d avenue

Faith and Fraility

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 14:27:00 +0000

Strange are the expectations of life
The world evidenced expects faith from the lot;
On that which is unseen, unheard of.
Intangibility craves for believers; and turns earthwards.

What I give is what I show – or so it goes;
Belief’s a tricky playpen, a maze even;
I’ve been running a race for long
But at every turn – a dark blind alley, it’s been.

Skepticism annoyingly asks-
“Show me the source; I’ll lend you my belief,” it promises.
But who believes these words – not even a believer!
Is faith such a dark continent of tricky travails?

Lead me to light, lend me a hand;
I’ll join in, if the journey is till the end.

By
Divya Rao
November 10, 2011
Mumbai

Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 19:54:00 +0000

Piercing through a sea of faces,

Eyes that hit a sullen heart,

Mellow down in a flushing rain;

Of soft notations and mysterious somethings.

Seated across a barricade of power,

They darted forth in cruel recklessness,

Driving up an untouched veneer to the pinnacle,

Of unknown pleasures and unfamiliar trepidations.

Blinded by the single slight,

One crept into dreamy fogginess

With throbbing thoughts from a single encounter,

Of enigma, of flawless madness.

Divya Rao

July 25, 2010

Chennai-Mumbai

Loyalty and Dilemma

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 19:51:00 +0000

A dilemma of choices poses threat

To an able mind with reason and practice -

To be or not to be asking the question,

Probes the mind in eternal conflict.

Memories from a beautiful past

Seem to threaten the existence,

Of promise of an opulent life.

Ahead lies assaying the two, a mountainous task no less.

Loyalty is no one-way street

It demands two minds progressing in tandem.

Cherished were those values, although now eroded

By toxic ways of a devious behemoth.

Divya Rao

July 25, 2010

Chennai-Mumbai

_______________________

Making a decision once out of a conflict can never be easy. Least of all when attachments hold you down and make you rethink about a word given, a promise made and a decision enunciated. An immediate thought occurred to me even as I was flying back home, back to all that stands for security and love. I had to pen the first words that hit my mind, even if it meant scribbling on the paper bag in the safety kit!

Surviving Democratic Protests

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 18:46:00 +0000

Living in a progressive democracy empowers its citizens with various forms of freedom. Information, education, employment and standard of living are enjoyed as fundamental rights. Freedom of expression is exercised by citizens for the most part of time. It is this right that allows people to speak their mind (whether honed or not!), communicate their ideas (sometimes brilliant, sometimes wacky), express their opinions about the Government, wars, economy, colour of the season and on various others. It also hands them a strong hand to protest if internal Government or foreign policies do not make much sense. Somewhere in the making of the constitution, the clause on the permissible methods to protest was forgotten. So, now we have people burning effigies, running a cycle rally, protesting in weird clothes (always better than none at all!) and calling for strikes and total stoppage for a day or sine die. Total stoppage? How would that serve the purpose, many may want to know.

Today, Monday, the 5th of July 2010, when friends and relatives in the USA are enjoying the extended weekend celebrating the American Independence Day with fireworks and lights, here in India the situation is vastly different. Extended weekend it was, but it started with a precaution from Sunday, when commercial establishments – read malls, shops and transport services closed down by dusk. One had to literally ferret through thinning traffic – a rare sight, especially in the Maximum city – and a line of immobile cabs, to return.

Mondays have never been popular with people. With a reputation of getting people blue and turning the day grey, this particular Monday started with the not-so-happening news of all establishments being brought to shut down operations. Schools and colleges were notified in advance that by not studying / teaching for one day, the students and teachers would in some way add thrust to the protest against gasoline & petrol price rise. Certainly, somebody thought this right through! Offices and factories declared a forced holiday on the beginning of the week. Sure, no employee would be heard complaining of the Monday blues. But has anybody given a thought to the Tuesday tiredness?

There were a brave few who were all set to make the most of the extended weekend by taking off some place for a short break. However, in many parts of the countries, there were certain “Protest volunteers” who were deputed to ensure that people protested in the right way. Except for the media houses that worked overtime to cover the situation – to what percentage the Strike was successful (how does one calculate that!) in which city, etc. it was almost as if people were coerced to protest living their lives!

When a country is repeatedly referred to as the biggest democracy in the world, it works on the interests of the people, for the people and by the people. Instead, when a crowd calls for actions in the name of people’s interests without informing the latter of the decision – especially one that can bring life to an insipid and annoying halt for an entire day – it is time to rethink the basic ideals of democracy. Maybe it is time for retrospection with the help of an image consultant on the modes of protest, because the verdict on today is two thumbs-down.

Divya Rao
5th July 2010
Mumbai

Explosion on Information Superhighway!

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 20:27:00 +0000

In the process of development of a story or a report or even a blog post for that matter, constant dips into research updates and information sources becomes inevitable. In one of the reports for a session of MIS (Management Information Systems), while gathering pointers from library books, rather hurriedly (due to lack of time or my complacence up to date of submission), I chanced upon an early edition of Alvin Toffler’s ‘Future Shock’. This book gave some pretty hard hitting concepts. Buried in two neat towers of books with magazines spread all around, while I was lapping up all the information in the book, there was a concept that was rather unusual and ironical to my situation – it was called ‘Information overload’! Toffler in his analysis put forth his theory that there can be a situation where there is too much information. Now, that seemed rather preposterous at that time, for information was the one thing that was hard to obtain. No matter how many books one referred, there was always that one author whose books were hard to find or out of stock. Almost like freshly baked bread rolls near the college. To support this concept, there were references that some books quoted from The New York Times dating back to 1970s. Information explosion seemed like a difficult pill to swallow at that time. Somehow, the ramifications of too much information did not seem greatly destructive to be termed explosive.

Internet invaded somewhere around that time and access to anything and almost everything became extremely easy. Book report? There were ready made ones that were available. Papers on Management concepts like Shamrock Organization? There were many options to choose from. It started to get queasy and listless when finishing project reports were simply ripped off and submitted as the fruit of some hard labour. Sure, one wouldn’t consider long hours spent browsing the Internet and skimming sites after sites to get the right match!

Besides work, applications and applets made emails, chats and communications available and how! Those who were indifferent to the concept of having pen friends, very easily slipped into the disguise of fake IDs and profiles to talk with other IDs – I’m not judging whether they were real, but you get the picture! Emails became frequent and in your face. People who sat next door sent a ‘Hi!’ or ‘Good day!’ as easily as they browsed for the latest news for a client meet! Vocal conversations became few and far between and the threshold of tolerance towards others when met face-to-face took a deep dive down. This was all information being fed, uploaded and downloaded constantly.

While spam emails and chat pop ups, many from known IDs, had started to get annoying, Social Networking swarmed into the picture along with Thomas Friedman’s ‘World is Flat’. Through Orkut, Facebook, MySpace, etc there was hardly any breathing space for planned delay of updates or privacy of communications. Everybody can now know what everyone else is talking, writing, saying, thinking at any given point of time. Everything was available at the click of a button. Information superhighway just turned into Information at my fingertips! It was novel, innovative, fascinating, and a highly addictive proposition to be part of this movement. At the same time, it is scary that one’s details- personal & professional and opinions on the economy, people, music, movies and a multitude of other things – consequential and inconsequential – is available on an info platter. Yes, there are Privacy controls but their effectiveness in moderation and restrictions are highly suspect. I know I cannot write just about anything that would otherwise find its way into my diary in long hand.

But what has the evolution of information accessibility got to do with Toffler’s hypothesis of Information Overload? In 350 BC or so, the world was introduced to the power of questioning by Socrates. Questions were what stirred the potpourri of thoughts and opinions in people so as to come up with answers. Had there been an Internet hub around Athens, the people would have simply logged on to Wikipedia or thousands of other alternatives to find all their answers. Introspection and inventions have perhaps become the luxury of a gifted few who have found a way to keep their thoughts and sanity together. Their inventions and innovations may have been supported by Macs and Blackberrys, but it is a fact that it happened despite all available, parasite-converting machines.

Being a marketing communications professional, it may not be a politically correct statement to make when I say that information explosion is a reality, one that requires immediate damage control. It is, however, sadly true that information at this scale made available with the fringes covering all other means of communications is capable of exploding the existence of the power to question and find the answers; besides being a constant cause of diversion potent enough to deflect the thinking process. It may be time to ask oneself once more, what TS Eliot had done years ago – “Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?”

Image credits:

1. Billfrymire.com

2. Queens Univ

Divya Rao
June 21, 2010
Mumbai

Why fear when Cloud Seeding is here!

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 11:17:00 +0000

One of the distinct memories I cherish of my first experience in an airplane was flying into foamy, cotton balled, almost heavenly white clouds that hung close to my window seat that I had so excitedly captured. They had reminded me of some of the pictures in my Greek fairy tale books that showed beautifully painted angels dressed in white and gold floating on these pristine clouds. One can only imagine the excitement when I felt like one!

As time passed and flying became common place, there was a recurring sight of colored clouds. Not just grey or indigo towards evening, but almost yellow! Clouds seemed like they needed a wash in a strong detergent to get rid of the awful stains that were few and far between. With time, these only increased in frequency and were visible while on ground too. The concept of “Pollution” was discussed at length and the adverse effects of smoke plus the smog were drilled down in text book lessons. The “Green House Effect” discussions used to end with references to the invisible Ozone layer – at first many school students thought the syllabus included discussion on a new discotheque that had opened in the city! Kids grew with understanding the importance of the O3 as sessions progressed.

The transition from Green House Effect to renewable and non-renewable resources was quite smooth. Just as lighting up a magnesium ribbon! So, water, coal and petroleum were non-renewable. Wait, water was termed as a renewable source when I studied (either I have grown too old or the water table is now in a limbo due to sudden change in usage patterns!). I was quite annoyed when I discovered that I don’t live anywhere close to perennial rivers – which were the Ganga and Brahmaputra! But now I see that even these rivers too have not been able to escape the axe of depletion. Although rains were unpredictable then, the number of complaining heads (about shortage of rains) seems to have multiplied significantly over the past few years. When all this complaining became far too noisy to handle, those in power referred to a technology that was developed a year before the Indian Independence. Cloud seeding, the newspapers reported, would solve the problems of water shortage in Bangalore.

Although no detailed explanation was available, the rains came and how! It poured continuously in places that had never expected rains. Water shortage issues too reduced, if not completely erased. The experiment was repeated in various other parts of the country. In some places it rained to the point of flooding an unprepared city, while in others it was a positive infusion. There was news about how China used it before the Olympics to clear out a smoggy stratosphere. It started to seem like finally there is a method of solving the issue of Pollution. Pollution – one that haunts students who are made to write long essays around it and mankind at large that wants clear, fresh air to breathe (and not spend time & money in Oxygen bars!).

Now Cloud Seeding – the seemingly obvious answer to water / rainfall shortage and thereby the solution to problems of pollution – was first developed by a researcher named Schaefer based on an idea that struck him while he was climbing a mountain (obviously, he must have thought about the ice axe, harness, not to mention his life, after the discovery!). The cloud seeding done in recent times include a heady mix of dry ice, silver iodide, salt (who knew!) and expanded liquid propane gas. Research on the after effects of the methodology has proved that though the effectiveness is there in varying measures, the contents may cause “temporary incapacitation or possible residual injury to humans and mammals with intense or continued but not chronic exposure”. Though exposure to the material can be controlled (hopefully so!) there is another disturbing fact. Although not on the same scale of industrial emissions, the technology amounts to pollution! This toxicity prompted Cloud Seeding to be rejected by Australia, which wanted to protect one of its endangered species.

Whether there an anti-dote to fight the ill-effects of silver iodide exists, is yet to be known. But somehow it seems like a maze of concentric circles where one begins with Pollution as a problem and ends up with Pollution as an after effect.

Wonder when the white fluffy clouds that I once saw out of my airplane window will return to stay for good. May be I could use the abracadabra hexes in the book of Grecian fairy tales!

Image: puppetgov.com

Divya Rao
10th June, 2010
Mumbai

Quirky tourists

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Fri, 14 May 2010 03:10:00 +0000

To the two noble Danish tourists I met at Leopold’s. May their tribe increase.

Travelling to distant lands filled with different sights and sounds (and smells too!) is always tempting. The very thought of getting away is good enough to ‘Like’ the concept and become a ‘Fan’ of it. The added bonus is that of meeting new faces and exercising your lazy, caffeine-coated tongue to pronounce new names – such as Ngyun and Thiruchitrambalam. Seeing the real life conditions can be quite interesting to note and experience – sometimes tedious too, if it is on a boat with little or no access to basic requirements, such as an espresso or a cheeseburger. The after effects of these experiences can always be balanced by a visit to the “World-famous” spa resort or a halt at the meditation ashram, which has just about all amenities – from 200 international TV channels beamed on a plasma screen to a patisserie serving a wide spread for the “guests” after their paid detox meditation session with a “Guru”! I may have run the risk of sounding like a socialist, but these are just pages from a tourist’s diary – one who could very well be me!

What is mostly intriguing as it is interesting is the exchange of views between the host (mostly a tour guide or occasionally an enthusiastic native) and the guest. What may be of most interest to the tourist may not even be remotely on the radar of the host’s comprehending mind. So, when a tourist armed with a Japanese-branded SLR says I want to see the “city”, it may not necessarily be restricted only to the landmark buildings, gateways, towers, palaces, libraries or pyramids and frescoes by legends with a mysterious past. It may very well include a washer man’s lake! Now, to the native it may be just another spot where his family sends out clothes for laundry and his friends complain on the filth that is unbecoming of a “washing” well. But when Lonely Planet lists it under a MUST SEE list, the curiosity of the tourist is not one to be contained or reasoned with. There should be something unique about this place and indifference towards it from the host is generally not treated with humour and candour. A flick of the head here and a nano-second smirk there is all that is needed to indicate that it is obviously a place that would definitely be seen, with or without the host’s approval! For the native, it may be funny and flummoxing at the same time to see the value of washing spot. ‘What’s the big deal about a Dhobi Ghat?’ reverberates in his mind. Once the tourist is done clicking away to the point of contracting a carpal tunnel, satisfaction descends on finally getting the catch. Now the only questions that arise are of how a collage of the images can be made for putting them up on the social networking site, where he occasionally tills and fertilizes often to win green virtual points for the hard-virtual-work!

There are times when every tourist turns into a silly, attention seeking, out-of-control juvenile. When visiting a place that is a sure shot “Scenic splendour”, or “heaven on earth” or “Milton’s Paradise Lost – you go find it” town or hamlet or even a strip of neatly trimmed land, the hype created by all the brochures and glossy catalogues one would have poured over is many times under-delivered. However, the vacationing implausibly positive mind would not want to accept this fact. So, what does one do? Bring out the camera; and start clicking at random angles training the lens on what could be just another goat or a cow or a mongrel that has strayed into the frame. At the end of it all, the pictures folder can end up with a rusted board with the name of the place hardly visible due to peeling paint, the different angles of the sun, your shadow with the knapsack and camera, a local who was inquisitive about the people in unusual clothing but could not communicate it, a far away hillock that looked anything but a brown mound of you-know-ewwww, and a few snooty clouds – in the sky – that should have ideally descended onto you as endorsed in the glossy catalog. There – you’ve found it – with a thought about that paradise which was supposed to be sighted too!

Sehenswuerdigkeiten in Deutsch or just simply sightseeing places are not the only points of contact for tourist quirks. Some of the biggest revelations happen when it’s mealtime. When a tourist from the sub continent travels to a foreign land, it seems like food was the centre of all attractions that was expected. Once on the foreign soil, some of the Indian appetites start to growl rather loudly at the restaurant manager. Some of the requests seem quite implausible to the restaurant service agents who begin to wear a forlorn look till such time the new entrant with multiple shopping bags from supermarkets such as the MM Migros (wonder what they bought!) leaves. The regular requests – for instance, ‘do you serve vegetable toast sandwich- without mayo, without cream, without butter, and very little bread?’ or ‘can you add sugar to the fondue?’ or ‘would you have some masala or chutney to spice up this burrito bowl? It does nothing to my tongue!’ or even better 'Can you serve the French toast with everything but the egg?'. While tossing the most restrained ‘No’, if close attention is paid, one may hear the Spanish or Deutsch waiters exchange a ‘Do you want to take my place – it’s the “tourist” in red sweater? The one who just asked for chilled butter-milk instead of beer!’

Some might say that there isn’t anything wrong with placing your demands on visiting places that can make a native squirm; or asking for flavours that may turn out to be an ice cream vendor’s nightmare. But the fact remains that it all makes for great observation and many times unexpected entertainment!

So, come ye tourists with thy quirks!

Image Credits:
Dhobhi Ghat- mcillecefamily.org
Migros- travelfeedback.com

Lair of comfort

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 10:22:00 +0000

Too late for new beginnings,
Why does it seem a frivolous, meaningless life?
Values awash on a shore of pinings,
Short of comfort for breathing.

Today meant zilch,
Life wasted on a constant, unmoving warp,
Of time and unstoppable tide,
Over daft indifference and spent moments.

Riding on a carefree draft,
Feet screeched a halt at the comforter’s lair.
Shackles awaited their touch with coldness,
To engulf and numb a surviving soul.

Privilege it seemed for a while,
Soon to turn a point blank,
For there were no greater impediments,
Than those that slaved to cut a master’s moves.

As dawn arrived, a new hope lit up within,
Would it end today, stop now?
Answering them was a hollow echo;
For there was no one left to hear,
In a deaf and deserted town called heart.

IPL and Marketing Brutes

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 18:30:00 +0000

April 26, 2009

The Indian Premier League or the IPL is what seems to be on everybody’s minds these days in India, apart from the colourful bevy of candidates standing to win despite criminal records and/ or Bollywood movies on their resume during these general elections. Now the IPL, like the English Premier League, is an exciting whip up of cricketers from around the globe put in teams supported by the big daddies of Indian business. What attracts a marketing person to this extravaganza of splurge is that though the ‘sport’ factor is pushed to the background, it boasts of some tough, bouncer-like marketing brutes in the business.

It is completely understandable that events such as the IPL are a big catch for pitching one’s company and its products. But this time around, the condition is one of marketing overdrive to the hilt and above. Every cricketer wears clothes that are hardly different from the teams, as they are plastered with logos and punch lines of companies all over their jerseys leaving very little room for any kind of colour to seep out to register in the minds of viewers. The helmets, gloves, pads are not spared either. At the end of it all, the couture ends up looking like the ruins of battle ground of marketing pros who fought over how many square inches the ideal size of the logo should be, the strategic placement and how the cricketer should not wear any other clothing over the jersey as per contract, even if it was a raincoat! I imagine the argument would have to be a breathless one.

I do however fail to understand the kill the advertisers aim at making from the investment. For instance, I wonder if an average sports guy trying to watch a replay would be thrilled to hear the name of company prefixed to super shot, when in fact it was a sixer or a boundary. Or, for that matter, if the logos on the jerseys would have recall value. Trust me when I say that some companies with long names in the company logos tend to make a viewer disinterested in reading it after the first three letters! I believe the scene at the grounds in South Africa (where it is being hosted) is not very different. With stalls of companies sponsoring the events… oops, partnering the event, calling out to sports fans with beer, caps, flags and the jamboree, I reckon the event to be more of a fest, a mela as we say here. May be the fringes are what is attracting the crowd that’s turning up for the matches, which are otherwise lacklustre.

One of the funniest portions of these IPL matches is during the presentation ceremony, after the 20-20 match is over. The ‘Man of the Match’ trophy that is given out to the outstanding player of that particular match is something where the audience tries guessing the name that would be called out to get another cheque (which looks more like a poster for a trade fair), and probably the keys to a motorbike. The presentation party on the dais resembles the congregation for a G20 Summit lined up for a group photograph. Make no mistake, this is another marketing exercise, which no rep wants to leave out, and ensures that he/ she has the company CEO up on the stage, even if the name is mis-pronounced or given a wrong gender title! Now, I would like to talk to the sponsoring parties who have given out the MoM tropies to understand their metrics of calculating RoI. What is most depressing is when the team owner of the losing team has to hand over the trophy to the player of the rival team. Does it still remain a marketing exercise or help build brand? I am still trying to figure it out.

The IPL matches are underway and the marketing excesses have been out for all to see. Without trying to sound risqué, these professionals are quite the sons of guns when it comes to plastering the company names on anybody that even remotely has a chance of being covered by the cameras! As the scrips of the companies that have sponsored have not exactly sky-rocketed on the markets, I am hoping there has been an appreciation of some other sort, at least to cover the shredded venture that it would turn out to be at the end of the cricket cabaret.

Shopping in the time of woes

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 21:10:00 +0000

April 26, 2009

Writing constantly in keeping with a particular underlying emotion at the centre of each piece can become quite tedious for a human in a writer often gets intertwined in circumstances beyond control. It seems more tedious when humour is at (or at least tried to be maintained at) the epicentre of a blog.

During the past few months, the usual haunts that feed news and information for writing has been nothing but depressing. No matter how hard one tries, it is difficult to write anything humorous. Dissociating myself with the cataclysmic terror strikes that I almost missed by a thick sliver of time does not seem to work either. At one point, I considered stopping to read dailies (though it would have been catastrophic to my job and addiction to newspapers), having repeatedly sifted through web pages of terror unleashed just about everywhere in the world. Whenever I tried to jot down my thoughts, verses sounded like lyrics of a Linkin Park song. Fearing it would sound too lamenting, I did force a few words of hope in them, almost like a weeping circus joker’s wild get up to evoke some laughs from a juvenile audience. But in this entire awkwardness, there was a little flame burning in the hope that there would be a return of happy words. Perhaps, as it happens to everybody else, there has been a realization. At the risk of sounding boastful, it may be due to efficient stress management. No, it wasn’t because of a book of a priest who sold his hot wheels. Just good old ego massage and some binge shopping!

Now shopping is not what I would usually pick for a weekend activity for many reasons- a. it involves lot of time in travelling up to the mall, b. the energy spent on looking through each design, colour, fabric, fall and fit per visit can almost be used to write a month’s blog – back-to-back, c. when you wake up from the hypnotic stage of being shopaholic, a question – a rather soap-opera rhetorical – immediately springs in your mind- ‘What have I done?’

But a visit to the clothes section with the intention of buying some can bring out interesting observations. Couples shopping in the ladies section is the most delightful to watch. People who shop with their partners almost end up like the two faces of a drama school. The person who is shopping – mostly the woman – usually seems like she’s on a double dose of Red Bull or a mug full of Espresso! With eyes wide-open and firm mouth, she glides from hanger to hanger, section to section with gay abandon (forgive the old usage of the phrase- fyi, it has nothing to do with sexual orientation), completely oblivious to the store helper who is right behind asking her to enrol in another phone call trap card/ membership and/ or a lucky draw, which would be as lucky as the asteroid of youth that passed 10 years ago. Phew!

The partner – mostly the man – is usually the ideal ambassador for the Frowners’ Club, if there was any! His despair moves from level 1, which is when the lady chucks a lavender pick for mauve gradient, saying that the former is too loud for her taste; to level 3, which is when she tries an asymmetrical top and asks her partner for opinion – ‘Is this alright?’ That in most cases is the point of acomodador, the point where the partner gives up, who by now is carrying a shopping bag of clothes, accessories, and a certain some things the nomenclature of which is as alien to him as a 3 eyed monster; wait- perhaps stranger than aliens.

It must be conceded that the most interesting part is the opinion seeking ceremony of sorts outside the fitting room. The mostly clueless partner transforms himself to be a face reader at this point (that is, if he has not already given up and left the store). Looking at the creases on his partner’s face and head tilt of the reflection of his other half in the mirror, he decisively volleys back answers with flourish. What many ladies in the fitting rooms do not realize is that the man’s answers are all on the fence; almost all nearly don’t care. Yet, somehow decisions are taken and the couples hit the billing counter. The total time spent on the complete exercise of a normal evening easily beats the time length of any Hindi movie. Go figure!

Shopping teaches one lesson though- you may forget your harsh memories for a while, but that need not mean the pain has left you. If there are more clothes in your shopping bags than spaces available in the closet, do not worry. It can certainly mean that you are getting over your woes and sympathy is on its way!

Glory and Grief

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 12:22:00 +0000

A scheming world sneers,
At the psychopath’s grumpy glory,
When he wakes to delusional clarions
And walks on rose strewn paths.

He was once full of light,
Hope lit him with lively wisdom,
His dreams were multi colored,
Friends envied his triumphant glee.

One by one they consumed,
All dreams that ever showed themselves,
Negating his self, the trusted extinguished
Every trace of confidence that ever was.

Suddenly, the world around seemed grey,
Cold gaze replaced what was once soft,
Words were short, voicing no say;
Sounds dissolved in faint muffles.

Games of mind made the man shut off,
Windows to all energies positive,
Aching grief plunged him to abyss of desperation,
Smothering out his faith.

Now a reflection of disparity,
His actions are suspect,
A slice of insanity he seems to the community
That predicts his silent actions to be militant.

More than speeding anger and blind conspiracies?
More than reckless temper and communal lunacies?

Divya Rao
March 17, 2009
Mumbai

Evolution Revisited

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 11:44:00 +0000

Void swells up a young heart,
Searing an uncertainty within.
A loving draft doesn’t embrace,
All the nervous chaos out.

Impenetrable the life seems,
What was once a welcoming garden.
Prickly thoughts disturb,
The landscape of equilibrium.

Regressing to childhood in a blink,
Blossoms of needs spring crowdedly;
It’s back to deciding which of the million parts to play,
Satisfying a bloating girth of wants.

Selfishness progresses, jealousy pervades,
Juvenile silliness of anger wrecks.
The mind that until then was in control,
Now gallops unbridled.

Does childhood ever evolve to a higher level of understanding?
Does inner evolution guarantee mind’s peaceful landing?
Answers resound from silent moments.
Elusive as an echo, the solution remains.

Divya Rao
February 8, 2009
Mumbai

Wishes – Distant and Kitsch

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 18:27:00 +0000

Mind wanders out of the window
Weaving many a silken dreams,
Of green highlands and fertile valleys below,
Over countless gushing desire streams.

Why does the far away cloud seem brighter?
Blue skies of target never looked better.
A cornucopia of freshness abounds,
That land of victory sounds.

So what if the unique lights are blinding,
The distant terrain has a rush of uncertainties binding
Mundane inanity with rational sensibility;
Though irrational thoughts seem unsteady.

As a million straight-laced questions bombard within,
Threatening to splash out any atypical fountain of wishes,
Hope of treading the unbeaten way emerges, givin’
What’s needed most – strength and courage for a start so kitsch!

Divya Rao
February 1, 2009
Mumbai

Of Obama and Slumdogs

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 18:48:00 +0000

In the past few days news channels have been busy reporting landmark events prompting ardent followers to break into a song and dance routine or hallelujah! Two events have primarily been the catalysts for such reactions. A, Barack Obama winning the presidential election and becoming the first ever African American to get to the finishing line with such élan. B, a relatively unfamiliar team of Indian cast and Hollywood technicians who joined together for an Indian, no- Indo-American, no- a major movie project that won several honours – the Slumdog Millionaire team.

I just saw Obama finish his first presidential address about all the great things that the USA has on its to-do list. It sounded grand. It sounded inspiring. It sounded very much like the story of an underdog who goes on to clinch the top award. Being much of an opponent gone unnoticed in the beginning, Barack Obama’s words about the change required in the world hit everybody in the face, much like Dick Cheney’s infamous shot. But it was not just the words. He exuded a quiet strength and confidence that was infectious and almost absent till he came on to the scene. The intriguing part of all this milieu is that people who do not even belong to the US of A have become a part of the follower mice that Obama’s piper has influenced. Though there is a portion of cynics who still believe that his ostentatious ideas don’t translate into quantifiable results, the 2 million plus people who turned up at the Capitol Hill from around the country, in icy cold weather to be part of what is now referred to as the ‘making of history’, is a reflection of how desperately expectant the world is for the ‘history’ to turn a reality.

In many ways, the success of the recently Golden Globed film ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ runs close, if not parallel, to the Obama success story. A non-Indian filmmaker sneaks into a crowded city like Mumbai and paints out the story of a slum dweller who wins the title because his life has taught him the answers to the questions that would be asked in a game show. Now this movie has graphic scenes of slums, slum dwellers, mafia and umpteen other factors that would make a Mumbaite squirm and shift uneasily in a plush theatre seat. I for one can vouch for it. But the story of hope and success has indeed brought the same for the movie and to all those associated with it. Hollywood has been introduced to the Maximum city through the eyes of one of its tribe. Despite all the adulation and glory, the movie has sparked debates upon debates if the subject is poverty porn? (Wow! I did not know that term before) Is it necessary to show the dirty side of the country, let alone the city? And so on. It is almost like right after the applause for a grand performance, one is trying to pull out the wig of an opera singer for being too ragged! It still seems like it would not puncture the soul aim of the movie, for it is too strong in the portrayal of characters that make up a masterpiece.

Confidence and attitude of a person or a multi cultural team can go a long way in nailing ground-breaking steps on the way. Much like the Il Divo concept. Much like what is most needed today.

Divya Rao
January 21, 2009
Mumbai

Run! It’s Chronic Delegation Syndrome!

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 18:47:00 +0000

Management is an extremely useful application. Be it Peter Drucker’s theory or Henry Fayol’s 14 principles, one finds its application in one or the other way in daily business dealings. When time and work principles were formulated, it was only out of necessity, though now bosses ensure they use this completely to keep a check on wavering employees, usually trying to discover a crack code to use a new video game or download a website which offers chat options which are blocked in the office! But most of all, one important give away from the great science of Management, is the art of Delegation.

Delegation in simple words is passing on authority, to a junior from the same line, to complete a certain work. It is an important part of working and makes operations easier and quick. But right after the definition was out, people started twisting it around like a rubber tube. Some of the more intelligent business species have led their entire career on this principle. The condition may be termed Chronic Delegation. Some of the simple signs of a chronic delegator are:

· They are in the managerial level or above and generally have at least 5 people reporting to them, and all 5 are usually busy with something that has been asked by their boss.
· The organisation structure is invisible to perpetual and chronic delegators. In many cases, work is delegated across the line in a zig zag manner that can make a matrix organization blush
· The chronic delegator is a restless creature. He / she is forever blackberrying the delegatee on the status of a job whose deadline is 3 weeks away. But, what’s intriguing about this species is that when the delegatee wants information or clarification, the delegator goes missing mysteriously and emails are always replied with an “Out of Office” message. Go figure!
· You’d find the delegatee usually working on projects that have been given by the chronic delegator. Ask the delegatee about “personal initiatives” and it might take the green horn a long time to understand the word.

The person who usually hives off responsibility also has certain discernible traits that are unique to the species. He/ she:

· Works in a cabin for a very short time but comes out to hover around the cubicles of those to whom he has probably asked to find out the origin of ASAP
· Hobnobs with the super boss and family; and presents what the green horn had submitted as a project a week ago
· Keeps asking the same questions a million times
· Makes a million changes in a day on a report, repeating a previously striked out option
· Acts in the same manner like the time when one feels like detaching his oily hand and asking a more than willing room mate to wash it and get it back while he watches ESPN.
· Fails to understand the words “I don’t work for you” when told by a junior from the other department, and gives a forlorn look in the hope of getting a breakthrough.

Many times the chronic delegator is unaware of his/ her condition and may completely disagree when confronted with the reports. What is totally comprehensible for him would be an arrogant marketing guy volunteering to take up a CSR project for no incentive. In many ways, it reminds me of the initial stages of schizophrenia. God help!

Divya Rao
January 18, 2009
Mumbai

Colors of dusk

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 17:41:00 +0000

Lines of light fade into greys,
A distant muezzin calls the evening.
Forgetting all diktats of mores,
A young soul prays-
asking for another bright sunny day,
where all those hidden appear with ease.

The horizon turns into a distant scarlet,
Watered up by a straight tangent of a forthright evening;
Settling breezy winds into vacant closets,
Of green foliage and a maid's toussled hair.

Changing soon to deep indigo,
The sky's bedecked as a princess of yore,
But the dark mood is intoxicating for niceties,
With some more heartbeats still to spare.

For daybreak is a speck, distant and away;
From all the excitement of an evening
Of moods and colors, spread and sway
Play along- sometimes a saunter, sometimes a shimmy!

Divya Rao
January 14, 2009
Mumbai

What plans for the big day?

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 19:24:00 +0000

It is past midnight. At this time, one may find a dork pouring over an assignment that had to be completed yesterday, or a group of biking revellers vrooming their machines through the Marine Drive, or a middle aged couple deep asleep, with the home maker dreaming all that has to go into the soup for her husband for breakfast!
I, for one, just received best wishes for the day marking the passage of an entire year in my life. It is funny because one feels like a birthday wish is like a boot camp colonel’s rap on the brain hoarsely saying, ‘Another year up!’ making it feel like it has been in a coma for nearly a year!

A common question that is asked of the person about to slip into oblivion before the clock strikes 12 is “What are your plans for tomorrow?” Wow, how concerned and considerate of the prying eyes and loitering mind! Now, I am not one of those eccentric cynics who are too woven in untying the DNA structure to remember their own birthday. But somehow, it seems like an unfair question to ask this to a person who does not fall under the category of everybody-knows-and-celebrates-my-b’day. Such people somehow are often reminded, many times bombardingly so, that their birthday is up and they are required to make a wishlist so that some rich daddy, just out of rehab or prison or both, can dole out a bunch of goodies and make a donation to the charity organisation. Oh and it is celebration alright! From the overpainted clowns to the puppets, and from the ballerinas to rock star gigs, they bring the studio ceiling down.

Another of the species is the ever-important political hero who has done something big in his life that has made his/ her name significant enough to be given to a street or a memorial or at least and alley. Now most of these leaders may be long gone, but somehow it is tad difficult for those living to let their memories be fresh in the minds. The super powerful mike holder considers it a sacrosanct duty to talk for god-knows-how-long about the posthumous leader’s life, good deeds and bad deeds but somehow it all sums up to convey that it was all for the progress. Touché. Now, one advantage these late leaders have is that they are not obliged to share their birthday plans with every other person on the block. However, the same cannot be held true for the mike holders and flag hoisters!

I could go on, but I think the point is clear. A Simple Sam or a Watercooler Wendy does not walk up to you and ask your birthday plans for recording in a logbook or documenting as vital Human Resource information. In fact, all these askers should take a leaf out of the chat applications – they should send a prior request to ask the question, which can be sent only when the birthday boy or girl has adequate plans to flaunt.

Till then I hope I don’t hear the words ‘what plans for the big day?’

Divya Rao
January 10, 2009
Mumbai

Road to Solace

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 19:21:00 +0000

The road to solace is a messy one,
Strewn with pieces of my memories,
Heart lays invisible beneath
Shadows of fear, of uncertain lives.

Picking up shreds, I try to hold together,
Those smiles and happy times,
When I hopped along dancing waves,
Running into a drove of pecking pigeons.

As I sift through my collection, I recollect,
Many a wide open faces, in sheer marvel
At a structure of splendour, a display effect
Architecture had inspired in every cell.

Now as I mend the torn fragments,
A pain shoots up to my eyes,
But a heat of resurrection overtakes,
Sweeping aside all despair, all sighs.

But a larger doubt still looms large,
Will a billion be bluffed and bullied again-
In to the contrived make belief?
Or will it be the rising of a populace,
For righting the errors of a century?

I wish to smell a frequent scent of peace, see a happy face,
For without, it is still half way on the road to solace.

Divya Rao
December 7, 2008

Say, when?

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 04:32:00 +0000

What kind of a jigsaw puzzle is this?
The heart pines to tread an unbeaten way,
But yields to another's calling,
Trying to find peace at not having a say.

Digging into a grave of pathos,
I retrieve a skeleton of life,
Jaded beyond recognition, it seems.
Unused lies a box of happy colors;
Which too, in the grave dissolves.

Say, when will the eclipse move,
When will there be breathing space?
It's too dark to imagine a silveline;
To imagine again a happy face.

Divya Rao
November 22, 2008

A Trail

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 06:37:00 +0000

Wandering above the dismissive gradient,
A quirk stumbled my mind:
Would I ever sense the scent
Of layers I lay behind?

Revealing a shovel of thought
I started mind’s unforgiving dynamo,
Lubricant of reason fought
Rusty ego covering many a woe.

Brushing aside the dusty inroads,
Where rationality and logic reigned
And showered many welcoming odes;
Not the target, still my lips openly feigned.

Somewhere I heard a frail melody;
In the dark alley of the subconscious, I reckoned
Bustled along the crowded thoughts in parody,
Till I reached a warm, lonesome bend.

There I found the heart;
Crouched beneath the shield of head
I reached out to feel the surface so soft
But fearing hurt to self, immediately retracted.

Strength I have but courage seems short;
Frail I may be, but insensitive ’am not.
Will it take a stronger will, I wonder;
But every time, to the thought of mind I surrender.

This trail has left many doubts within,
Looking, trying; failing, seething.

Divya Rao
April 3, 2008
Mumbai, India

The Pariah

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 08:12:00 +0000

Pariahs in homeland,
Don’t have luxuries;
To live with what was their clan,
To sweat and toil towards an adopted land.
Giving up native fringes to alight,
In the company of a convivial next door.

A tyranny unleashed,
By collaborated prejudice.
To blind minds these monsters feed,
Hopes of a virtual self-
Of illusory offers,
‘Our language, our land,
‘Our!’ they scream,
Stifling a weak moan,
Of the one who mistook
A neighbor to be his own.

A weakling now,
The settler is seldom heard.
For all the sunshine he basked in,
Fun and frolic that ever embraced him,
His life and love now curtailed;
And at every sundown,
A pariah he still remains.

Divya Rao
(Feb 16, 2008)

*Pariah: outsider
__________________________________________________

An ode to those hearts that ache for the land they live in, much more than the land they were born into, but still face prejudicial reprisal for their existence.

10 Promises to a Desi

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 03:12:00 +0000

The US Presidential race for 2008 has aroused an unprecedented interest by the global community. Not that it makes any difference in the daily life but the conversations are more America-centric. India has seen many a political upheaval, rebuttal and wham-bham masala befitting a Bollywood B-grade movie. But the system gets diluted in the wake of contenders from Barabanki to places that are not even heard of! The final choice of the prime minister, who is the actual ringmaster in the Great Indian Political Circus (presidents are like one of the neat fitted gems on crown that are not allowed movement), lies as a decision by the left, right and the other sides of other parties who after careful monetary consideration announce the momentous decision! The voter who finally got her Voter ID much to his/her chagrin and took a long route to press those blue & white buttons, after a lot of training on its electronic usage, many a times is caught astonished at the announcement of the next Prime Minister - ‘This is not the guy who stood for elections! What’s his name?’

The US elections on the other hand hold more shows, a la Bollywood star nights (a miniature Broadway color, music, light and dance exhibition). This educates people on who actually are the candidates. They are given adequate scope to speak about the war they started, healthcare facilities that are lacking and other issues. Many times they have a solution to at least one of them, be it pumping their fist in the air and saying ‘We’ll bring back the troops’ or ‘We’ll bring back the jobs’.

These candidates are also invited on various talk shows, where they talk what they would have already spoken in various constituencies, oops! Caucuses! (a silly desi glitch!) One of the shows that is a pit stop for most of the candidates is the one hosted by David Letterman. Along with being the host of the most popular talk show, he also has a classy appeal through his choice of ties and a very worn out looking rug on his head. And the humor, of course. I happened to catch one of the videos of these appearances on his show where the candidates made humorous Presidential Candidate promises. It was enjoyable till the end of the show, though I feel there are some things that a US President should consider as the desis form a vast majority of the vote bank. So, I suggest the following 10 promises the next US President should make to a desi:

1. Strip search to be restricted to clothes only. Make it compulsory at all airline terminals that the officials, no matter how brooding a face they carry each day, strip search a person but stop when all clothes are off. Some middle aged brown faces may not be able to handle skinning. The maximum one can retrieve out of them would be pickles, a pungent smelling powder and lots of crispy discs.

2. Do something to contain the recession. I don’t know about how deep in shit the industry is but speaking about the employed desis, I can safely say they are in it! Despite all the jazzy languages they’ve learnt which have more characters than alphabets in them, the salary faking business has taken a hit. No matter how much one fakingly hikes the CTC in his/her resume, the companies are now really not able to afford those quick-toed Bangaloreans or the street smart Mumbaikars or the dynamic Delhites.

3. Allow at least one Indian film to be nominated in the Oscars each year. Every year almost a 100 people die when one of the Indian movies tipped to make it to the category of ‘Best film in a Foreign Language’ doesn’t make it to the final. Let them not always win it, but a nomination alone can save many lives, as they cling on to their hopes each year.

4. Make it a contractual obligation for Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorcese, Ang Lee and the other hottest directors/ production houses to sign Ash, AB, and many other Bollywood ‘stars’. Now, it may be an unknown fact, but in India these happen to be direct descendants from the Sun, the Moon and all the stardust on the way. Now, it is not their erroneous judgement that some Last legion did not work or their emotions were not given adequate screen time. If a US President makes this by contract, these demi-gods may capture the fancy of a wider section of audience. Remember, it is a fair deal and I have not even talked about award nominations here!

5. Give desi students at US universities equal rights to become Assistants to Professors for funding their pretzels. Though the job is menial and most thankless, let the desis be given equal rights to be picked as they need them for subsistence. Indian banks give loans for education alone and we’ve heard it enough from a commercialist view that ‘there are no free lunches’.

6. Make Silicon Valley the capital of the United States. It is understandable that the place where the President resides and operates is the current capital. But with all the economic mayhem, most of which is contributed/ affecting a vast portion of Silicon Valley, it is but logical to make it the capital. Ask any random desi and he/she will confirm the fact.

7. Reduce the queue for getting visas from standing 3 nights straight to just one night. For many students it may be a little taxing when they have just finished their GREs, GMATs, TOEFLs and all the other unpronounceable abbreviated entrance tests. Standing for getting the application for just one night would be fine with the desis.

8. Once Dubya is out of office, people would generally be denied the pleasure of watching anomalies in speeches. Desis too would be missing out on all Bushisms once he’s gone. So, the next US President should compulsorily commit at least 2 faux pas per month to keep the spirits high and the You Tube uploads flowing.

9. Search WMD in non-Asian countries too. At least the precedence in most of Hollywood movies seems to suggest so. There goes the ‘information source’!

10. Allow school kids to wear turbans. When kids can color their hair pink and tattoo cryptic puzzles on their tender skins in wild colors, allowing harmless turbans and skullcaps wouldn’t be as big a deal as discovering the existence of a planet! While doing so, ensure adequate safety in Universities and schools against the slightly deranged section who may become potential gun toting maniacs overnight. It may not be a well-known fact in the US, but the desis killed in such incidents are grieved over newspaper, TV, radio and conversations even after 2 months.

I guess the above promises are not too large not to be met. I don’t quite mind who the next Prez is but I surely do hope they also do something about financing blogs written about giving them the desi angle. This web page is recovering not a penny for me and I’m already running late for a dreary day at office!

Sometimes I see the stars

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 10:20:00 +0000

Sometimes I see the stars.
When the shroud of ignorance tears away
In view comes a shimmery display
’til a grey cloud returns to stay.

Sometimes I feel the sparks,
In the heart of my heart,
Cherish it within mind’s dark
Till practicality steps in,
And sponge of love departs.

Sometimes I smell the roses,
Party to the foreplay of tantalizing scents
’til I hit the snag a cruel roadblock imposes,
Pronouncing ‘Quick, move your tinseltoes’!

Love, oh love;
Sometimes I catch a flicker,
The pounding reaches my ear,
Continues till a fallacy raking mind intervenes,
Takes charge and pulls the veil.

Sometimes I see the future,
Fearing no tear,
An undoubting skull I carry,
Or should I say, a common needs quarry –
Of peace everywhere,
Of smiles and cheer,
No sundry faith,
Or scope for treachery.

Abruptly, I snap out.
Awaking from a tranquil reverie,
An hour of paid harmony achieved.
To my inbox I now revert!

I’ve no intention to delude;
When I say ‘Sometimes I see the stars’,
I do.

(January 29, 2008)
__________________________________________________________

It started as cynical take on an extremely redundant topic of material life. But somehow, one evening while returning home, the velvety blue night sky seemed very uncharacteristically obliging with a fantastic display of a bunch of bright stars. My cell phone always comes handy when such thoughts emanate, especially at a time when I believe that both my hemispheres are hibernating with no sign of coming out of it!

To Benazir

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 07:36:00 +0000

Politics has not been a soothing subject of discussion for a clear majority. Now I may be presumptuous at taking such a shot, but the thought of rivalry for the throne of power to rule over people by elections that often leave a stain, on more than just the finger of a voter, is not a comforting idea. In the subcontinent, elections are that time of the year when people get together to see sleep deprived news anchors keeping a tab on a party representative’s performance in a remote town, which they are probably hearing for the first time. Almost like an international beauty pageant where one becomes aware of many countries by gaping at the sash worn by half naked girls with collar bones jutting out. But this is not what I wish to write about. This time around, no wise ass lines, no crack pot wit.

Strange as it seems, being in India for all my life, Pakistan to me has meant great cricket matches, historical connections, volatile relations and some very powerful and charismatic leaders. The country’s internal politics have also prompted many discussions and debates here. Military dictatorship or democratic rule, Pakistani socio-political situation, at various times, has affected me to thinking about the ramifications on India and into what the two countries would be led. One Pakistani leader has always stood out for all the courage and hope lent. Benazir Bhutto.

I was shocked to hear that Benazir Bhutto was assassinated yesterday from a close range. This was during her rally where she planned to lend optimism to the people. I do not know if her politics was best suited for the country. But when she came back to her homeland in October this year, the one thing that was evident was a certain cheer she brought on faces looking for better governance.

Not a favorite subject, not my most confident write, but yet there is something within me that cannot help but feel sad about the turn of events. I remember an interview Bhutto had given long ago to an Indian channel. She had told her story beginning from the execution of her father, to the exile, to her return to power, and her agenda for Pakistan. I may not have completely agreed with her political ambitions, but her courage was incomparable. Her stern resolve to return to her country despite precarious political and social metamorphosis was truly laudable. During the course of events, she repeatedly confirmed to all that she was well aware of the fact that death may come beckoning any moment but yet she touched down and felt at home on returning to a political scenario, one that is still very confusing to me.

She leaves behind a legacy of lion-heartedness and strength for people who believed she could be an agent of change. In a recent chat, she jocularly mentioned that she was called as one who’s not the favorite of the 3 A’s – Allah, Asif (her husband) and America.

I do not wish to believe that the hope she displayed in her rallies has gone down to dust with Bhutto’s assassination. Peace be with her!

Papers Not So Pink

noreply@blogger.com (Di) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 12:18:00 +0000

(Despite being variously implored and repeatedly threatened by many on including mass media in my articles, they somehow seem to find their way up here.)

For a few days, news elements floating around seem to be creating more than just waves. In fact, these high tides have toppled the consistency of sanity amongst many. The proletariat, the entrepreneurial and the technocrati have responded in various degrees of indifference to each of them, the highest being raised eyebrows and widened eyes. But it was later discovered that it was just the foreplay of a giant sneeze that shattered the ear drums of many in a closed office. The school going children, however, were as tricky to track as the count of the number of outsourced units in India.

An English teacher of an ‘International School’ (this is a term to denote places that have buildings representing obnoxious monstrosity and unconventional education that has parents in knots – in their brain and pockets!) decided to introduce newspaper reading for tiny tots to get them converse better than a hotch potch “That is correct, no Ma’m” and “He only did it, M’am”.

Ma’m (beaming with enthusiasm): “Class, today we shall be doing something new.”
Naughty Tot: “That is what you say in every class, Ma'm.”
Ma’m (not amused, but holding her head high where the clouds floated): “We shall start newspaper reading from this session and then we shall discuss what you read. At the end, one of you shall summarize the news for the day. Dolly, you begin”
Dolly: “Yes M’am. ‘Coimbatore blasts: Basha, nine others get life sentence. The founder leader of proscribed Al-Umma S A Basha and the outfit's general secretary Mohammed Ansari, along with eight key convicts, were on Wednesday awarded life imprisonment in the 1998 Coimbatore serial blasts case.’”
Ma’m: “Thank you, Dolly. Let us see who has the first question.”
Naughty Tot: “Why are we reading 1998 news now? Sid just wrote today’s date on the board. The year is 2007, no Ma’m?”
Ma’m: “Yes, the year is 2007. But the judgement was announced only yesterday. Most of the times the result of such cases is known after a delayed period.”
Naughty Tot: “Does it apply to our school results too?”
Ma’m (sternly): “Ahem! Firoz, the next headline, please. All discussions after it is read out.”
Firoz: “Ok. ‘N-deal will benefit India, US & world says Burns’. I have a question Ma’m- Is N-deal a rock band?”
Ma’m: “No, it stand for Nuclear Deal, which is between India and the US.”
Tot: “New cleaning?”
Ma’m: “Well, not quite. It deals with making weapons and building arsenal.”
Tot: “Wow! Like ‘Counter Strike’ video game?”
Ma’m: “Uhmm… no. let’s move on to entertainment section. Kiti… Sheeti… the last girl in white.”
Tot: “Kshitija, Ma’m. ‘Sanjay Dutt goes to prison again’.”
Naughty Tot: “Man! You know, he went to all temples, still he was taken to prison.”
Ma’m: “No discussing between yourselves.”
Naughty Tot: “You know, he has big gun. I have his poster in my room”
Tot: “Cool! I will come to your house then, ok?”
Ma'm: "Sshh! Avi, the next headline."
Avi: "'Queen Beatrix of Netherlands meets President Pratibha Patil'. Is she Sirius Black's sister, Ma'm?"
Ma'm: "Sirius, who?"
Avi: "Sirius Black, Ma'm. Harry Potter's godfather. He had this wicked witch sister. Is she the same one?"
Dolly: "No! Her name was Bellatrix Lestrange and she was deatheater. She did not wear nice pink hats like this. Deatheaters don't wear hats! Don't you ever read Harry Potter?"
Avi: "Uh... "
Ma'm: "Stop the exodus! Let's move on to Sports section. This should be easy, right? Malcolm, stop rolling eyes around, you are making Gia dizzy. It's your turn to read the news. Remember, discussions only after I ask."
Malcolm: "Ok, Ma'm. 'Rahul Gandhi takes time out to play a cricket match'."
Ma'm: "Good. Who can tell me who Rahul Gandhi is?"
Tot: "A right handed batsman who wears specs? Like Rahul Dravid."
Ma'm: "No, he is no cricketer. He is Member of the Parliament."
Naughty Tot: "But he plays cricket, no Ma'm? Look he is wearing the cricket uniform."
Ma'm: "Just an off day for him."
Naughty Tot (to Malcolm): "The article is in sports section. I bet my bubble gum that Ma'm is wrong."
Tot (excitedly): "I know... he is Mahatma Gandhi's grandson, Ma'm?"
Ma'm: "That's not correct. He is Indira Gandhi's grandson."
Naughty Tot: "But History Ma'm told us that Pandit Nehru was Indira Gandhi's father."
Ma'm: "Yes, that's correct, but... "
Silent Tot: "How does the surname change? And why is it Sir name? Indira Gandhi was a lady, no Ma'm?"
Ma’m (dabbing forehead with a tissue): “Class, quiet! I think this is enough for today.”
Tot: “Ma’m, I will summarize!”
Ma’m (tiredly): “Huh?”

On reaching home, an expectant parent asked his child what he learnt in school today-
Naughty Tot: “Oh Daddy, today we read newspaper. Coi… Coimto… Coimbatore judgement of 1998 was given today. But it is only to tell them that they will have to be in prison and write sentences. I guess they had failed in using adverbs, like SJ. But Ma’m says our results will not be postponed. The nuclear deal has nothing clean about it. It is not even as much fun as Counter Strike. You know, they put you in prison even if you go to temples. Having a poster also does not count. Harry Potter's sister met the President today. Though, in India she does not look like a witch. Finally, the sports news. Mahatma Gandhi's grandson wears specs and plays cricket on an off day.”
Daddy (perplexedly): “You learnt that today? Is that all?”
Naughty Tot: “There was more, but don’t know why Ma’m didn’t want us to read. She has given us 5 long comprehension tests. They are a little confusing. Can you help me finish it, Daddy?”