Another Day in Paradise | Rajeev Turlapati

From debutant to devotion: Virat's 18!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 03:58:00 +0000

Insignificant point. Significant master.

It took me 24 hours to read the best of writers and listen to the finest voices. It took me a while to challenge myself on why I once preferred the Kings to the Royal Challengers. But I’ve convinced myself—it comes down to one thing: legends don’t need reaffirmation.

Virat, the king, made a statement that shook the cricketing world—at a moment when, I’d wager, 99.9% of his fanbase was in sync with his tears—when he declared, “Test cricket is always five levels above everything else.” That, to me, says it all. Absolutely says it all. It’s a reminder that skills, unless tested at the highest level, don’t amount to experience.

@thegradecricketer9633, perhaps the most fitting tribute so far, captured the essence of Virat—the man behind the numbers. Rightly so. To think it took 18 years to clinch a premier title—from youthful ambition to the cusp of retirement—when every single plank of the ship changed, except his, and yet he steered it through storms to finally discover an island of dreams.

I wrote about this man back in the day, and I’ve continued to celebrate his “Class!” with the same awe across a decade on Twitter.

400+ runs in 10 different IPL seasons. For ONE team!

That’s not just a stat—it’s a testament to indomitable skill, a reflection of relentless drive, and a lifelong commitment to excellence.

Class!

I’m am closing my eyes and watching his cover drive—perhaps the finest sight in cricket since the man who wore #10.

Ted Lasso. You must be real.

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 26 Jul 2024 07:05:00 +0000

Sometimes, when life throws curveballs, we need a little something to lift our spirits. That something for me has been "Ted Lasso." It's more than just a TV show; it's a delightful escape and a reservoir of life lessons that help me get through tough thoughts, like times.

Ted Lasso, an American football coach who ends up managing AFC Richmond, a fictional English soccer team, brings some unexplainable positivity and heart to every episode. He's the epitome of perseverance and patience. Patience, actually. Watching Ted face the unknown with a smile and a "let's do this" attitude reminds me that even when I'm out of my depth, staying persistent can make all the difference.

Oh Ted! Your humility and nobility, and humor, is insane. How could you treat everyone with respect and kindness, no matter how they're treating you? (I picked my knife on Nate!) You have been a game-changer for me in my life. In a world where ego and competition can run high, your approach is a refreshing reminder to stay grounded and kind.

Anyway...Ted's resilience must inspire you. Despite facing a barrage of challenges, both personal and professional, he keeps moving forward with a positive outlook. He plays the game. "Win or lose, doesn't matter. Bow wow!" It's a powerful lesson in not letting setbacks define us. And then there's the way he builds relationships with his team, turning a group of individuals into a family. The power of friendship and unity!

Even when people are throwing "wankers" at him or using him for their own gains, Ted doesn't let it change who he is. Kindness isn't just a trait; it's a strength, no?

The characters in Ted Lasso are wonderfully complex. Rebecca's transformation from an antagonist to a supportive ally, Nate's journey through guilt and redemption, and the camaraderie among the football players all add layers to the show. While I do have a bit of a gripe with Roy's lack of composure or the obnoxious weight of his shoulders, it serves as a reminder that everyone has their flaws and that growth is an ongoing process.

The filmmaking and screenplay of "Ted Lasso" draw me into finding parallels with other great TV shows. The creators, Jason "Ted" Sudeikis, Bill Lawrence, Joe Kelly, and Brendan Hunt, have crafted a world that feels heartwarming (not so authentic, but I will leave that debate to myself). The use of Richmond as the backdrop adds to the charm, and the seamless blend of humor and drama instantly lightens my burden. The writing is sharp, and the character development is superb, making each episode a joy to watch.

I have to love "Ted Lasso," it is now my go-to for positivity and wisdom.

I am still mad about how Ted ended up in London from Wichita. He should have landed in real.

Off color

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Thu, 11 Jun 2020 15:51:00 +0000

She said he said

She slumped into the large wing chair in the corner of their lightless living room. She slapped herself lightly as if to wake herself up from the feeling that was drowning every bit of her mood. She was reluctant to put herself to sleep. She wanted to do nothing.

The lofty wing chair was indeed too large for her five-foot frame. “I fell in love with that you know,” he said, from the other end of the room. He was typing away nimbly on his dying laptop.

“Baru asked me yesterday what you meant to me,” he went on. “I told him about how that tiny beautiful woman, who never cared about…” He paused and shifted his fingers to the edge of his keyboard. “....her dusky looks, had the courage to dream big.”

She broke into a frown and closed her eyes, only to open them again and stare at the blank ceiling. “I met him this morning,” she said as tears rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, does he rue those days?” The light went off and plunged them into total darkness. “What chance did he stand against kismet?”

“You there?”

A musical note

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 11 Oct 2019 12:06:00 +0000

Love beyond the life

It was trapped in a long and narrow crack in the rock, flirting with the gentle wind. He bent down to tie his shoelace that untied itself in a tiring loop. He secured it this time; then raised his hand to flex some muscle. It went unnoticed, that pearl-white sheet of paper, still playing the flirt. He barely noticed it, a habit lost on that fateful night.

He took a step forward and plugged the dangling earphone bud into his ear. He continued until he heard a faint whistle from behind him, surprised. “Could be the lush green trees whistling into the soothing blue sky,” he thought, convincingly. He tapped on Ella Fitzgerald's beautiful picture — she looking into the sky, as if to jazz his mood instantly — on his glossy phone screen and whistled away to silence the nature around him. A few hums later, he realized he left his bag behind and turned around to pick it up. The rustle continued, this time louder, as the trees swayed from side to side as if to seek revenge against the wind. The blue turned grey, hastily, as a cloudburst loomed.

He walked himself towards the door. His other hand hurt as it numbed in his arm sling, pouched in seething pain. It was only about a while ago that his fingers moved to help him do his chores. Although his lonely life taught him that nothing could fracture his grit. A ghastly mishap that night, weeks ago, almost killed his will, to live and play, to love and laugh.

He pulled a key from his pouch. “Neat, this fracture has given me some safe pockets!” He shouldered his bag and locked his door, the key sliding in again, deep and safely close to his shoulder. As he stepped out, he tripped on his Trumpet and fell, thanks to his lace that went loose.

Then. It was then the sheet of paper tickled his nose. He could not let it out of his ignorant sight. He pulled it from the crack and out it came in one piece.

“I thought I lost you on that fateful night. I knew nothing could save me. I so wanted you to live… to live and play, to love and laugh. If you ever get to read this, then I’d be the happiest one among all the fallen around me. I hope you get well soon and continue to live your passion. And please know that I will always love you…for letting me drive your car that you purchased with your hard-earned money. Forgive me, my love. Play on, please."

End note

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Mon, 01 May 2017 05:43:00 +0000

400 days of her

He was on page #399. He had to compose a few more words to put an end to his story. His story. #400, it’d end on.

Then, he picked up a note; to cross his heart one final time.

When I began to write, I was excited. I would, for the first time to myself, get to closure. I resisted this narrative. But I was so torn from inside that nothing could fix me. Except this.

It began like a dream. I pinched myself to see it real. There were smiles and laughs and love and hope. Nothing changed.

One day, she walked out. I was oblivious to her world. I failed. To keep up with love.

I waited for her to come back.

I waited for days; a little more than thirteen months.

On the 400th day, I gave up.

It ended there.

Light up!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Thu, 17 Nov 2016 14:31:00 +0000

In light, there's hope

"The mere sight is magnificent. It burns, but it stands for hope. Fire for desire!" he said, looking at the shining candle. "That is indeed something. What's your desire?" his friend Chloe asked. "To let the hope live," he replied.

The two friends were standing on the deck of his majestic new home, overlooking a lonely hut, lost in the faded browns and dulled blacks of the woods. "Why did you call me here?" Chloe asked him. "I wanted to tell you about that little boy who lights the lamp at his doorstep, every single day," he said. "That boy who bicycles miles to deliver my newspaper?" Chloe asked him, her left index finger pointed in the direction of the light. "Precisely, yes."

He began, "The little boy often knocked at my door in the morning, back when I lived a few miles down the road, and smiled at me. That boyish charm! I didn't want to ask him why he did that every day."

"Then?"

"Months and years passed. He never changed. And those mornings when I didn't answer the door, he stuck the newspaper in the window sill."

"Interesting."

"Again, I never asked him why. His smile just filled me with hope. I feared that if I talked to him, he'd never come by again."

"You never talked or wanted to talk to him while you paid him his fee?" Chloe asked, amused.

"Never. He smiled then, too. He took whatever I gave him. The one time I overpaid, he paid it back with the delivery the next morning."

"This continues till day? Wait...you moved here for him?" Chloe was lost, albeit hopefully.

"I have nothing in this world ever since I lost my wife. I live in her memory, I live with her memory, with the hope that some day she would come back to me."

He took a deep breath and resumed.

"A couple of days ago, when this house got listed 'For Sale,' I grabbed it. She always wanted to live away from the chaos of the city, amidst nature and peace."

He continued..."I noticed that he lights this lamp at his doorstep every day. For the first time ever, I wanted to know why. I looked around, found nobody. But I noticed a little drawing on the ground where he stands his candle. It is of a woman and man, with smiles on their faces. Stick figures," he said and fell silent. He recovered from his gasp and continued, "And that was it. It struck me. When he first delivered the newspaper to me, I was doing a painting of my wife and me holding hands, standing in the smiling-shining Sun, with a little note at the bottom, 'I miss you.'"

The two let the coolness in the breeze fly past the emotion and the warmth fill their hearts.

"That still doesn't explain..." He cut Chloe short as she began to ask.

"Explain why he lights the candle? Maybe the drawing reminds him of...his parents...and maybe he misses them, too," he explained.

The two looked back at the brightly beaming light and breathed a moment of calm.

"Who raised him, though?" Chloe asked.

"Hope, I guess." he said.

Plagued

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Mon, 22 Aug 2016 16:52:00 +0000

Fool's empty

Day 732. No response. His wait got longer and lonelier. He wished that each morning's sunshine would end his rotting hope. He would zap the edge of his bed with dulled fingers and whine his agony to nobody's concern. "Solitary confinement would be a paradise," he would remind himself.

Day 0. He tucked in his shirt and tied a perfect bow tie. He sprayed the finest perfume his wife got him on their honeymoon in Maldives. "Strong and staggering," he remarked. "Honey, are you ready yet?" he called out to his beautiful wife in the other room. When he heard no sound after a second call, he panicked. He paced to her room and found her with a book in her hand. "Baby, are you alright?" he asked.

She inhaled deeply and didn't move an emotion. He plucked her palm from the pages of the book while he felt a white flush off his own face. She remained silent and stared her moist eyes into the blurred page. His heart pumped little and he knew it was time.

She let his hand off and closed her eyes. He walked out of the room and looked outside his window. She got up and scuffed out. She roved around until she found her next fitting step.

Many days before Day 0. Maldives. They held hands and walked on the beach. "Remember the time I rocketed a letter to you in language class?" He blushed. She began, "That was the first time you said:

Hours, minutes, and seconds.They come and go.When life with you beckons, Time would come to owe.

"I knew life's choice would be you," she ended with a blooming smile. "You expressed it like any feeling couldn't. The power of those 18 words would last forever." He treasured the moment and wished that they be lost in the hopeful brace of life.

A few days before Day 0. While she was away at work, he began to write...

It wasn't until the day when I expressed my love for her; on a piece of paper that was meant for her to read and comprehend my state of mind. I loved her deeply and imagined life's greatest pleasures as mine. Mine alone. She would be around me, love me, talk to me, listen to me, play with me, and love me more. When we're company, there's no three. A beautiful story is written with a busy mind, not a pen. A melody is sung with a fervid voice, not a tune. Love's between two souls, not any other. Life with her would be just us. There's room for none. If there's one, that would be silenced, for a hedge between us deserves to be muted. For good. My life is her.

Day 733. Solitary confinement. He stared into the sunshine and blinked at his fate.

Black and Green

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 12 Aug 2016 12:44:00 +0000

Rae of hope

From the diary of Rae who is still looking for funding for her new business.

August 12, 2019. The city I love.
10 a.m.

It was no ordinary journey. During those 12 hours spent in the company of my rich father and helpless mother, I asked myself, “If I do make a filthy amount of money ever, would I ever think about how to spend it for my family?” I saw my mom, seated to my right, looking outside the window, staring hopelessly at the trees being dried to dust by the fiery Sun. My father, in the passenger seat, was staring intently at his watch, perhaps counting the money he would make on his next big business deal. “Time is money,” I told myself, with an intent to mock my fate.

But there was this young man driving us to our next destination. We’ve lived in this city for as far as my memory can remember. I was born here, raised here, and was sent to probably the best school in the country. But that matters to none, for where I am now depends on the state of my mind, my ability, and my will to face the ruthless market. Our next destination, thanks to my father’s businesses, is where I hope to find my first buck.

I didn’t know this man’s name; my father did. I eavesdropped on him last night while he was on the phone, asking his network of businessmen for an affordable driver. “No, I only want him to drive me till there. One way only. I can buy him a train ticket back here,” he told his partner on the other side. “I would never imagine my father having friends. They perhaps are like ‘a businessman in need is profit indeed’,” I laughed to myself.

And then we got into my father’s car. I managed to smile at the young man. “Is he the driver?” I asked myself. My father ordered my mom to take the rear seat and nap until we've arrived. “Ten or eleven hours. And then you can be on your own,” he said to me before he turned around to the man and said, “OK. You’ll be paid at the end of the journey.” The man smiled and acknowledged, “Sure, sir.”

I couldn’t stop staring at him. Not that I was enchanted by his personality. He was an enigma that I fail to understand. He was dressed in a black tee and a pair of army-green jeans. He had a lean, pale face and wore dark green glasses. He was tall and slim, and had a goatee that didn’t complement his frame. His hair grayed and had various shades of the stress he’d probably been through.

He had a smartphone in his left hand and his right gripped the wheel firm enough to maneuver the car. He didn’t nod an inch and looked straight onto the road that took us on our silent journey.

Somewhere between the two cities.
3 p.m.

“I think I need food,” my father said. He ordered the man to pull over and park the car at a safe place until we came back. I barely touched my mom to wake her up before she helped herself out of the car. “Why don’t you eat something?” she asked. “I’m not hungry,” I told her with a smile. I stayed back in the car and watched the man unlock his phone. “Yes, honey. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” he said.
“May I ask you something?” I tried to strike a conversation. “Sure,” he replied.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked.
“I work,” he smiled and said.
“Work where and do what…if you could let me know…”
“Oh, I work as a manager for a small company.”
“Oh, that’s great. So you must love driving.”
“Yes, I do.” He turned his head away with a faint smile.

Confused and curious.
3:05 p.m.

Take the plunge.
3:10 p.m.

“How much is my father paying you for this trip?” I asked him. I had to know. For a man who looked that composed and sophisticated, I wanted to know. And learn about him.
“Three thousand,” he smiled and said.
His moist-eyed expression poured high emotion; that enigma clearing itself from the cloud of sentiment.
“Are you in need of money,” I asked.
“A little, yes.” He kept his face away while I tried to decipher what that expression reflecting in the rear-view mirror meant.
“I live from paycheck to paycheck and save next-to-nothing,” he said. “And I love driving. I heard of this trip from an uncle and grabbed at it instantly.”
I fell silent and asked myself, “Is 3,000 enough money for a driver who drives for more than 500 kilometres and who is only doing this for some additional money?”
“Nope. Give him more. A lot more,” answered my conscience.

Determined.
3:14 p.m.

“Do you mind sharing your bank account number with me? You see, I would pay for this trip,” I asked the man.
“Oh BTW, I am so so sorry, I never asked your name,” I continued.
“Ray with a ‘y,’ mam,” he replied.
“So you do know my name?” I asked.
“Yes, I heard about your new business from my uncle,” he said.
“I’m famous already?” I laughed it off.
“But mam, your father said he would pay at the end of this trip.”
“He just texted me that he doesn’t have enough cash in his pocket, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, sure.”
He passed on his details and I fished my phone out to transfer his fee. “You should be receiving the money in some time.”
My father and mom came back after their meal and we resumed our journey.

The city I barely know.
9 p.m.

“Here’s the money,” said my father, pulling some money from his wallet.
“But I’ve been paid for it already, sir,” Ray said.
“You did? That’s great!” replied my father. He then ordered Ray to help him with his bags.
“Hey, that’s OK. They aren’t heavy,” I told him.
“You may leave now,” said my father to Ray.
I smiled at Ray and waved him goodbye.

August 14, 2019.
5 a.m.

I woke up to the message — “Hello mam. My fee for the service was 3,000 only. I received 10,000. Could you please let me know how I can send this money back to you?”
“Ten thousand is nothing. You’ve driven us to this new place safely and you have to go back to your family as well,” I replied.
“You need it more than I do, mam. I insist,” he replied again.

August 21, 2019.
11 a.m.

I received a text from my bank that an amount of 10,000 was credited in my account. I knew from where!

The need we are in.
Today.

As I think of Ray who instantly refused to take the money my father offered, who never asked if I had indeed transferred the 3,000, who offered to return the rest of it for my benefit, and who indeed returned the 10,000, I can’t help but think about the needs we have in our lives. And to think of it, my father to this day never asked my why I’d paid Ray beforehand nor how.
Here I am with an amount of 10,000 in my bank which belongs to Ray for his exceptional service and kindness. I guess…this is my first funding.

I owe him.

Slurred sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 06 Jul 2016 07:46:00 +0000

The 33rd day of the month

Thirty and thirty-one have been the norm since forever. Twenty-eight, just once a year. Twenty-nine, take a break, you are just a guest. The monotony of this rhythm is such that I tend to forget what's after 31. "Oh, it's 32, OK." And this happens when the calendar flips over to '1.'

"Double you tee eff aree you tryin to tell?" asked Rob, in a tone that highlighted his labor at learning proper English. He shook Ron violently who was fast asleep. Ron didn't have to count any sheep; he was exhausted of late and been as lazy as the sloth he spotted during his recent trip to South America. For work. "Work? South America? What you have office in that country?" pondered Rob.

Ron didn't seem to move an inch. Rob stuffed a whiskey-soaked cloth in his mouth as Ron continued to flounder his dialogue.

I have been working for more hours than a human can ever manage. It's like borrowing a few hours from the next day to this day. And then more from the day after to tomorrow. It's an endless cycle until the eye stops blinking. "My eyes aren't blinking now." He tee-heed, the cloth holding still. Heart stops beating, I must say. But it's a thing now. If cycling or walking for kilometers was work from that generation, typing tens of thousands of words a day is perhaps worker. You know what I mean? Like comparative? Like work-worker-workest? OK.

"Workest? Workest is bad. Fatigue. Stress can murder. Scary I feel." Rob felt a trap in Ron's speech in slumber. He bit his tongue while cracking on a KrackJack. He wet his tongue with the whiskey in front of him. He added two cubes of ice. He licked one before he spluttered them both into his glass.

People around are not so kind. Sometimes. How would they know what's racing in the mind and beating in the heart? Would the moist eye be seen as a tear? Silence is not shy, always, you know. There are ten thousand thoughts thundering together. The concoction continues to cripple sanity. I don't seem to distinguish solitude from socialness. When one's on top, the other wants to take over. I am tired. Drained.

"You drank much. Not good. Seem to saying many words instead of typing. You are upset?"

I fear that if a month goes by, the other's as worse. Days after days, it's a worn out tape.

"What's problem, Ron? I sure not it's not worker but something more. Girl? Money? I happy to help. Tell." Rob poured more whiskey. This time he got four cubes of ice.

Ron fell silent. The cloth still stuffed in his mouth. He coughed up. Briefly opened his eyes and sucked phlegm back into his nostrils. He went back to sleep. Almost like a reflex.

Ron kept silent.

"I wait to you be up. From sleep. And the sadness. I there, my friend." Rob muttered. He meant it. As a guy who's been through some turbulence himself, he knew the troubles would soon be over.

I miss her. When I miss her, I dearly miss her. That's when one in the thousand words begins to make sense. Love. Months and days feel nothing, then. Ron fell silent again.

"Understand. You miss her, my friend. Happy that whiskey worked. Stress is nothing when love knocks." Rob realized that he emptied the bottle of the finest Macallan Ron got for him. His heart sank.

Ron fell asleep. For real. Rob chugged the rest of his glass.

"Hey but 28 and 29 come all month, no?" Rob said glugging the last drop of his drink.

Belch!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sat, 07 Nov 2015 17:42:00 +0000

The Belchers

Meet the 'Belchers'! Funny they are called so. But I love them!

Bob's Burgers gives you some laughs and can...err...pleasantly annoy you. The Belchers make & sell burgers for a living. You'll hate the kids and you can giggle at their antics. The best part of the show, however, is Jon Benjamin's voice!

Let's hope we taste these someday. And definitely not belch.

This drawing didn't take long, and it was an easy sketch. Bob was the easiest. Tina was the toughest, surprisingly!

Do give this show a watch. Stressbuster.

Thus, this!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 14 Oct 2015 05:12:00 +0000

Knock my block off

It is the time when the deep-rooted frustration wrings those brain cells – to act ‘sooner,’ before the very same brain triggers the palm to strangle the neck. The feeling’s sudden and often growing each day; to crawl to every breathing part of the body until this little act comes along.

I do not recollect when my last post came through. The post on the blog — that claims to be a paradise — has been lurking around the corner for a painfully long time; the corner of the mind, I mean to say, and is indeed far away from its intended cozy home – the internet. Or, in other words, an ABC product. Oh, ‘cozy’ did I say? How deceived and gullible could the post be for a title I’d given a decade ago!

Nevertheless, I tapped the ends of my fingers to discharge any dust that’d come in the way of my writing. But, to my much feared agony, I hit a block. No sooner had I started counting time up on my therapeutic act than the demonic-eyed hurdles came calling.

I took my palms and arms off the white-top table, only to realize that I’d painted it black with sweat while battling my block. I pulled my chair back and closed my eyes for soliloquy.

Write…mmm…how about ‘grammar in speech’? That’s a good start.

No. I’m writing. Hunting for fun and fact. Liberation.

Hear me. Technology and truce. Conspiracy and crime. Hypocrisy and health. Fraud and finance. Love and Hate?

Out of boundaries. Zilch.

My thoughts crawled further up my brain. They sat up high enough for a fair view of the world. I shot their ideas down. They resumed, again.

Creativity. Narrate a photograph. Colors and hues. Stare for a story.

Go on.

A picture speaks a thousand words. Your words are yours. Read like no other. Tell a story.

I don’t have a picture.

OK! Close your eyes.

They are...closed.

Now, knock us off your head. Open your eyes. Open up.

I stood up. My eyes were closed still. I counted to zero to blink them open.

I don’t remember if there was ever a window behind my table. I drew the curtains and looked out – for a beautiful morning, the air filled with the fragrance of chaotic life.

Thoughts seemed to have silenced themselves.

My post seemed to have taken an amoebic shape already. The clutches within felt loosened. I tapped my fingers.

Tick…tick…

And thus, this!

This is Priceless!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 19 Dec 2014 17:05:00 +0000

Gifted with love...

I was living in a cocoon of uncertainty until recently when life seemed easy as pie, thanks largely to my family and friends who infused comforting sentiments into my otherwise irrational thinking. I held my ground, firm, with an elevated sense of understanding of the events unfolding before me. To be honest, I paid little attention to the virtues and mantras of marriage and relished the presence of my people. Even when the fast ticking time, draped in loneliness, knocked on my mind, the thought of my family, more so the woman walking into my life, shooed it away letting my stable-self be.

Of the many overwhelming phases of the last few days, beyond the wish-filled presents and tributes, one particular thing keyed up my emotions. My brother walked into my room, a day before my wedding, holding something that looked like an enormous poster. “What is this?” I asked. I felt like a clueless nine-year-old asking his brother, whom he looks up to, a question that had a straightforward answer. “Look at it. Closely,” he said.

There was a large white canvas board dotted with cut-outs. Memories, rather. This is what it looked like. I must explain the contents of this image that was captured by my hands that shook of excitement and anxiety.

I could write to an infinite word count about each of these. But if you look at some of the striking pastes, you’d notice my craze for The X-Files, Agatha Christie, Family Guy, South Park, Tintin, Harsha Bhogle, Sachin Tendulkar, Adam Gilchrist, DDLJ, Friends, SanFrancisco, Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, Riven, Red Wine and so on. Now, each of these are not only my favorites but also a ‘first’ in my life. The Pigeon Point Lighthouse or the Lynmar Estate winery, for example. Those were some of the first places I went to on my first trip to San Francisco. That was some memory, I tell you!

There are also a few memorable yet embarrassing likes – a vial of Zinda Tilismath, a photo of the baby me holding (or ripping off) a doll’s head. Bang in the center is an audio tape – which I presume is blank. My fondest memory of tape was recording songs on radio and albums borrowed during my teenage years.

To cut it short, this is perhaps the best gift I’ve ever gotten! It was probably tailored — to perfection — by the greatest treasure I have: my brother and sister; with unconditional love.

It took me some time to soak in all of it.

But, knowing my ‘over-thinking’ personality, I was left with a challenge. “I’ve arranged these in an order that must make sense to you,” my brother said. He probably loved the way I cracked some tough puzzles in Riven – a game both of us played ignoring the demands of schools and assignments back then.

Anyway, a Thank You isn’t enough. I’ll live with these memories as long as time lasts.

Now, I’m off to look at it closely to crack the code.

Hmmm … pictures speak a thousand words! What are you saying, memory in a photo?

When the lump gets cleared

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Thu, 06 Mar 2014 12:30:00 +0000

Plagued by this

Ron woke up to a lump in his throat. “Oh boy! What a night! What a dream! Would I have a bad day?” He frowned. He hesitated to rub his eyes and see the morning light. He got off his bed and dragged his body to the bathroom. He looked himself in the mirror and saw blurred flashes of the day he would live.

“I am coming over. I have to talk. Are you back from your nighter?” he asked Rob. “Yes. Come. I no sleep. Bad time. No problem, you come. We talk,” Rob said.

Rob has been one of Ron’s closest pals. They hailed from the same town but grew up in different cities until 25 years later when they happened to bag jobs in the same city. Rob has had relationship troubles and spent time mulling over what went wrong. “Nothing. I perfect. Girl nice but don’t know,” he always told himself.

Ron knocked on Rob’s door. “Come in,” Rob said.

“Isn’t it funny, Rob? This was the exact same place where I tripped over and fell off my bicycle and crashed into your door the last time I was here. “

“Looks like that hurts still?”

“Yes. That’s why I got a Vespa,” Ron said with a straight face.

“Not understand. Anyway, what’s up?”

Ron walked into the kitchen and made a cup of tea for himself. “Black’s better.” He explained to Rob why tea without milk is perfect to face a longish day especially when anxiety preempts well-made plans.

“I not understand. Anyway what’s up?” Rob asked again.

“I woke up with a lump in my throat,” began Ron.

“Oh, need medical attention?” Rob asked.

“You really don’t understand, do you? It means I’m bothered by something.”

“What’s problem?”

“I don’t know!” Ron was troubled , again, by Rob’s simple ask. He fell silent and continued to trouble himself. Rob continued to have his tea with skimmed milk.

“I leave you alone.” Rob walked into his bedroom and began searching for his favorite book The Plague by Albert Camus.

“It is here.” Ron came in later with the book in his hand. He didn’t mind showing his moist-eyed face to Rob. “I picked it up from her.”

“I gave her?”

“Yes.” Ron said. “’I know that man is capable of great deeds. But if he isn't capable of great emotion, well, he leaves me cold.’”

"'For who would dare to assert that eternal happiness can compensate for a single moment's human suffering.'" They exchanged quotes. “Great book, no?” Rob said. Ron agreed.

“But you two talk?” Rob was desperate to know about Ron’s equation with her.

“No. Just yesterday she asked me to hand this over to you. I didn’t talk to her about you.”

“Why?” Rob was mad at Ron. “I miserable. She must know.”

“Rob! When you have no clue why you two aren’t together, she doesn’t have to know.”

“Exactly no. I mean no reason, that is why I sick feeling like this.”

Ron’s phone buzzed. He checked his phone. He stepped out of Rob’s bedroom and came back in after exactly one minute.

“I lost my job,” Ron told Rob.

“Oh my god! You OK? Why?”

“I finally cleared my throat,” smiled Ron.

“I not understand.” Rob was confused.

Ron began. “I’ve had a few altercations with a few colleagues at work. I tried thrusting my beliefs and ethics on to those who didn’t believe they existed.

“And every time I tried hard to make them believe, I was convinced that I was being morally right and that they were in the wrong place, doing those wrong things that will eventually ruin their own lives.” Ron poured himself a glass of water. “I preached. To an extent that I worked less and invested time in teaching this set of unfits a lesson.”

“Sorry, Ron. I not understand. You preached what like?” Rob asked.

“I fell in love with a colleague. I never talked to her. Never went close to her. But there’s a set of people, her friends, who take advantage of friendship and make moves, you know what I mean? And they are my friends, too!”

“I get it. But what we got investing emotion in telling them a lesson? What prompts this? Your feeling for the girl alone or strong belief in ethics?”

“It’s both. I wanted her … wanted to strike something with her … but I didn't want them to create a situation where the inevitable is only embarrassment for them. And what’s wrong with both my feeling and the urge to prove someone wrong when what they practice is actually wrong?”

“Wrong according to you, not them, no? And this situation wrong enough for office people to fire you, not them!” Rob said. Ron fell silent again.

The next day, Ron woke up, troubled, again. He telephoned Rob, “When I met her to take your book, I didn't want to tell her about you because she looked sad, too. I can’t say for what, but she was.”

“Thank you. What you do for the office colleague? Need number of her?” Rob asked Ron.

Miles to go

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 01 Nov 2013 17:42:00 +0000

Off to...

It was a long stretch. I drove and was desperate to see the road come to a halt…a dead halt. I was tired to my last drop of sweat.

This is an endless wait for that place that is supposed to be a paradise for the hopeless! What is this place and why would it be so far away in fantasy, as far as the farthest star?

The light of the day dimmed and I drove further into the falling moonlight. I was unsure of the minutes I had to count before I entered the gates of the magical world. Dry wind dried my hair that was wet with sweat and the agonizing wait.

What if I hadn’t agreed to this? Would the love for me diminish? Is this a test of my strength?

I was hit by the deafening silence of the night. My ear befriended the whoosh of the wind, and nothing around me mattered to the mind that was engrossed in an exchange of thoughts and feared silence as an answer for the lingering questions. I was being driven to the dumbness of the life around me.

What if we drove back into the warmth of the sun? The night could just get colder with no end in sight.

I gave up. My foot maxed the gas pedal and my eyes flung to close. I risked ending the quest, although the start of the pine forest and labyrinthine road kicked my spirit and the journey into new life.

The shadow of this tree could just be the place where rest could mean something. Shall we? Could you talk now? Am I halfway there? At least…?

No. That was the first time she spoke in more time than I could imagine. I eventually resorted to keeping my hope of fulfilling her dream alive. I relaxed my tired feet and asked for some rest. I held myself to hear her speak. She didn’t.

I succumbed to the crack of my muscle.

This isn’t the end.

I woke up to her voice. It was a whimper that fueled my concern.

This isn’t how I would like to see my dream. I could be on this drive, be by your side, and be surprised as we go along. Would you be up for it?

I am up for it. But what is that dream if it is only a never-ending chase? My voice trembled with fear. But that was the closest I could get to conviction.

What is quest if it is not without hope and the confidence of the company that could make it happen? I sensed the promise she could have made to herself. It was implicit in her deceptively pleading voice.

This place is the farthest in fantasy, yes. That is where all hopes see light, and to that, I’d like the company of your belief. This isn’t any test of your strength. This is merely the path to strengthen my belief that dreams can be realized. Even if it means seeing a million cycles of the Sun and the Moon.

She meant it. And I had to keep myself going, with questions unasked.

Perhaps it is her faith that lets her wait to see what she would want to. Perhaps it is the confidence in me that instilled that unshakeable faith in her. Perhaps I could be part of it and experience what a dream would be in the real world.

I picked myself up. Off to our next mile.

Imagining reality

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sun, 12 May 2013 12:44:00 +0000

Chai at A bar

Rob made chai for himself, placed it on the handle of his chair, and sat with his laptop on his lap. He typed away frantically. His sweaty palms slid along the black surface of his brand new Lenovo. He sweat profusely. His typing came to an abrupt halt. He burst into tears. He tried to blind his sight to a few photographs on his screen, which slowly surrendered to his copious tears. He sat upright, breathed heavily, and slapped himself hard. He picked up his phone to call his best friend. “Yaar, you come. I wait at Angel’s street,” he requested. “Angel, my foot!” he banged the phone down on his chair and cracked his Catwoman phone case. His chai cup fell off the handle.

In a show of renewed spirit, he unlocked the doors of his swanky new yellow Volkswagen Beetle. His phone rang again. “Where do you want me to come? Where on Angel’s street?” Ron asked. “I saw place called A bar yesterday. New place, I think. You come. I wait. New place good for topic I will tell,” he replied.

He reached the place early. When he got down, he noticed that one of the car’s headlamps failed. He kicked to blow the other one too. He smiled. “Same now! All girls same,” he told himself. He walked up to a paan shop and bought a Marlboro. He lit it and fished his phone out of his heavy pocket. Along came chocolate wrappers of ChocOn and The Dark Knight Rises ticket stubs. He put them on fire and checked his watch. It was 0000 hours.

Ron arrived on his yellow Vespa. “Such a beautiful drive, this!” he said while locking it. “OK, so...what’s wrong?” he asked Rob. “Dude! You look totally spent. Are you alright?” Rob hugged Ron and said, “I end it...OK... I tell full happened story.”

They walked in together into a place that seemed old and deserted. There were four bean bag chairs around a short table and there were just four such tables spread across the huge hall. The walls were painted black. The paintings were hanging loose. There wasn’t anyone at the counter. “Weird. I think I know this place,” Ron told himself. A man in black arrived at the table, “Anything for you misters?” he asked. “Yes...” “No. Wait. You drink means you no listen to what happened. I too drink after,” Rob interrupted Ron and requested the waiter to give them some time. The waiter obliged,”I’ll be inside. Asleep probably. With my earphones listening to Sinatra. I’ll be happy to be disturbed to help you guys.” Ron asked, “Let me have a drink. Never mind. Go on. Your story.” Rob began.

“Like you know, I engaged last month. I happy and confident like that Joker in the movie. Yesterday itself both saw movie. She got lot calls in between movie. I felt disturbed with people looking me not her while she talking in phone. I suspected fishy.”

Ron broke his narration, “OK, let me guess. She was talking to some guy and tried her best not to let you know. So, you checked her Facebook account and realized that she’s having another affair. Is that it?”

“Yes. But not full story. Hear me,” Rob replied.

“Go on.”

“So...movie over and I dropped at her friend place. She requested me like that. She had worrisome face. I got enraged and upset. She did not bye me.” He paused. “I want drink now. I call waiter.”

“Wait. And?”

Rob walked into the waiter’s room beside the kitchen and woke him up. He was curious to know who Sinatra was. He got one of the earphone buds and listened to ‘Strangers in the night.’ The man in black rubbed his eyes and said, “May I help you?”

“Nice tune. Stranger night. Can I get one glass Rum?”

“Sorry, mister. We don’t serve alcohol.”

“Why? What? I sad please please,” Rob pleaded the waiter.

“I’m afraid I cannot get you alcohol, mister. I don’t serve it here.”

Rob shed more tears. Ron walked in, looked at the waiter and said, “Vince. Vince? Vince, is that you? Oh, good lord! I knew I knew you. What is this place? Familiar but...have I come here before? What are you doing here? Isn't your restaurant down on Paradise road?”

“Do I know you?” Vince asked.

“Yes, you do. I was a frequent visitor to your restaurant Ambar. OK...mmm... French toast, my favorite food?” Ron tried to stir up Vince’s memory.

“Yeah. Right! Man...Phew! Am I old already?

“Yeah. I sold that property. Rough weather. Prices in the area have gone up. Couldn't break even. Not a paradise anymore. So, I very recently got this. Fair deal. Got some plans to turn it around, decorate this place and restart all over. I plan to call this Chai at Ambar,” Vince explained.

Rob butt in, ”You know both?” He wiped off his tears and lit another stick. “Vince, never mind. I take Ron for personal work.”

“Sure. Can I get something for both of you?”

“OK. I want grab some buds," Rob asked.

“You know what...Never mind, Vince. Can you get us some chai?” Ron asked Vince.

“Ron, chai at a bar? I want kick off worry with Rum.”

Ron and Vince smiled.

After a heavy round of convincing, Ron got Rob to have a cup of chai and promised him a glass of Whiskey at his place. The three of them had masala chai together. Rob lay quiet and tried to clear the cracks of the case off his phone. Rob and Ron left Vince for some Whiskey at Ron’s.

Rob gulped his whiskey and resumed his tale of sorrow, “I went home and opened laptop. I saw Facebook and sure that she not fair to me.” He had several more rounds and fell asleep. Ron, though worried, was confident that there was nothing fatally wrong between the two. He logged into twitter and checked his timeline:

@F1winner Raikonnen gets pole. Catch the action live tomorrow.

@duderoy Massively drunk. Joker rules! Screw Batman.

@desiladka Winked at a woman today! \m/

@memaya Home finally! Two close friends split up. What's this world come to?! On the flip side, spent an amazing evening with @robme. Thanks, honey!

Ron smiled to himself and made himself a drink. He typed an e-mail to Rob:

Rob, you piece of sh!t. You know they say ‘Sh!t happens’.’ Exactly. You got yourself into a huge misunderstanding. Maya just tweeted that she got home and her close friends broke up. She probably got a few calls from them while you were at the movies. She even tagged your crazy handle mentioning that she spent a great evening with you. You, retard!

When you see this e-mail tomorrow, go out and fix your damn phone and car. I have never e-mailed someone who’s right beside me, sleeping with his ass showing in my bed.

And the place is called ‘Chai at Ambar’ not ‘A bar’ as you said. Those letters just fell off! Probably.

Chai at Ambar!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 12:22:00 +0000

Asterix-Tintinix Comix

I was reading The Adventures of Tintin - Red Rackham’s Treasure this morning. I was thinking about about Hergé’s brilliance more than Tintin’s search for the treasure. I really wanted to draw the Belgian master reporter again and searched for Tintin, Haddock, and Calculus in one frame. When none satisfied my hunger for strokes, I dropped the idea, and surfed online for a good picture. While I searched a few, I thought, “Why Tintin alone? Let’s ‘innovate’.” So, I got Asterix and Tintin in one (page) frame.

It wasn't difficult to do this. I obviously replaced Captain Haddock with Asterix.

Take a look at one of my old Tintin Drawings.

P.S: Oops, I forgot to mention little Snowy. I put the white furry canine in the middle, beside his master. I should have got Dogmatix in this, for his company. Hmmm!

OK! I’m off to investigate why I am attracted to Belgian people. Here’s another Belgian genius I drew a long time ago.

Did you know Hergé's actual name is Georges Prosper Remi?

Au Revoir!

Misters of Cricket

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 13:12:00 +0000

Those Men. This Man. Their Management.

The next few paragraphs don’t just reflect agony or pain but refine my expression; my opinion about some Gods and their subjects.

When I tuned into the match between India and South Africa in the recently concluded — a conclusion for India — ICC World T20, I had my eyes on the Indian batting lineup and, in particular, Virat Kohli. I must say I didn't have my hopes high on the sluggers or the sluggish in the team. Minutes before the game, I spent a quiet moment with myself trying to raise the heat in my debate with my alter-ego. I strongly believe that the players who make the composition — for the paper and for the competitors — mighty and ruthless are, in clouded reality, deep inside a cocoon fighting their beleaguered and distraught spirit. My alter-ego, on the other hand, ridiculed my belief and expressed confidence like never before that the team is just like a fast ageing mouse. It crawls fast on young legs, but, all along its life, is surrounded by the fear of getting caught. I let the sound of the debate fade into questioning silence and waited with bated breath to get a glimpse of the young emerging Virat Kohli.

Virat walked in, like he always does, with unparalleled charisma. His determination and commitment was evident in the way he played his first shot through the covers. It didn’t have to result in a boundary but it had the mark of genius and characteristic brilliance that is often associated with his much older teammate. Weird, we wait for runs to be scored but we underestimate what stroke-play or defensive steadiness can present us! And I quote his commitment only because it carried the weight of truth and patriotism when he spoke to Rameez at the India-Pakistan post-match presentation.

I often have this discussion with my brother and my friends about how India is meeting its past — although it is making frequent visits to the unsatisfying times. My teenage days in the 90s remind me of how heavily dependent the country was on the legend and how we, despite occasional brilliances from the team, end up looking at the scoreboard to see x-runs-to-qualify-for-the-final. Latest praise and accolades poured over Virat’s improving brilliance suggest that we have a young legend who has the blood of a warrior and does not mind using his wrists and fingers — sometimes just one of them — to make a statement. And, most will agree, how he is today’s equivalent of those old days!

I vividly recall Sourav Ganguly’s opinion that this-pressure-is-bringing-the-best-in-him. True, if that means he has the stamina to carry a billion hopes along with his own. (Yes, even Nike’s #BleedBlue ad begins with Virat waking up to attend to the country’s hopes.) And he does possess the ability and magic that nobody else in the team has yet unleashed. He did talk about “carrying the burden” referring to Sachin whom he carried on his shoulders after last year’s World Cup victory against the lankans. The teary-eyed legend(s)’ comments stood out then and are slowly turning out to be true. His pain and disappointment after India’s loss to SA, like Harsha Bhogle said, is not something you can do for the camera.

While I write this in sincere admiration and subdued haste — for the fear of losing a budding genius — I constantly think about the group and the system the man is a part of.

With every passing day, my respect for MSD, the Indian captain, has only been growing. He, like nobody else, possesses the power of spitting truth in the face of cameras and counterparts and making bold moves that are sometimes termed “tricks” or “blind strokes” by people who have little knowledge of facing the heat of the post/sport. I will, however, admit that the captain panics and tries to play defensive or unconventional but he is a man aware of his responsibilities. I am sure he knows he is accountable for India’s poor form to the Indian people first and then to the management that manages him. The management, now, is a legend in itself!

I was reading a few articles and websites online that have called India’s failure to make it to the semis of World T20 a direct consequence of the cash-rich IPL and that that the team hasn't qualified even once since its inception. I am a huge fan of the tournament, of the format, of the players, and of the sport. But the bug is breeding in the system where the lords have their eyes set on future seasons of the premier league with miniscule attention given to the formats that breed players and grounds that build skill. Grounds aren’t just a platform to perform but a platform that also provides feedback for the players. If Ishant Sharma isn’t hitting the deck hard, the problem is not just in his ankle or his weak arm throwing the ball at a mere 130 kmph. Our pitches just aren’t good enough to make friends with live grass or the curator who complains of half-cut paychecks. Improvement begins with addressing the first mistake rather than taking a leap to show the world that boys in the country can travel the world and fight budding cricketers from New Zealand or Australia or USA. There is money that can be spent on giving the talent the atmosphere to perform. Most of the A-league players have seen enough of the world to travel places!

At the end of it all, I just wish to come to terms with all debates around the M’s. Or just shake hands with my alter-ego with whom I have had quite a tough time.

Rapping

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 13:56:00 +0000

First Fall

My shoe, caught between the cracks of the rocks, was turning into a raddled burden. My backpack got heavier with different colors of rocks I was always fascinated by. I sensed the danger in my hunch. My grip wobbled. My white shirt turned transparent from perspiration. Sweat trickled down my temple giving me an itch. I had to resist the urge to wipe my face with a shoulder-stroke. I wouldn’t want to make a fatal move. The weight would become a weightless fall, eventually.

I looked up in the sky. Huge dense clouds gathered to sound my thunderous fall. The forest beneath – with parched dry trees – was awaiting season’s first rain. A slip meant death from piercing!

I was already wet from the sweat and the slow dew. My grip on the slippery cleft was weakening. My shoe refused to come out. I was past the point of praying for help. I couldn’t ease the weight on my back for the rocks were meant for a study. And, ironically, for my life. They had breakthroughs hidden inside them.

Help! Help! Help! Shit, not a rerun of 127 hours!

“You think you know the place?” the director of my research project asked me. “Yes, I do. Deep inside the jungle,” I said confidently but with a whispering “maybe” at the end of the statement. I was excited at the thought of getting him the stones. And visiting the haunted hills to prove that science heeds no myths. “You do know that this project is no secret and…” I cut him short, “Yes, I do. Could you just let me go?”

There was a legend around the jungle that said, “Natives of the place treated the valley as the home for the angels who brought dead men back to life. Strangers to the place, on the contrary, would be cursed with a life of nightmares.”

I thought it was true. I was living a nightmare. My limbs played the game of opposites: my leg wanted to let free, my hand wanted to hold tight. Rain came. My mouth went dry. A tiny stone plunked onto my head. A girl was rappelling down; to help me perhaps. “Hand...” I called out. And then I passed out.

“You got yourself into this without any gear?” she asked when I opened my eyes. I was dressed in brand new whites. I was caught in a shock; in awe of her beauty.

I could have made a perfect poster! Instead, I was being photographed by the Gods! And then she got there in time to save me.

It was derisive madness. The place was no haunted. It just helped me fall into something.

Of deprivation

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 13:30:00 +0000

On a false night

She called him in the dead of the night. "Here. Right now!" she said. "What? Why? It is three in the morning," he replied. "I want you here in 15," she retorted. He cleared his eyes drooping heavy with sleep. "Damn! How does she expect me to meet her now?" he thought. Last night's heavy dose of sleeping pills put him to sleep so deep that days of insomnia seemed to take leave.

He put on his trousers, torn and faded; reminding him of borrowing a new pair from his friend. He spent the last few months of his life living off his friend's pocket, and paying his huge visa bills with his savings. He could lose his wallet and not fear losing sleep!

He drank a bottle of water before he stepped out. It felt like the Sun left his heat with the Moon. The night temperature hovered around 32 degrees. After a day in the Sun doing market research, he now has the night to travel 10 miles. But how...

He locked the door to his 2-room apartment for which he pays a useless 3000 every month. Now left with how-to-travel question, he began walking cursing his shirt wet from sweat. He walked into a treeless street in the night's dead silence. He walked and waited for her call; his phone felt lighter with zero balance, and enjoyed a healthy battery for over a week. He walked past a 24/7 restaurant that flaunted a shiny board of 'all night pizza'. He walked in and took a glass of water. But he wanted more along his long walk to her place. "Pennyless," he recalled. Attempting to forget his misery, he decided to walk on singing Sinatra's 'Strangers in the night...'.

"Excuse me, Sir," asked a blind old woman. It sent him creeps but replied, "Yes, how can I help you?" He suddenly felt the exchange of words like a role reversal of his job. "I need some water," asked the blind woman. He walked in to the restaurant, handed her a glass of water. And then bought a bottle of coke for himself.

Heavy breeze began to blow across the street. Trees swayed with a whistling sound. He leaned on her friend's door and knocked on it several times while he waited for her to open it. "What the hell are you doing here at this time of the night?" she opened and yelled at him. "What? You called me a while ago, remember?"
"When did I?" she replied.
"Half-an hour ago. I thought it was something urgent so here I am. And you say what and why and when?" he asked in frustration.
"No. You called me a while ago from a pay phone. Twice. I gave you directions too. And why did you even ask me the way here? You've visited me several times. Just when I asked you this, you disconnected the line," she said.
"No. I didn't. I didn't even call. And when did I visit you...ever? What are you talking about? Look into my pockets. I have not a single penny. How would I have called you at all?" he said in a fit of anger. "Look. Why are we arguing over this? I am drop dead drowsy. I need to get some sleep. Can you please tell me the reason you called me?" he asked calming his nerves.
"I did not call you and how in the world did you buy coke if you had no money" she asked.
"Look at this. This is your number," he showed her his call records.
"What? Wait. How do you know I had coke?"

The breeze got heavier and closed the door behind them.

Science. Dot.

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 12:19:00 +0000

An Idiot in the Story

Your thoughts can undergo such friction that you begin to wonder how your brain processes information. Seems senseless, you know. When you have two different thoughts served on a plate, raw, you would ideally have them one after the other. Unless your lifestyle and growth are marked by gluttony! The consequence of such a lifestyle choice is usually crap packed comedy. Here’s why.

I spent the day watching a programme of Science that talked about railway engines and USA’s Environmental Protection Agency. I quickly switched on to watching Air Crashinvestigation. Two different modes of transport, one common beauty – the physics of mechanics, I thought. I looked up Rolls –Royce on Wikipedia and with no proper means of justification, placed it above GE. Don’t ask me why. Sit in a Rolls-Royce and shut your mouth. Like Boeing & Airbus are the two largest makers of aeroplanes, the former two are the largest manufacturers of engines that are fitted in to these beauties. Now what? I could fly a plane. I know what’s what. Some pilot from Delta Airlines told me landing a plane with ILS is as easy as playing a videogame. [What!] I could make a brilliant pilot. [/What!] If only I had 20/20 vision!

I get disturbed by the ease of communication. Methods, rather. My twitter timeline keeps buzzing. My fingertips feel an itch. If I ignored reading them, the itch transforms in to pain. My diligence could fetch me several accolades. (That is how wonderfully well I check every tweet!) When renowned filmmakers, in their cataleptic state, rant about stalling the telecast of Vidya’s ‘The Dirty Picture’, you never question his ideas but begin to think before rejecting the insanity in every word of his. I switched on my TV to find it was another master on screen. Oh. It wasn’t beautiful Bidya. It was Amazing Aamir. Aamir began to give us a quiz. (I still miss @bhogleharsha. He was superb in his ESPN School quiz and was instrumental in shaping careers of many young men! I bitch about how much sense he made at IIM-A once. That was long ago when he was still bald.) So, Aamir asked me what Farhanitrate and Prerajulisation was. I, and the devil in the lisping giant Virus, began a frantic search for the definition. I used Google while the others used a textbook they were given. I didn’t know it was a test of Aamir’s skill as a teacher. At the end of the little exercise, he mentioned one point, fundamental to our learning, fundamental to our approach towards knowledge and life – Why the race? Why the herd mentality? Two big personalities taught me two big lessons - @bhogleharsha at IIM-A taught me about talent and attitude . Aamir taught me how to use it. I connected them. Getting caught in the crowd is easy. It is how you stand out and get noticed, matters.

It was past midnight when I put an end to Aamir’s class, a textbook written by Raju. [Putting on cool shades] In our names, there’s an intersection of 3 letters.[/Putting on cool shades] I then moved on to a class of my own – picking and processing thoughts served on a plate. It was a day with overflowing information and jigsawed knowledge. I take night classes for a bunch of idiots. I was to be a guest lecturer in an engineering college. I was called to teach dynamics. I took a metro and then it was bang! I met with an accident. (Well, I met with a metro that would go on to meet with an accident.) I called the fire department. I wasn't hurt. I found my way out of the debris. There were no casualties, luckily. I realized I was getting late for my class.

I stepped in to see quite a good student turnout. It was my first day with a chalk-piece. I began.

I hate introductions. Science is too vast and we engineers are too busy for crap. Writing an equation on the board, I asked how many of you can prove this? None came forward. A guy in dark glasses wanted to try his hand. Sure. Go ahead. While the guy-with-glasses does his bit, can you guys open your books to find the solution? He started writing, equating, assuming before arriving at a conclusion. ‘Hence, Qx = Ted(J,L),’ he wrote. Brilliant. Why this herd mentality? I saw no one attempting to prove it. This is basic science and math. You cannot get in to designing Rolls-Royce engines with this work ethic. That was the end of my speech.

I received a call from the Train Crash Investigation team. A young boy on the line said to me ‘I saw you coming out of the train wreck while others were battling for life. I noticed two coaches locked in an angle that suggests shearing strain that gives us a clue about what caused such an impact.’ Young genius, I thought.

And that was that. My dream made a dirty concoction of events through the day. But science played significant role, a link to learning and attitude.

Now for this idiot to make sense of it all.

P.S: I have no clue what Ted function does. That just might be a consequence of attempting an invention in a dream! I am not sure if there even is a TrainCrashInvestigation team. Yes, there are young geniuses for sure!

Everyday...

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 14:46:00 +0000

Kindred

His cup of noodles was lying on the table before him. Six times before today, he shared it with that someone who he thought would last. It was an instinct – a tingling wish to share time, a slice of life, a feeling that would only be fleeting. Alas.

Not far away, she put an end to a long conversation - over the phone - with someone who would be an enjoyable part of life. ‘A filler of a fling,’ she calls it. She never bothered the aftermath. She spent most of her time ticking off conversations and crosses with a guy.

He forced himself out of bed, kicked the table, cracked his cup, and combed his hair – after several washes to remove her perfumed stroke against his short brown hair. He dressed himself in shorts, locked his door and walked out with the sound of music in his ears. And She dressed herself in a stunning blue gown. She kissed her roommate, Jo, and left her room asking people for The Café.

There is a remarkable quality in every individual story, today. There are impressive clichés. Yet, there is outstanding relevance to every life around. Every time I wake up to the morning light- occasionally by the disturbing darkness – I take the mirror and ask is today different? Stepping out to spend an entire day (and night, for the chosen few) with friends, presents a new chapter to observe and learn, outclassing the traditional way of learning lessons - if life is meant to live by learning. If you lived alone, you have the mirror. If you lived with people – chosen by choice or fate - you are obliged to share a word or two, necessitated by the acts of the previous day. And that’s where it begins. An exercise. An act of meeting with people titled friends. Until this point, there is neither a smile nor a frown.

You are, at times, dragged by the force of bond, to wrap your hands around your love, or a partner. Otherwise, you walk in to a coffee shop for a cup of steamed bliss. It is usually the former that begins the day, I am informed. And then hour-by-hour, stories unfold, own and observed. The sight of misfits walking out of a friend’s house –probably after sleep hours - presents a story. While it might be usual, there are revelations that happen through the day. Truth isn’t there to hide, I tell myself. When I pass on the story to others, there is almost a sense of responsibility (mixed with Déjà Vu and panic) in the other’s face. However, it is a moment of relief when the other brings it in the open to keep the score clear. Not just me, even she does it.

When the Sun is at its brightest best, there is a plan – elaborate and scheduled – to drown in the beauty of intoxication. The next few hours are spent in countdown while there are usual sights of food-sharing. You could lend one ear to tales of marriage, or simply taking the relationship to the next level, a level that had everything in the forefront already. You could lend the other ear to miseries, long standing relationships seeing time dead useless after only a handful of hours – with better ones lasting unto days or longer. Discovery can happen, anytime.

At the fall of the night when the Sun turns bright orange and the Moon rising with its help, you could be emotion-stricken, sometimes slapped by what happened to you. But, there is beauty in realizing opened truth – what has set rises with the setting Sun. I often see me in moist eyes but buoyed by grit. You would want to grip it hard and not let it go. There is a niggling worry of inviting drooping shoulders encouraging vengeful attitude. But the feelings have had their share and the observations must be dressed to escort tomorrow, battling those niggles.

As I lifted my glass of wine, I could think of more examples characterized as unique and ‘bookmarks’. These are the kind with the power to make an impact. Some could just be thankless and traitors of trust, marooning a blossoming something. Some could just paint a smile and send a fresh lease of life.

I am glad there are Hes and Shes to flip pages called days. They are an important part of even those unnoticed lessons we learn, gleaning and meaningful. These might just be the Kindred.

And then...

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 12:03:00 +0000

Miles of Silence

Why would a movie end with the reappearance of evil especially when the protagonist goes through the intricacies of investigation and reaching a logical conclusion? Why would the nature undo the entire process of reaching happiness? Why should we realize that happiness is not an eternal asset? Why is that, when answers are found, more questions are posed? He was suddenly a lost man. Until the last frame of the movie, he had his nail totally bitten off; the gut of his fingers exposing a freaking pink. He hated old style English movies. He hated its Indian copies. He missed three of her calls all this while.

She, separated from him by a ridiculous thousand miles, was seated in her couch battling confusion. Pink or yellow or should it be both? She had questions, rational, striking her head but poked her enough to reason irrationally. Which color would fit this kind of an occasion? Who would like to see her dressed in pink? What kind of people are most likely to attend her friend’s wedding? For every question she asked herself, she called him only to see it end as a missed call, literally.

Both were bathing in a huge bubble of questions, of rant and racket.

Looking at the volume of calls missed, he felt a strong sense of guilt. How could I miss her calls watching a movie that ended with questions rather than credits? But, he put off the worry for a brief while and thought of a way of making it up to her. He thought of flowers and bouquets. He thought of poems and chocolates. His phone rang again. Just once. And it denied him of a call. Missed.

She was dressed in beautiful pink and dazzled in light gold jewelry. She was having the gayest of times but was occasionally troubled by what she did last night. Why did I? she thought. She danced, she ate, and she clicked pictures and cracked her heel. She shed a tear while she slowly limped back to her room.

He had his mug of coffee in his hand. He did not call her back. Something stopped him. Fear, perhaps. She’s having her time. That was all that he thought. He barely recalled what he watched last night. He just rued what he had done. He oakie blew his nose. He wiped that odd tear.

Can I have a good ending now? He wished. He held his phone in his hand, tighter than ever.

I missed the best dance, she thought. She put her phone aside and put herself to sleep resting her head on the tear-dabbled white pillow.

[an episode cont'd from the previous post]

Gameplay|Playgame

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 10:58:00 +0000

ThePloy

A happy talk ended. There was his pulse beating high and happiness writing a new musical note both disguised by a faint smile on his face. Just when he had the quiet moment for himself, she broke his heart’s opera. I quickly need to attend to some priority work. For him, it was the start of that hour, rare and seemingly gifted, when he picked up his book and resumed reading its 99th page. He could barely recall the plot that unfurled in those 98 pages. He couldn't recall the name of the Doctor who poisoned his patient. The doctor isn't guilty. There is nothing so interesting in this book. It is just a revenge plot that every ordinary author could write. Read it anyway, she said. He looked at his watch. It had been only a few minutes since She left him, to finish drafting a work-email.

He and She began talking again. There is a nagging worry, a condition disquieted by the accumulation of thought. And before they rust my composure, I need to dust it off. I need to feel good. I’m done with the confusion et al, she began. “WTH! She just ruined my reading. And now she wants to discuss something that sounds like sorrow?” was his instant response in the head. It had to come. He hated ephemeral sensations of delight. “Yeah sure. What’s bothering you?” he asked.

…that’s exactly the reason why I am scared – of these frets. If I am happy now, I fear losing it forever. You are a part of this mire too. It is good but sticky… With those words she ended her narration.

For the first time, he said nothing.

He could not ask for more Equilibrium, darned and part of a dysfunctional fact phase of life.

He didn't have to make it to page#100! He just lingered over their agony.

Instinct!

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 13:13:00 +0000

That chat of Instinct

Plan and prepare, when the mind is set,

I go about today with no ado.

But when the seconds unrest,

I call for a plan redo.

Annoyed and upset I sit,

Hitting a needless mindblock.

Think not, nothing is going to take a hit,

I keep hearing the inner voice mock.

Do none, talk to the one.

Sounds right let me make the call.

Hello beautiful! I’ve thought of a mission,

But restlessness sucked it all.

I, instead, thought of having a chat marathon

With you for a righteous spent of time.

Hours went by, all ears she gave.

What do I do? Suggest in dear, will you please?

Sure dear, small chaos doesn’t decide what you ought to have.

Plan and plot your thought, seconds will be a positive ease.

Honest you are, correct you do.

Instinct it is, let it be your guiding marquee.

Much she said in the shortest of dict,

Made such sense that put her in new salience.

Instinct it is I should see,

Plan and prepare would find the right track.

Content I felt, upright I sat.

Thank goodness, she was there.

For this Life and Love, I’d go to the mat.

Gladness galore was the heart’s fore.

Dr.Gordon

noreply@blogger.com (Rajeev Turlapati) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 14:41:00 +0000

Mull Over

"Delusion. I see. Sanity?", I asked Gordon.

A condition, I felt, under suspicion.

Flashes of irregular future me riding on,

mind harping on the tenacious gone-by second.

Soliloquy set in, unending conversations.

At a Bar was I, drinks to buy high.

Spoke and Saw twice over, bore a fevered condition.

Ho Santa! Gift me clear sense from that sleigh.

Hanging on weightless body, mind cracked.

Pieces of delusion again; Gordon help me!

Memory on me jig-sawed,

this Christmas bringing on me brain's enemy.

His chair rocked, flat I lay.

Happy memory, fake sense stay away,

his word's piercing the numbed mind.

Gordon's efforts, for my wish, so kind.

Nothing son. Nothing out there.

You master your mind, not your recall's tear.

Silent he kept, glanced and gone.

Stiff I sat, with body and thought.

Christmas ended. Gordon was he?

Pondered I after he fulfilled my plea.

So I thought. Gordon was he?

Gordon. Dr. Gordon. He still is for my psyche.