ‘girl’s’ point of view. There’s not been a single raksha bandhan when I’ve not worn her rakhi. Not one. The distance never mattered. Though she’s never lived with us throughout she’s always been there. We’ve had our fair share of childhood escapades. Thrashing from parents. But we’ve never really lived together for an extended period of time.
I guess distance makes the heart grow fonder. And in my case, this distance has always made me respect my sister that much extra. Love her that much extra. To me she’ll always be my loving ‘akka’. And I’ll remain her ‘puppy’. I'm always there for her, and she for me.

Happy Raksha Bandhan, big sis.. And yeah, I received your rakhi, as always. A day in advance.

Stop thief...

He heard footsteps in the hallway and froze. The next moment, they faded away. The kitchen light came on. At least that's what he assumed. There was the bathroom right next to it, but who'd want to take something from the bathroom? He watched the shadow in the light that crept in through the bedroom door. He looked around. A sharp object. Quick. Anything, blunt, long, thick. He unplugged the fancy bedside lamp and pulled it, clutching it hard. He just hoped the loud click when he did that didn't reach the other pair of ears. He moved to the door and stood right beside it, waiting. He didn't want any surprises. He waited a good one minute. No sound. No footsteps. What was this guy upto? He tiptoed through the hallway and peeped into the dark living room. There was a loud crack. Funny, when did that bright star appear on the ceiling? Then he slumped to the floor.

*******

"Hello police station?"

"Yes. I just caught a burglar in my house."

"What? No...I've tied him up. Yes, yes..please. Thank you."

dishoom, dishoom!

Watched 'Amar Akbar Anthony' for the nth time yesterday. Know what, they don't make those kinda movies anymore. You know, the picture perfect family ending at the climax, but before that a mad 'pow wow' all out wrest fest between the goodies and the baddies. Ah, pure fun! The best part is the 'table turning' that happens so smoothly. Gun pointed at the baddy, the next minute, someone slips on a banana peel that the director's assistant carelessly threw on the floor and presto! The gun jumps to the baddy's hand. And then finally our 'hero' manages to tickle the badmaash and snatch the gun yet again. And then the rest of the heroes (don't even bother counting) take the cue and immediately start the fist-blist. Pow! Biff! Bang! Ouch! Even the oldies leaning on the villain's hands get an adrenalin rush and badger the goons who suddenly transform into circus bufoons. And then u have the court jersterish comedian who turns the entire exercise into a mime show, the buffoons all to eager to cooperate. The heroine, fresh after a bout of calisthenics and music dances happily on the villains' heads. Slap! Slap!The heavy duty 'gymmer' goon falls like hollow timber at the mere wave of her hand. Ah, what fun!

But wait, there's more. The cops who're waiting outside patiently finally barge in with the works - whistles and bullets. Good wins over evil at last. And finally - Say cheese!

Manu desai, where art thou?

Only you...and me, and everyone else.

If you've done some introspection lately, you'll realize that not much has changed about you. In terms of your inner self. Externally yes, a lot would've changed! Let's not even go there - appearance, responsibilities, financial status, marital status, parenthood and all that blah, blah...that is the circle of life and most of us (most...) have to go round it. But...have you ever felt this? I mean, your thoughts, your basic thoughts remain the same. Of course, as you grow older in this life, most of those thoughts become memories. "Ah, I used to think that way too" or, or smile at a youngster and think "teenage." But that aside, what you are, you're the same. And in that sense, you don't feel a day older than school. Yeah, every now and then, along comes an event or person to remind you to 'play' your real age, your exhibited self. But that's it. When you're alone driving, smoking, lying in bed or even sitting on the...you know what, every morning, you are back being the kid, the thoughts playing hide and seek with themselves. Your 'real' opinions about things, which are not much different from when you were a ...say, 10 year old peep from your mind. And it's remarkable how our body is actually shielding our real self, like an astronaut's gear. Insulating it and keeping it warm. And you carefully treasure that self day in day out. Looking at it every now and then, taking a peek at it when nobody's looking.

Jhankaaaar!!

Remember jhankar beats? Not the movie, the REAL jhankar beats, the tunes that were remixed with the same. Yeah, Kumar Shanu, Nadeem Shravan and of course, how can we forget Gulshan Kumar? (He's still presenting albums, so say the promos!) Where from, up there I guess? Well, anyway, the point of the matter is, yesterday I happened to listen to this old number in a tea-shop (jhankar beats and all) and my memory revved up on all cylinders! The first thing back in those days, whenever I heard these songs, that came to my mind was that of a music composer collectively holding all the accompanying instruments and beating them on a washing stone, much like the neighborhood 'dhobi'. It made that kind of a sound - 'Thup-jhunk, thup-jhunk, thup-jhunk', interspersed with those legimes that you hear in popular bhajans. Oh boy!

Remixes? Not for me. Ummm, well some of them are kind of catchy..but gimme an original any day.