Reflections

Raavan Lila

2010-10-26T23:18:00.000+05:30

Based on a true story

‘Mahabir Chacha, believe me you still have the vigour to play the role of Hanuman,’ pleaded Ramprakash, the secretary of the Pracheen Ram Parakram Ram Lila Samiti. Ramprakash, a school teacher at a primary school in Kishenpur, was a devout Ram Bakht. His classes at school were always replete with examples from Ramayana – ‘A for Ayodhya, B for Bharat, C for Chitrakoot, D for Dashrath....R for Shri Ram.’ But it was not the teaching that was his passion. It was preparing and managing the Ram Lila every year; culminating on the Vijayadashmi day. This year was going to be different.

With two months to go before Ram Lila started, Ramprakash had to finalize the ‘Natya Mandli’ (troupe) as soon as he could. Chacha laid on a Charpoy under the century old ‘Neem’ tree in front of his ramshackle house and Ramprakash rubbed and muscled mustard oil on Chacha’s ageing 60 years old feet. ‘Chacha, the entire village requests you to consider this for one last year,’ Ramprakash continued his effort to convince. At dusk, sun was setting down fast and so was Ramprakash’s hope. A small silence ensued before Chacha spoke up his mind - ‘My son, someone has to don this role one day. I am well past my age. The Lila requires 10 gruelling days of activity and I don’t think my feet will help me any longer. The village doctor has advised me walking half an hour to the farms everyday but you see even that is difficult these days.’ Chacha’s arthritis had been worsening by the day. He had left daily walking for the worst. ‘Chacha you can do it. If you don’t play Hanuman, we will easily lose the Ram Lila competition to Chaturpur – the adjoining village.’ ‘No son, not any longer,’ replied Chacha without giving a thought. The sun had set by now. Ramprakash understood the situation but was disappointed. Had Chacha been his class student, he would have asked him to recite ‘Hanuman Chalisa’ forty times over as a punishment. Alas!

In the villages across India, the assigned roles for Ram Lila’s characters have been passed around in the same family for generations. Chacha enjoyed this nomination right now. ‘You know Chacha, Hanuman’s role remains with your family until your family refuses to take it up. Who would you like to nominate?’ asked Ramprakash. ‘Who else would it be than my only son, Brijesh?’ – Chacha said the obvious. Ramprakash was not pleased but had to respect the old man’s words. Wearing a dirty baniyan and a towel around his waist, Brijesh came out to water the dust in front of the house before milking the cows. Splash ...the dust had been settled and Ramprakash prepared for his milking. He would leave without talking to Brijesh that day.

‘So you finally get a chance to play Hanuman,’ asked Raavan aka AwadhBihari to Brijesh. With an impish twinkle in his eyes, Brijesh confirmed as both of them walked casually towards the river ghats. It was one of the rainless afternoons of the monsoon season where the two friends would sit on the rocks, besides the river, and discuss everything under the sun including new caller tunes for their mobiles. ‘Finally the old man gives way...now I will be famous...people will respect me. The donations will directly come to me...now I will not have ask this stubborn old man time and again,’ blurted out Brijesh as one would do before a close childhood friend. Raavan tossed a pebble on the water surface; which bounced a couple of times before surrendering to the river. Pointing to the pebble Raavan revealed his sense of wisdom - ‘That’s old age for you and Mahabir Chacha now sinks down the river.’ Both had a hearty laugh among the thudding sounds of washer men’s clothes.

Leading up to the Navratras, Ramprakash and the Samiti burnt midnight oil to ensure the flawless execution of the act. The villagers in the Northern states of India anxiously wait round the year for Ram Lila followed by Vijayadashmi and leading up to Diwali. Celebrations go on for weeks where members visit households, distribute sweets as well as happiness. Since the rain gods had been kind this year, funding through villagers had been more in money and lesser in kind.

The Ram Lila production by Ramprakash et al thus was meticulously and lavishly planned. The tent and stage work at the mela grounds for open air theatrics in the night was spread out vast. The lighting on the stage lighted up all nook and corner and the sound systems blared even for a 2kms.’ distant donkey. Daris were laid out in front of the stage for children; and a few chairs were placed for elderly few and Samiti members. For first time in many years, the costumes were newly stitched for prominent characters. Ramprakash was able to poach a famous singer – Murali from Chaturpur’s Ram Lila troupe. Murali was sure to bring in more crowd as his recitals and narratives from Tulsidas’s Ramcharitmanas during scene changes were listened by utmost sincerity. Kishenpur’s Ram Lila this year was going to be way ahead of the rest...at least on paper.

Ram Lilas are the place to witness rural capitalist ecosystem. On both sides of the stage were the bazaars – thelas selling chat pakodis, samosas, sindoor, chudis, lockets and local cosmetic items, miniature ludo and chess games, audio cassettes and also CDs, toys and household plastic items. The power generators grunted on and the yellow bulbs kept laughing over the thelas as if happy with the frenetic sales. The entire village thronged the mela grounds when the show opened on the first night of the Navratras.

Days and nights passed by as Hanuman and Raavan’s friendship grew fonder on stage as well as off stage. To the angst of village seniors and Ramprakash, Hanuman aka Brijesh had a field day demolishing not only Lanka but also the props and costumes of fellow actors. The miming back stage seldom matched his acts. He never cared for the virtues of Mahavir Hanuman or Mahabir Papa.

It was the Vijayadashmi day. ‘What a relief it will be today,’ thought Ramprakash as he hurried his way past to the mela grounds to oversee the effigies of Meghnad, Kumbhakaran and Raavan being erected. He no longer cared about the last day on the Ram Lila stage. For the acting Mandali, the act had begun in the afternoon itself. They prepared themselves for the procession around the village, dressed as part of vibrant Jhankis or tableaux, depicting the scenes of the life and times of Lord Rama. As the decorated trucks of Ram Lakshman, Vaanar Sena and Raavan passed through the lanes of the village, people started walking along. Many shouted and a few danced. Bollywood parodies ruled roost as the rupee coins rained on the jhankis. Hanuman was equally restless. He jumped over from his troupe of decorated monkeys on to the Raavan’s convoy. ‘Behari, this is a great ride. Hold this packet and drink it over. You have been working hard these nights. Let’s celebrate,’ Brijesh offered the country made liquor to AwadhBehari. By the time the procession reached the mela grounds for the final enactment of Raavan Vadh and Rajya Abhishek, both Hanuman and Raavan were on cloud nine.

‘Raavan, now die,’ shouted a voice behind the scenes. As Rama ran with his bow and arrow towards Raavan’s abdomen, inebriated Raavan ran in circles across the stage. To the amusement of the crowd, Raavan enacted the wound with ketchup on his stomach and mouth but refused to die. Hanuman sided Raavan as Ram and Lakshman chased the sagging act. Ramprakash was dismayed as the play veered away. He sent a few of his men on stage to make Raavan die. But it seemed modern day Raavan had had modest dose of modern day Sanjivani. Together with Hanuman, they formed a formidable pair as Ram and the Vaanar Sena still acted in a MaryadaPurshottam way. They ran a havoc demolishing everything on their way. And there it went...Ram was tossed from the stage into the hands of village veterans by ever so jumping Hanuman. The crowd was in fact enjoying the whole turn of events. The crowd must have been bored by the same age old act every year. They rejoiced. The miming artist back stage stuck to his guns. ‘Laksman, don’t worry about anything. The act is over. Just fire an arrow to the effigies there,’ he said as Laksman responded like a consenting son. As Ramprakash’s men took hold of miscreants, the effigies were allowed to burn. Within no time, the effigies came down. Within no time Ram was hospitalized. Within no time, Chaturpur had won by a mile and beyond. Ramprakash cried like a baby as the crowd had a jolly good time. The numerous Raavans of the society are still refusing to die even after the uprightness of a few Rams. With Hanumans, not on their sides, the battle seems lost.

It was dawn when a dejected Ramprakash followed his steps to Mahabir Chacha’s place. The dark was giving way to blue. Chacha was wide awake. Ramprakash sat down on his Charpoy and looked on. Chacha had tears in his eyes. Both kept staring at each other for time unknown. Their passions were burnt along with the effigies yesterday. With a strong determination, Chacha pulled himself up and tried to stand on his own. His hands trembled and feet shaked but he refused to hold Ramprakash’s hands. ‘Where are you going?,’ asked Ramprakash as a whiff of air passed by. ‘To the farms, for a walk,’ replied Chacha. The sun had risen by now.

Raavan Lila - Teaser

2010-10-26T20:41:00.000+05:30

‘Mahabir Chacha, believe me you still have the vigour to play the role of Hanuman,’ pleaded Ramprakash, the secretary of the Pracheen Ram Parakram Ram Lila Samiti. Ramprakash, a school teacher at a primary school in Kishenpur, was a devout Ram Bakht. His classes at school were always replete with examples from Ramayana – ‘A for Ayodhya, B for Bharat, C for Chitrakoot, D for Dashrath....R for ShriRam.’ But it was not the teaching that was his passion. It was preparing and managing the Ram Lila, culminating on Vijayadashmi day every year. This year was going to be different.

Short Story of a common commonwealth medal hopeful

2010-10-14T21:06:00.000+05:30

A fictitious account

Dreams are larger than what eyes can see. That’s why many don’t see it through…but a few do.

Motherless and blamed for the death of her mother post-delivery, 13 year old Tulsi never wanted to clean toilets. She wanted to run…run away from the clutches of a complaining father, abuses of the elderly stinking household, miseries of a daily struggle to earn a loaf of bread and poverty huge enough to cripple dreams and reality.

For her, the railway track which ran across the farm, 3 miles from the dilapidated hut, was the alarm clock. Her torment began everyday at 3AM when a narrow gauge express train passed by, almost always on time. She had to run…run with two empty buckets to get a chance to get water from an upper class run rationed water well. The day she missed to collect water, she got only grass to eat.

Three years back, it was one of those days when she was unable to collect water. Sobbing and afraid to go back home, she laid near the track watching the same sun rising after a dreamless night. ‘Tulsi, come here,’ came a thick noisy voice out of no where. She was tired of always expecting a commanding voice out of nowhere asking for filthiest of work. ‘Tulsi, mother killer bitch, come here.’ This time she had to notice. Morning has begun. She could see a stout, bearded recognizable man with a suitcase calling from the perch of the train standing by. She ran…ran for the command.
‘Here, you see that shit and garbage…clean it up,’ ordered the village Seth. He had engineered a train halt…to go to the city. Tulsi had to clean-up the entire 5 feet radius where the Seth was supposed to sit. As she descended, the train had blown the whistle. She got down and started walking back. The train inched up on the track and moved screechingly. The two empty buckets resting on the green farm grass made her relive the day in advance. The beating and the hunger are easy to withstand when there is light at the end of the tunnel. Here there was no hope. The train had gathered speed towards the tunnel. Blink…there always comes a moment of intervention from the Almighty. Tulsi ran…ran towards the train a good 20 metres away. She must have run a mile before she boarded the train finally. She had run her first race to life.

She must have travelled two days and a night before she was dumped on the station as a parcel out of no where. There was hunger but so was hope. There was poverty but there was no one to beat her or to command…no… there were few.
It took no time for three teenage rag pickers to identify the new girl in their area of operation. And desperate they were at the most silent hour of the night. They pounced on her. The flickering and lone bulb at the corner of the station bore testimony that the cities are worse than villages. Surprised and still wondering, running seemed the obvious way out for Tulsi. She ran…ran again…this time for dignity.

She did not know the roads and streets she took. She did not know if they were still behind her. She was terrified. She kept running the entire night. Not even for once did she think of stopping or even looking back. Running this time was not easy. Her naked feet were used to village lanes, not the gravel heavy city roads. She stopped only when she collided with Mahabir, 40 something disillusioned yet motivated mentor. ‘How long have you been running?’ asked Mahabir as he saw blood soaked feet and felt her sweat soaked body. ‘It was dark when I started.’ ‘Come, You have found me,’ said Mahabir tersely as he continued his morning jogging session. At least a dozen students followed him back to the coaching centre. The same sun was beginning to shine ever so brightly. ‘Would Tulsi be the lucky thirteen?’ the thought kept running through Mahabir’s mind.

Mahabir, a full time teacher was a tough taskmaster and a running fanatic. He would inculcate benefits of running into everyone he met. His salary went into ensuring balanced diet for his runners. City NGO was helpful every few months. He kept selecting and training hopefuls…with one goal…running for the country. Under Mahabir’s guidance in a little known city, Tulsi’s life flourished in awe of possibilities.
She followed a strict routine, was an excellent pupil and listened and above all ran passionately. She was easily the best of Mahabir’s lot and kept winning accolades wherever she went. She came first in a district level competition, a month later she was among the best in the State and in a year’s time she ran at the National Games in Jharkhand. To everybody’s amazement, she won gold and landed up with a government job. Mahabir’s coaching set up did not receive the same attention as the medal winners. He still worked hard to make ends meet and harder still to train his wards. For Tulsi, the government job did not distract her determination. She trained more not because she was an average performer from international standards but because her coach required money for ‘acute pulmonary edema’ medication. Mahabir had water in his lungs, was becoming frail and running was out of question for him.

A Gold Medal in 1500m in Commonwealth Games…an ambition too high, a goal never achieved by an Indian and a dream worth pursuing. The government had announced Rs. 20 Lakhs prize money for every gold medal an Indian won. ‘That would solve all problems,’ she thought as she geared herself up for the dream of her life. She imagined herself wrapped in tricolor and singing National Anthem in rapt attention. She trained harder under Mahabir. She fought her inner demons with the help of a yoga guru. She never bettered the national record ever in trainings.

At her first international event, she was nervous the moment she had qualified for the event a few months back. In the Qualifying Heats, when she saw well built and well trained runners from diverse countries, she expected the worse. She bettered them with faith and landed in the finals. ‘Tomorrow will be my day. India will watch me not cleaning toilets but running…running for national pride,’ she thought the night before the race. She still required a leap of faith.

The floodlights in the stadium make the night into day. Dreams into reality. And it all gets over in a matter of minutes. No body gave her an outside chance. The interspersed spectators were glad to see an Indian in the finals. The commentators heaped praises on her past running exploits and how she is below par for this competition. But she ran…ran hard… ran with lungs full of air to remove water from the lungs of her coach.
She must have got spring in her feet. She started and ran away like a bullet. She second runner was a distant 5m after first 100 metres of the race. The other pushed hard but she pushed harder. At half-way she led a good 20m. She was a running a dream but so were others. The track doesn’t make a distinction. With 200m to the finishing line, she was still leading by a good distance. And then it all started. The runners behind her gathered steam. Their steps were far larger and they ate into the gap with enormous ease. Tulsi fought back with matching steps but still she was slow. Winning runner passed by…Silver still in sight, the second runner passed…just 50m to go and at least bronze will be mine – thought Tulsi. If God listens to everybody’s prayers, he will be confused. That’s why hard work is the barometer for success and if success becomes unexplainable, luck comes as a reason. Tulsi came a close fourth. She just saw darkness as she reached the finishing line. She did not know that she has bettered her record…she had in fact bettered the games record by an Indian.

She cried an ocean, wept a river and sobbed a lake in Mahabir’s arms. With so many Indians winning medals, the attention was on winners. No one cared except Mahabir and a few others. She stared beyond the floodlights into the dark night. They must have sat for hours in the forlorn stadium before deciding to go back to the Games Village. ‘I am sorry, Biru Chacha,’ she said before going to sleep at dawn.

It was first in many many years when she did not run in the morning…in fact she slept all through amid the celebrations of growing medals tally.
Mahabir alias Biru Chacha ran after a long time. He even jumped couple of times on his way to Tulsi’s room. He did not wait for the elevator but climbed up three flights of stairs in a jiffy. ‘Tulsi, Tulsi, get up Tulsi…,’ he anxiously knocked the door. One of the team mates opened the door. The beaming coach, unable to breathe declared loudly ‘Tulsi, the silver medalist failed the dope test, you got a bronze.’ He plunged on to the bed, gasping for breath. In his excitement to tell the news, Mahabir had put himself in great danger. Tulsi was stunned and so were others. Only the heavy breaths of Mahabir chimed the room. And then she jumped, shouted, jumped hard and embraced panting Mahabir…in plain ecstasy. ‘Chacha…you will get well soon, Chacha. We will get 5 lakhs from the government. All your problems will get solved,’ Tulsi was animated. It seemed Mahabir took an instant decision. It seemed he stopped himself from breathing. It seemed he deliberately closed his eyes. He had an angelic smile on his face before he said his last words –‘Keep running and Keep the centre running if ever you get the money.’

बारिशें

2010-07-07T23:01:00.000+05:30

थोड़े से बादल, खूब सारी बूँदें
हरे हरे पत्ते, फूलों की सुगंधें
आँखों में चमक, लबों पे मुस्कुराहटें
बाज़ारों में रौनक, गावों में पनघटें
फिर से एक बार जिंगुरों के आवाज़ें भेज दे
पतंगों की उड़ाने भेज दे
मेंढकों के टर्राने भेज दे
चिड़ियों की चहचाने भेज दे
ए खुदा, ज़ोरों से बारिशें भेज दे

बड़ी सी चिट्ठी, सिमटा सा खुमार
बिखरी स्याही में मिलने की कस्में हज़ार
चंद सुहानी यादें और इंतेज़ार में करार
बारीशों की बूँदों में तेरा प्यार
फिर से एक बार अकेला मकान भेज दे
शृंगार का सब सामान भेज दे
मीठी सी धुन तमाम भेज दे
तीर और कमान भेज दे
ए खुदा, इन बारीशों में 'उनको' भेज दे

उत्सव

अलविदा सर्दियाँ

2010-02-07T12:11:00.004+05:30

गर्म रज़ाई और चाय की अद्रकि चुस्कियाँ,
कमरे का मनपसंद कोना और अख़बार की पंक्तिया,
थोड़े से गरम पानी पर होतीं बड़ी सी लड़ाइयाँ;
फिर आलस में सोने का मन्न बनाती मेरी अंगडायाँ
अब जाते हो तो जाओ,
फिर से मेरे घर आना, मेरी सर्दियाँ

खिड़की के शीशे ओस से ढके हैं,
हमारे तुम्हारे गद्दे आग से तपें हैं
दस्ताने और जुराबेन भी सबने कसें हैं
और छोटे से चूल्‍हे पर चड़ी हैं बड़ी बड़ी कढ़ाइयाँ
गरम पकौड़े, सौंठ की चट्नी और जुलाब जामुन की चाशनियाँ
अब जाते हो तो जाओ,
फिर से मेरे घर आना, प्यारी सर्दियाँ

गुनगुनी धूप और बातें बनाती सहेलियाँ,
अमरूद के फाँक, तेल की मालिश और बच्चों की ठिठोलियान,
उँची सी छत से पेचेन लड़ाती लोफेरों की टोलियाँ
और सुर्ख गुलाबों के बीच खिलखिलाती लड़कियाँ
देखूँगा फिर से ये नज़ारा,
जब नये साल आएँगी ये सर्दियाँ

शीत लहरमें बर्फ हो गयी लड़खड़ाती झोपडियान
सर्दी से कपपकपाता बाप, नही है घर में रोटियाँ
आज नौकरी से निकाल दिया मेमसाहब ने,
जो ठिठुरते ठंड मे फिर देर से पहुँची मैं
ना है घर, ना चादर, ना चार पैसे और ना बापू की दवाइयाँ
अबकी बरस आई तो आई,
दुबारा मत आना, मुई सर्दियाँ

Phir Mile Sur: The Common Man’s Magic is missing

2010-01-29T23:15:00.002+05:30

Although I spent the Republic day humming ‘Mile Sur Mera Tumhara’ for greater part of the day (as Zoom TV released the new avatar of Mile Sur Mera Tumhara), the connection was not instant. The new version propelled me to watch the older version on You Tube and fondly appreciate the early makers.

There are a host of subtle and significant changes that the present creators have done supposedly to be in sync with the present generation. This compels me to write this blog in support of pseudo national anthem of my childhood years. Why I didn’t like the recent version is because:

• I hated the liberal dose of bollywood stars and near stars – musicians and directors (are these the two major clans depicting achievement in life?). To add to the grief, the extensive close-ups are annoying. Shahrukh representing a baazigar emoticon or Ranbir seemingly humming a love song at a waterfall nearby; in his own complete solace. There were stars last time around as well but they were real. No close –ups, no glamour, adequate glitz and some real connection.

• Differentiation doesn’t mean excellence. Why remix to such greater extent that the originality gets shaked-up. Intermittent drifting from the original tune takes away the charm; at least for me.

• All this would have been still good if we would have felt a connection. All the stars sprinkled only with a few sportsmen and artists do not make up India. Where is the common man whom I never recognized but felt close-by. Where is that ‘mahaut’ riding the elephant in Kerala waters or the fisherman, content with the daily catch? Perhaps they are more marginalized now than they were 20 years back.

• Above all, where is the spirit of unity in diversity that ‘my’ older version so beautifully represented? I distinctly remember the ‘mashaal’ being carried on and everyone coming together at the sea shore, notwithstanding their differences but rising above for the cause of the nation. This time around, they came, they sang in solace and left. That’s the new ‘Phir Mile Sur’.

Few of my friends may comment – ‘Grow up, it’s a virtual world and everyone is connected.’ A few others may comment that I have ‘grown up’ and not in sync with changing times. Perhaps they are right or perhaps we are more networked but less connected now than we were couple of decades back.

Do watch the older version one last time on YouTube…

0-10 of my New Year resolutions

2010-01-01T11:41:00.002+05:30

My last week’s Christmas blog helped me reconnect with many friends. So, I thought why not a New Year blog to share my New Year resolutions. In hope of reconnecting with many more, here are my resolutions for the year apart from writing 100 blog entries this year (last year I did just 20)

0 – Zero cigarettes: After a long year and a half hiatus, I succumbed to the butt yet again. Not this year as I continue to strive for a smoke free life.
Zero Speculation: Markets may have gone up like forest fire, there are always more losers than gainers. Say NO to speculation.
1 – Complete my ‘one’ book so what if I am an idiot.
2 – Complete two certification courses. Did you ask which certifications? Well, there is a year to decide.
3 – Three compulsory vacations and that too not among the hills. Huh! Quite a task.
4 – Enhance all four (for family members) life and health policies so that every New Year is better than the previous one
5 – Purchase my five dream gadgets a) Power packed Laptop b) Handy cam to cover impending vacations c) PS 3 for the player in me d) Kindle for the voracious reader and e) I Phone as soon as I get successful in destroying my current mobile
6 – Reduce six kgs. of my weight; all the more better if the entire six kgs. gets reduced from my waist
7 – Seven hours of charity. Number is unimportant, intention is not.
8 – Eight percent easy home loan from SBI. My cash flow model suggests lakhs of savings.
9 – Nine months to fatherhood – well perhaps…consensus is required!
10 – Read at least ten books in the year. It is not easy. You bet me!
If you have managed to read till here, I wish you and your family a safe, prosperous and happy new year. God Bless!

Why am I celebrating Christmas Today?

2009-12-25T12:40:00.002+05:30

Have I been excited about the holiday season? Definitely yes…Has it been because of Christmas? Perhaps No…Do I celebrate Christmas? No…Do I know why is it celebrated? Perhaps Yes…Have I been turning Santa for a few special ones? Yes…

I have been thinking of these questions for some time now. Why am I celebrating Christmas? Why am I wishing Christmas to few and all, to colleagues, to drivers, to shopkeepers, to my wife and to my parents? Why I like getting snapped up in that little red and white santa cap? Why is my mother preparing the grand six egg cake today? Why do we have little Christmas trees all over the house? Why am I rhyming ‘jingle bells’ to my little niece? In a manner, I am celebrating…I am celebrating the spirit of Christmas. What’s the reason then? Why?

Is it because it’s truly a global festival; celebrated by majority of inhabitants of planet earth and I would like to be a partner in their joy? Perhaps not…Is it because that Indians by nature love chaos, love being boisterous and always search for a reason for celebration; no matter whatever be the occasion? Or is it a phenomenon being experienced only in select cities with higher per capita income? Perhaps…

I pondered and pondered and then celebrated. The reason most likely exists in the idea of India. The idea that binds us all together and wants us to celebrate happy times and share not so happy ones. This idea of a secular society which is expanding to every nook and corner of the world is the reason why I am celebrating Christmas; with the same vigour that I would celebrate Diwali. The idea is paying off. The idea of India that our leaders dreamt off is yielding results and I feel good just like you all.

A free day comes with all its thoughts which I scribbled right away as below:

Just when the little roadside boy needs a sweater,
Just when the impish child turns pale with hunger,
Just when the unreachable school needs a teacher,
Just when the patient needs clean drinking water,
Just when the farmer desires little drops of rain,
Just when small businesses look for making some gain,
Just when a martyrs’ hope of peace remain,
Just when the hatred rules …we need you again,
O Jesus! We need you again.

After reading this, my good old friend Jolly is going to say that ‘He is Everywhere’ and we just need to be true to ourselves. And I agree…
Merry Christmas to you All My Friends

Tantalizingly Close: An Idiot

2009-12-20T12:31:00.003+05:30

I now feel like an idiot. When I succumbed to slumber last night, I felt irritated, anxious and praying. Before I continue further to my state of mind, I need to recommend Times of India’s Crest Edition and Mint’s Lounge Edition. They are now on my Saturday definite reads list.

So why am I feeling the way I am? Well, I read Raju Hirani’s interview in one of those newspapers and tell you what …it did not read nice.

Hirani showcased his style of film making and how important the message and plot are for his ventures. As I read on, I really liked the idea he worked on during Munnabhai MBBS and Lage Raho Munnabhai. In the first venture, he wanted to present as to how doctors can be more compassionate while in the second he wanted to peel the make-up off citizens who abuse Gandhi about his brand of nation (un)building but do not stand a chance when prodded further on their thinking. I appreciate Hirani’s work and went on reading further. I felt good from within.

Then I read about his new film – 3 Idiots. Loosely based on Chetan Bhagat’s ‘Five Point Someone’, Hirani explained how he has developed the screenplay. He explained how five point was just a slice of life and how he developed the ‘plot’ which is inherently the heart in the art of movie making. I felt nicer as Hirani went further to drop in a few hints on the storyline. But my heart tanked as I further read Hirani’s words – ‘So the story is about three guys in Delhi IIT who are not so interested in studies. The film has two time spans – what happened to the three protagonists after they left. Two go in search of the third. At the centre of it is the love story…’ I confess that my book also has two time spans separated by a decade, is about close friends, is about search, has a decade old love story…and what not. I felt cheated as I read Hirani’s words time and again. The motivation to continue writing further ( I am three chapters old out of possible eight) died down and ebbed away as I had small blasts of interrupted sleeps.

Self-motivation is one of most important aspects in any work one pursues. I am learning this fine art these days and it took me good ten hours to re-motivate myself. I still have keyboard with me and I have planned to tweak the storyline if Hirani wants to follow me. My plot - Still a Love story, still some search, still about college but still not that way…

I am still motivated to complete the book…no matter how long it takes and so what if the manuscript keeps residing on the hard disk for time unknown. This will just be for my friends who will read a chapter or two on some lazy Saturday evening.

P.S. While I am eager to watch this movie next weekend, I just hope Boman Irani’s character doesn’t resemble the character ‘TARANA’ of my book (Mr. T.A. Rana who is not a professor...but a lawyer L)

An Irrelevant Para from my book

2009-11-22T10:32:00.000+05:30

Patrons of beer would not care about the weather. They won’t make way for a warmer drink even if the nature conjures upon a dreary mix of chilled gusty wind and a steady continual rain. Thus, Ashish and Khushwant took lively steps to reach out for their ‘drink of choice’ at the Mansions Tavern; a popular hang-out zone on the Pulteney Street – 10 minutes’ walk from their present place of presence. Khushwant had become an admirer of famous Cooper’s Australian ale – a hearty, robust and fruity drink which matched his temperament. Ashish’s taste had matured over the years as he was now more picky in selecting stuffs that impacted his life. He preferred lager beer for its characteristically smooth, elegant, crisp, and clean flavour. It’s amazing how people finally find out alcohol that matches their properties.

Introducing Deepak Sikdar

2009-09-27T18:32:00.001+05:30

Over the past few months, Deepak Sikdar, CEO of People Network had not slept a wink. The Network’s flagship channel, TopNews, was continuously witnessing a decline in viewership. For his news channel, the day-to-day costs were still higher than day-to-day revenues. This meant that his harsh steps on reducing headcount, cutting free meals and pruning discretionary expenditure had not yielded desired results. Till last year, advertisers from sectors such as automobiles, financial services and real estate gobbled-up the prime-time news slot. This was not the case anymore; more so these advertisers wanted TopNews to extend the credit period from three months to six months. Today, he had just closed a chicken and egg situation. He had reneged on a 25 crores placement deal with cable operators’ association. As these cable operators will now downgrade TopNews’ frequency, the channel’s reach will become increasingly limited thus impacting the ad-revenues. Tough times call for tough measures...
Deepak’s main concern though was not surviving but leading. He had repeatedly got the news calls wrong. He never expected that Obama’s swearing-in ceremony would be a big hit. He took news feeds from agencies rather than sending a foreign correspondent. His big bet on the Indian Premier League’s coverage proved a damp squib. This South African Safari proved a bit too costly. In the just concluded Indian General Elections, the channel conducted exit polls in only a few important states. Further it tied-up with regional channels for live feeds instead of sending its own team. The channel turned out to be the Joker in the Great Indian Circus as poor and inadequate coverage made it slip on the TRP charts. Deepak always believed that identifying a potentially inflationary event and providing quality coverage before the competitors results in market leadership. His bets have gone wrong this year and he was pondering over the happenings over the world for which his channel should provide wide coverage; though keeping the purse strings intact.
In an expansive corner office with a backside view of the Arabian Sea, Deepak pressed the intercom button to call his personal assistant. Surbhi came in faster than the speed of Deepak’s thought. Who would not like to wrap-up the day faster for a monsoon prone Mumbai evening.
‘Surbhi, Call Aparna and ask her to report to duty. She has to cover the protests’ dictated Deepak while inhaling a good amount of tangy nicotine in a single breath. He was the only person in the office who was allowed to smoke in his room; after all for Board of Directors, he was still their best bet.
‘But Deepak, it was only today that she left for her week-long honeymoon. Won’t it be improper? ’ asked Surbhi softly as if trying to instil a sense of decision making. ‘I would give her a long break later. She has to cover these protests. This racism has suddenly become a hot potato and anyhow I am not asking her to come back’ Deepak reacted coldly. Surbhi plucked the curls off her eyes as she hesitantly dialled Aparna at Dresddom Hotel in Adelaide. She never wanted to make the connection. She understood the dreams that go into making for such an occasion. Deepak never bothered.

Pre-read - Novel Excerpt

2009-09-19T13:55:00.003+05:30

It has been long since I shared an excerpt from my rather snail paced book writing. Have a read and do let me know your suggestions.
.........................................................................................................................................................................
“Hey Ashu,
3 more sapphire profiles. You have to choose one of them.
Dad
P.S. Take care of your health. It’s getting colder in Australia”
Ashish reluctantly yet engagingly browsed through the profiles of Shweta, Megha and Diana. As usual, all the profiles followed the same old order – age, caste and ever fascinating ‘height’ of the would-be bride. He wondered why the names of most of the girls ended with an ‘a’ and sounded so similar. He wanted someone refreshing as Café Boston’s XXX to extinguish his old flame. He was also disquieted that a senior lawyer like his dad was usually checking matrimonial sites during the working hours of the bar association.
...........................................................................................................................................................................

Koshish

2009-08-01T11:06:00.003+05:30

When I said to my better half that I can still write songs and poetry, she sensed a chance. She gave me a scene and wanted me to compose something. The scene was that the protagonist is on the beach, mulling whether to say 'yes' to a proposal from his/her love interest. Here is what I came up with. To say the least, I feel good and mushy again...

कोशिश
इक बोझ था सीने पर
समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया
कुद्रत की गुफ़्तगू समझ
जन्मों की हामी भर, मैं निखरा आया

दिल के तारों की उलझती गाँठ
नींदों से परे बेसुकुनी भरी रात
मिलने से पहले की गुदगुदी
मिलने के बाद का इन्तेज़ार
यार संग मुट्ठी भर आसमाँ बटोर आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

लहरों की कोशिश ज़ारी है
समंदर के पार नये ठिकानों पे पहुँचने की
किरणों की कोशिश ज़ारी है
मधिम्म सूरज से टूट कर, लहरों पे नहाने की
रेत की कोशिश ज़ारी है
सैलानियों की चित्रकारी बचाने की
पवन की कोशिश ज़ारी है
तैरते मचलते बादलों को हराने की
ये कुद्रत की गुफ़्तगू समझ
मैं कोशिशों का दौर बिखरा आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

मुमकिंन नही लहरों का समंदर से खफा होना
मुमकिंन नही सितारों का आसमाँ से जुदा होना
ना किरणें अलग हो सकती हैं, ना रेत कामयाब
ना वो अलग हो सकती है, ना उसके साथ मेरे ख्वाब
इन्ही चन्द नॅज़ारो में, उनकी यादों में भीग सा आया
बाकी सब समंदर किनारे मैं बिखरा आया

July 28, 2009

Celebrating Kargil

2009-07-25T10:34:00.002+05:30

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Tomorrow, we celebrate our victory in Kargil. It happened a decade back but I must confess, the war still shakes me up. I must say that this has been a prominent incident where I have been disturbed without being impacted. Heavy artillery, piercing gunshots and blaring media coverage brought war to our drawing rooms during the summers of ninety nine. I was disturbed by the people (and media) raising questions on Army’s inability to guard the borders at the outset, people hero-worshipping them despite being a failed unit and real politic over the dead bodies.

Initially, there was lot of negative news around blaming the political leadership, the army (not the air force) and our neighbor. I just had an appeal. I pay my ode to those brave hearts today.

An Appeal

The panorama of gory wars
Signatures unconcerning scars on one’s forehead
The soldier fighting valiantly
Scripts his role verily in the bloodshed

For the pristine glory of the motherland
And the demanding duties of national services
He stood there, firm on the Border
Reckoning the need of the crises
Wounded albeit, He fought, gunning down malicious enemy intruders
Brave He fought, then enlisting himself among ‘Characteristic Indian Supreme Sacrifices’

Arrived the martyr’s coffin
Draped in majestic tricolor
Gallantly, He had laid down his life
To cause the Indian Flag flutter

The moving vignettes of sufferings
Along the hostile battlefield fires
Creates deep clamour to dumb chagrins
But everything annuls at soldier’s burning pyres

The crazy heartbeat of the unborn child
Salutes the father’s indefatigable courage
The pregnant newly widowed young mother
Pledges her son for yet another sacrificial page

Not everybody keeps dry eyes
Not everybody courageously sights into skies
The dashed dreams and crushed hopes bring tears
The felt emptiness and gloomy future brings fears
The father feels weak on the knees
The mother seems to have lost life’s keys
The wife’s somber solitude abnegates to cease
But don’t feel piteous, demeaning their honour, their pride –‘PLEASE’

Yes, rightly ‘Not everybody can be at war’
But a true patriot leads himself someway to the national altar
Bid carping with august conscience
And express your solidarity with utmost gratitude
‘We need them’ and ‘We are with them’
Show the concerning approach with right attitude

July 11, 1999

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Banking on Rajma Chawal

2009-04-26T12:55:00.003+05:30

‘It can’t happen to me’ – My stubborn and proverbial ostrich like ‘bury head in sand’ behavior refuses to allow my mind the thought of being laid–off at the work place. Many of us will continue to live in this denial mode till the time lightening strikes; and rightly so as the options now are like a needle in a haystack. A few will have to face it head-on; either leaving it to the ‘wicket-keeper’ for the next suited delivery or hook it over the shoulders for a six. I have a classic ‘head-on’ case.

Avinash (name changed), a manager at one of the largest housing finance company realized surprisingly late that his cordial stay during low interest rate era has become increasingly burdening for the organization in this higher interest rate environment. He was shown the door. His savings could have sufficed the interminable house rent, pruned monthly expenses and undesirable LIC premiums for a few months but were insufficient for his vehicle IMIs (Inflated Monthly Installments). Keeping his Shining Red Dream ‘Swift’ would involve defaulting on children’s tuition fees; thereby leaving them clueless in the unforeseen future.

Two days out of job, Avinash rubbishes the idea of selling his ‘Dream’. He drives out his Swift and parks it outside a large ‘Shared Services’ firm; the rear luggage cabin of the car facing the gate of the firm. The traffic through the gate is still high these days; with ‘worried’ employees probing cheaper food options and taking shortened yet fulfilling ‘sutta breaks’ for a next error free session at the office. At around 6 PM, when the sunlight is not glaring and hunger reigns supreme among ‘graveyard shift’ employees, Avinash turns on his beloved, the Kenwood DVD player, lifts the rear hood of the car and plays out loudly the party hip-hop songs. Three silver bright drums at the rear seat of the car, carrying Rajma, Kadhi and Chawal, throb at the play of the music, as if trying to deliver sales pitch of their own. Avinash puts on his matching bandana, takes out two thermacol plates and writes ‘Rajma Chawal’ and ‘Kadhi Chawal’ on them; with the same handwriting stroke which he used to while signing cheques at his erstwhile bank. The first day results in a few enquiries and even fewer consumers. ‘Word of Mouth’ however starts adding pennies to his ‘Hand to Mouth’ existence; second day onwards.

The extensive hygiene routine clubbed with disposable and robust cutlery, the competitive pricing of Rs.30 per plate and profound goodness of fresh homemade food were the factors that made people experiment his ‘SWIFT’ business. What made them stay was his relationship building persona – his manner of English speaking, providing small credits, sharing cigarettes and paan masala with the employees and above all sharing his story to this place. All this added to immediate empathy and sense of hope for the 'worried' employees who started flocking in groups. Avinash now runs two shifts a day and earns more than what he used to and he is ever so thankful to his wife for expanding his three-storeyed lunch box at the bank to three drums just outside a bigger office.

It is true – ‘Tough times don't last, tough people do’. Does it really matter then if you are not called a banker by a needy few but ‘SWIFT Rajma Chawal Wallah’ by a worried yet hopeful lot? I don’t think so.

Cooking Conundrum

2009-02-21T14:21:00.000+05:30

A Bowl of Yellow Dal, Half-a-plate of Jeera Pulao and a three eggs’ Cheese Omelette – The delicious thought of a perfect supper made my taste buds go dancing in the lush stream of saliva. For a beloved Indian male with a doting mother and an equally adoring wife, Kitchen is seldom visited. Not yesterday, when I sneaked in a chance of cooking my meal as the Wife informed me of working hard in office in this recessionary environment and the mother was at a decent distance of 50 kms. from the kitchen.

I immediately rubbished the idea of calling the Pizza guys as I wanted to satisfy myself that ‘I Have It in Me’. While going back home, I toyed with the idea of having a well cooked Omelette with fashionable brown breads. The idea fell flat as I had just ten rupees in the purse; having offered the rest to charity earlier in the day.

The Kitchen resembled a battleground and I, a lone anxious soldier with artillery in the sink. Cooking should not include washing dishes but this night it was not to be. I cleaned every iota of cooker’s configuration to make the most hygienic Dal of the world; struggling hard to locate the ‘whistle’ in the process – Why are small things (whistle) so important and get lost so easily? My engineering brain did a nightmarish calculation of Water Dal ratio (1 large cup of water will create enough vapors to pressure-cook 20 gms. of Dal). As I put the cooker on the three-stove burner, I decided to prepare the pulao next; before switching to my core competency of making edible omelettes. Since the lone cooker was still creating vapors, microwave seemed to be the quicker option. Shining glassware with 2 table spoons of rice sprinkled with Jeera and oodles of desi ghee was put in the microwave for a brief period of 120 seconds. CRACK – I never again saw the glassware intact although it kept rotating for a nice 20 seconds before I realized to stop the microwave. Had I put a little water along with the rice, it would have lasted long. The grains of rice have coagulated and stuck muscularly at the bottom of the bowl. I cursed myself of having wasted the staple diet in these times of food inflation and tidily put the glassware into the dustbin. By that time, I had heard shrill whistles and put the cooker off. Rice cooking had to start all over again; this time on the gas. I hunted down the tea pan and put the rice to boil; the small base of the pan delicately balanced on a rather large burner. Multi-tasking comes naturally to me which prompted me to use the third burner to make the omelette. CLUCK – The Cooker’s Lid fell to reveal partially cooked Dal; that too without any water left. The Dal has to be cooked more and I was prompt to add water, not suspecting, the ratio miscalculation, that I did again. Putting finely chopped onions, small crushed tomatoes, strands of chilly and a few coriander leaves on a hot butter soaked Tawa blinded my glasses and the smoke made me feel fighting in the Gaza strip for a split second. TUCK – The poised rice tea pan could not handle the heavy shelling and caved in. Hot water and rice grains spilt all around the burner. In an effort to reinstate the pan, the occupational hazard came real. I still have a baked palm and burnt fingers.

Adding water to the rice pan, preventing the omellete ingredients from burning, stirring the eggs, timing the Dal’s cooking time – Multi-tasking; my Foot! – was crimson with bites from mosquitoes who had exercised cunningness while I was in distress; cooking.

Partially cooked rice, syrupy Dal and mutilated, salt-less and cheese-free Omellete made for a struggling dinner, made better only by ‘Mother’s Recipe’ pickles.

SPLASH – After dinner, I flinged the dishes into the basin; after all I was not supposed to wash them anymore.

I liked my dinner though, after all who doesn’t like his own creation.

My Wife says that I should rather be writing than cooking and she is right. Over to you Dear…

Female Protagonist of my book: Avanti

2009-01-31T10:36:00.002+05:30

“Come on Engineers! Get-up and freshen yourselves. I have got you special tea”. Both the sides of the black dilapidated door swung open. The three engineers were all cuddled-up in a double-bed. It was neither the fresh breeze of misty air nor the direct sunlight of the now open door that made the boys immediately get-up and take notice. It was rather the sweet voice that interrupted their deep slumber. The ‘neem’ filtered sun rays had come right through the door into their eyes. Their half woken eyes went into ‘STARE’ mode on finding the ‘Goddess of Himalayas’ at their doorsteps. As a mechanical engineer, one never expects such a great start to the day.
Avanti stood as epitome of beauty with a tea kettle in her right hand. Her long hair now soaked in sunlight from behind, created a mysterious halo. The curls of her hair kept blowing on her face; seemingly the breeze was saluting to her beauty. The dazzling and alluring face with her forehead smeared with flame-colored ‘Tilaka’ made her look as pristine as snow from the Himalayan peaks. The silvery ear rings resembling intertwined snakes took the attention away from her perfectly shaped collar-bone; disguised unsuccessfully by aqua-green beaded necklace. Equally magnetic, were her eyes; as if telling a hundred stories. The violet colored round necked t-shirt matched colorfully with the ‘kaleidoscopic’ wrap around. Her taut outfit mesmerized the three boys from the sex-starved nation. A single anklet on the left foot and an identically designed bracelet on the right hand (placed comfortably on her waist) would make anyone rate her high on the fashion quotient.

More on 'her' later. For latest updates - Subscribe 'NOW'

30 Years on Planet Earth

2009-01-20T22:36:00.003+05:30

When you are young, you never think of life beyond 30. I, now have to, because what I have been dreading has just gone by. I am 30 years old now. I managed to skip the sight of a ‘small bright white pineapple cake with 30 candles pierced mercilessly’. However, I can still imagine the sight. Thirty candles would not leave out enough space for the text ‘HAPPY B’DAY UTSAV’ to stand out. I see ‘HAPPY’ being bludgeoned by the candles, suggesting my state of mind. I am depressed because I am old.

So you grow wise with your age, so you are respected more, so your opinions have more weight, so you are financially independent, so the world is your oyster…Bull Shit (pardon). I am still as (un)wise as I have been, I still behave like a 15 years old and I am more financially dependant.

Despite being shown the brighter side, I still fear the changes that will come with age:

· I will grow older and not better. I dread the fat deposits on my face and else where. Exercise won’t help me, I am sure
· I will have to go for regular health check-up. This is expected out of all people more than thirty.
· My investments will now be more in pensions and retirement plans.
· My vacations will increasingly become more of sight-seeing and less of adventurous.
· The white streak of hair that will pronounce in me despondency if not ‘old’ age.
· Declining inclination of fairer sex and ever tightening and entangling web of life and its responsibilities.

This sounds really miserable. Isn’t it? Yes, if one’s mind ages with age. Since, in my mind, I am still 15 years old, the charm of ‘living’ far outweighs the calendar entry called ‘age’. Thus, I look forward to:
This sounds really miserable. Isn’t it? Yes, if one’s mind ages with age. Since, in my mind, I am still 15 years old, the charm of ‘living’ far outweighs the calendar entry called ‘age’. Thus, I look forward to:

· The ability to plan my life, the way I want it.
· Switching my career pursuant to my hobbies
· Fathering a new generation and grow old with it
· And above all ‘LIVING LIFE’

As an ending note, Can a thirty year old still be called in his late twenties? It sounds good somehow.

India's Change

2009-01-18T18:53:00.003+05:30

I don’t know how the phrase ‘India’s Century’ became part of our daily diction. Perhaps it was Rajiv Gandhi’s stubborn dream of 21st century India followed by India’s giant leaps towards economic liberation. Perhaps it was the Pokhran nuclear tests that announced India’s arrival to the covert club of ‘cream of the crop’ countries. Whatever be the genesis, it seemed to be India’s century – India’a IT Super Stardom and India’s brain gain. Now, India has gone a notch ahead. We have India’s 9/11 and more recently India’s Enron.

I read somewhere - "It's not important how you start, but how you finish – India Next". What follows Next? As Obama Presidency arrives, we wait for India's CHANGE. Anyone out there?

Vishesh - He is special

2008-11-16T21:15:00.005+05:30

Vishesh - The third character of my story makes sure that he is at the centre of attention; which makes for dollops of theatrics. Watch him out...

Vishesh has a special ability to lighten up even the most depressing turn of events into a really hilarious one. He is a compulsive talker and entrance into the engineering college is the best thing to have happened to his life. Subjugating comes naturally to him as he is from a political background. He has a dream of no less than ruling the world. A couple of months back, a few days before Diwali; he had plotted a plan to teach a lesson to one of his seniors who had given him a really torrid time during ragging. In the evening, when this senior was in the loo, Rahul had quietly switched off the lights of the whole hostel block while he bared the threads of a string of fire crackers, lighted it and had slid it under the door of the loo. Finding himself in a precarious situation, this senior has jumped and screamed for a whole of fifteen seconds. Vishesh, Rahul and Sameer however, had laughed all night through. Coming back, Vishesh is short-tempered but exceptionally phenomenal in forgetting instances and forgiving people. He is less of a brain but manages through his rustic way of mixing-up with people and getting things done. He cares for his friends and wants to live with them but not at the expense of foregoing a leadership position.

Rahul - Seizing the millenium opportunity

2008-11-01T18:10:00.003+05:30

Rahul - This quintessential bloke is the heartbeat of my story. His seizures make for extraordinary turn of events. Read on... the second character of the book - "The Millennium Misadventure"

Rahul is a small town guy whose good looks make a few hearts miss a beat. He, however, considers his looks average. He is a reticent person and keeps mostly to himself. He is a health freak and never misses his daily jog in the evening. Rahul suffers from Benign Childhood Epilepsy. He experiences seizure disorders once in a while. The seizures are mild and affect only his facial muscles. He has witnessed convulsion (severe seizure across whole of his body) only once in his life, a year back, on the first day of his joining college. Although a digression, this provocative story goes like this - On his first day at college, pretending as helpful volunteers, the ingenious seniors had masterfully carried Rahul to one of the hostel blocks for lunch. Instead of lunch, he was pulled through the hallway into the courtyard (surrounded by hostel rooms rising up to three floors), where tens of freshers were stark naked with water being poured onto them. Rahul still shivers to this day. He had a massive seizure while a couple of boys were shouting in front of his ears and were pulling off his clothes. He just remembers lying on a hospital bed; it was not easy to meet the eyes of his parents. He felt he has been raped brutally that day.

Rahul is smitten by his engineering course and is afraid of planning big in life. He, however, has one grand plan which none of his friends know. He wants to fall in love truly, madly; deeply and that too soon enough.

क्या आप खुदा से भी ख़ास हैं?

2008-10-25T23:33:00.004+05:30

दिल न उदास हो के वो पास नहीं
जो हासिल न हुआ तुझे वो खुदा से ख़ास तो नहीं।

गूंजती थी जो शहनाईया सी जो दिल-ऐ-राहों में
क्या हुआ जो अब आती कोई आवाज़ नहीं।

हाल-ऐ-दिल तो यूँ ही बयां किया करते थे हम
ज़िन्दगी में अब थोडी खामोशी ही सही।

गम-ऐ मोहब्बत किसे बतलाएं हम
सुनते तो सब हैं, समझता कोई भी नहीं।

दिल न उदास हो के वो पास नहीं
जो हासिल न हुआ तुझे वो खुदा से ख़ास तो नहीं।

Framed on 10th November 98 in Prof. R.C.Gupta's (Material Science) Period: 9.10am-10.50am

Sameer: The Next Door Techie

2008-10-11T11:13:00.000+05:30

Sameer is a usually animated character unless troubled by extreme cold weather conditions. He always has some unconventional ideas, attempts to do things in a distinctive manner, and wants to add spice to his teenage life as he is coming out of a controlled childhood. He also thinks that his decisions are perfect as they are drawn out of experiences which he believes his friends have never experienced before. Being a Mumbaikar, he is always trusted upon to provide his expert advice in matters of heart.
Sameer is a tech freak. Last year, he on his own revolutionized the entire student community, helping them with opening their yahoo accounts and guiding them with chat, chat rooms and their jargons. He is very ambitious and wants to start something of his own. He, however, is a bad at implementing things. He cannot live without his friends.

The Plot of my book "The Millennium Misadventure"

2008-10-05T23:00:00.000+05:30

A great view of the mighty Himalayas is not the only reason why visitors travel to Nepal, a rustic hill country; north of India. This Hindu country is abode to many mythological god/goddesses, is home to some of finest and cheapest selling liquor brands, provides great access to the best girls in the world and is a great ‘casino royale’ destination – a combination which Sameer, Rahul and Vishesh found irresistible while they were planning their new year vacation to usher in a millennium new year of 2000.

As you now understand, the plot involves three students who planned to visit Nepal to add a little zing to their engineering days. What happened next... keep following

Follow the blog trail next week to know more about the character tentatively named "SAMEER"

Millenium Misadventure

2008-10-02T11:00:00.000+05:30

Hey All,
I am on a book-writing spree and am already through 30-40 odd pages. Don't forget to catch exclusive pre-reads only on this blog.

Coming-up this weekend: The Plot