Randomness

I haven't posted for the longest time, and I feel incomplete without giving a slight push to the amateur writer within me( I hope I'm not sounding pompous) . Anyway, so the reason is that I was on a holiday, a long overdue holiday and blogging wasn't a part of my vacation plan !

One thing I'm compelled to mention is, I had recently been to watch the much awaited Harry Potter flick, and was so surprised that most of the people in the theatre were adults ! I presume they must have been in my age group, who have followed the magical books through the ages, and for the simple sake of giving themselves a feeling of completeness, have to watch the movie. Nevertheless, I was still expecting lots of school children. *sigh* Sometimes I feel  books have lost their charm somewhere in the sands of time...

 This is a small poem I had penned down ages ago, when I was alone at home and the weather was at its best. Sipping a cuppa of ginger tea, the words had just flown, its nothing magnificent neither does it stick to the rhyme scheme, but its truly what I felt at that time...


 Life seems like  a painted picture,
 On a dusky evening in the slight drizzle,
 Bereft electricity, a dimly lit room,
 I can sense an autumn in full bloom(pun intended),

 Sitting at a perfect angle facing the dusty window sill,
 Greeting the cool breeze,
 Fresh ginger tea brewing inside a muddy pot,
 A new zest for the life, the windy ginger aroma has brought,

 On evenings such as these, although I'm alone,
 My world feels complete, not forlorn,
 Oh breeze, dear breeze, take me away with you,
 Spreading my canopy over the earth just as proudly as you do..

The poem underlines how nature sometimes takes away all the pain, frustration, anger in a person's heart, providing the perfect healing touch. It sometimes assures us that there are still some beautiful things in this world and you seek them from nature if you can't find it within...
The last two lines are metaphorical, its my take on how a person wishes to have an influence/impact on the whole world and make his presence felt just like the wind.

Quoting Looney Tunes....

 'That's all folks'

Book Review - The White Tiger by Arvind Adiga

  The White Tiger is a narration of the metamorphosis of a poor lad, raised in a society filled with vermin, corruption and every other social malaise into a successful entrepreneur. How this boy maneuvers his way out of the destiny that his clan is doomed to see, into one that they can only dream

of forms the crux of the tale.

  

  Balram Halwai is an adolescent high school drop out who works in a tea stall located in a small village in northern India. He is sent to the city to earn a decent salary for his greedy money squandering family where he lands himself a job as a driver. His master is an educated young man who hails from the same village as Balram. The story then, traces out his journey from being an oppressed menial to a shrewd and calculative businessman by resorting to underhand and often, gruesome means.

  

  What makes The White Tiger an interesting read is the colorful bunch of characters that one can easily relate to in urban India. Ashok, the employer, is the conventional foreign educated Indian. His father lives a life bereft of morals but wants an exemplary education for his son. Thus, on his return from the States, he falls prey to the corrupt working of the rest of his household owing to his naivety. Despite being perturbed initially, by the crooked dealings surrounding him, he ultimately gets sucked into the rut of bribery and rampant extortion. Pinky, the catholic wife is an archetypal lady who is forced into living in India, while craving for the luxurious life in America. This constant difference of opinion with her husband, who is sandwiched between being an ideal son and a henpecked husband, eventually results into their separation.

 Balram is intitially depicted as sobre boy, displaying common emotions of fear, lust, anger, ambition and remorse. He’s selfish in a way as he wants to rise beyond the barriers society has laid out for him, but doesn’t aspire the same for his older brother who has stuck with him through thick and thin, although, he feels a deep sense of pity for his fate.

 The manner in which the author conveys Balram’s mindset which is tuned to thinking that he is born to be a servant of the upper class for a lifetime and how desperation to break out of this mould forces him to take extreme measures is impressive. Arvind Adiga has depicted Balram's helplessness when falsely convicted of causing an accident as well as his innate greed for the red bag full of diamonds so effectively, that one can't help but sympathize with him regardless of his crude and unethical modus operandi.

  There are subtle references to how bribery has managed to seep into even the grass root level in India, although the intensity varies. One can easily strike a chord with the bureaucrats who won't pluck a feather without a fee as well as the smug policemen who have a mutual understanding with the rich and famous, summarizing that modern India is working on the 'you scratch my back, I scratch yours' protocol.

  The author implicitly cites how socialism or communist thinking is on the rise, wherein the proletariat is frustrated of trying to make ends meet generation after generation while the rich reap in profits. Balram's thinking is evident in his empathetic letter to the Chinese official, on how things work differently in the two contrasting economies. The White Tiger is a simple story at heart, brought to life by the myriad characters along with its sordid yet realistic narration and the dark humor accompanying life in contemporary Indian society. A fantastic read !

Building bridges with the reading habit

   Its the time of the year, when a lot of my budding engineer friends are preparing for their GRE, and

fussing over enormously long word lists, swearing sharply at its utter worthlessness. The task is herculean and the reward, well the American Dream. I frown in utter indignation when my friends

squabble and complain about what a pain it is to improve their language, for the simple reason that it

isn't.I longingly reminisce how I grew to love the English language.

  

    It was the summer of 1996, I was in standard two, whiling away another weekend in my customary

nonchalant manner. Being an inquisitive little imp, I opened my mother's cupboard when she wasn't at

home just to take a sneak peek and voila, tumbling down upon me, came out so many colorful looking

books. I hadn't been an avid reader till then and almost always scored a 2/10 in my spelling bee competitions. I don't recollect what it was that compelled me to prop open those little bundles of imagination, probably it was the joy of discovering secret gifts on a conventional dull weekend, or maybe the assorted pictures and colors that lured me into reading them, however, that was the day when my tryst with literature began.

  

    The journey started off with good ol' Enid Blyton tales like 'The Pig with Green Spots and other

stories'. I was catapulted into a world of elves, garden gnomes and a certain Miss Pickleweeble who added thrill to my mundane world. Famous Five was another experiment my mother made on me. I was so apprehensive of venturing into an unchartered territory of a book devoid of pictures, always trying to turn elusive at the prospect of reading it, until I finally rose to the challenge. Alas, I was a fan for a lifetime. I grew older and laid my hands on classics like Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, Rebecca, Great Expectations, and the like, the archaic love stories carried my dreamy mind into a different era, so different from the contemporary ones written now.

    

   All this topped with some absolutely inspiring English teachers in school only cemented my love

for the language. We had as a part of my english class a book reading session. My excursion into the

dense jungles of India with Mowgli and even my compassion for animals owing to James Herriot, all

stemmed from the storytelling lessons. I vividly recollect, the first romantic piece of fiction I wrote was in

grade six to the absolute distaste of my teacher who ridiculed me profusely. When I visited DehraDun

two years back, I felt I was reviving an old connection that began since I got affiliated to Ruskin Bond

and his novellas.My parents used to solve the daily crossword that came in the newspaper and made a tiny little diary with 'difficult words' that I revised at the end of each week. Being a teacher's pet I tried to incorporate them into my essays to make them sound a tad bit fancy and well, revel in the accolades.

   I don’t boast of being a master at the language, indeed I’m not, although I do believe in retrospect, that I learnt it the right way. I was taught to put my imagination into good use from the very beginning and explore the intricacies of different ages, stories and characters. In the rut of preparing for sundry exams, I implore to  my friends,  to not lose themselves in myriad words on the contrary, appreciate the beauty of expression and imbibe it into your existence.

Raining in the dark...

Its raining heavily outside, my house is situated amidst the hills of Pune and it feels so serene to just stare out of my window watching the  heavy drops pattering on the glass. The ideal scenario would be sitting by the window sill , sipping a steaming hot cup of tea with a Ruskin Bond novel propped in front of me . All by myself, just the rain for company.

    I spent most of my childhood out of India, but always used to be here during the monsoons. Two months of summer vacations were spent at my grandmother's place in a small town of Karnataka. Those days, we didn't have an invertor, or the luxury of electricity 24*7. Many a times during a downpour, we were rewarded with an electricity cut, however ,I really looked forward to those candle lit evenings.

  My grandparents, aunt and brother(who was almost always buried deep in his books)gathered in the drawing room in submission to nature's way of putting work to a standstill.

 The dimness of light was soon conquered by the brightness of chatter . Everyone would forget their daily routine for a bit and get engrossed in stories each one had to offer.My grand mom's recount of the gossip in our lane, my grand dad, giving us a word or two of wisdom, my brother and I fighting away to glory ... How I used to love the conversations ! My mum still complains as to how I just can't stop my prattle once I start , maybe its a habit that has stemmed in me since I was little .

   The years have passed, but everytime it rains I remember those dark yet bright evenings. They bring back memories of times ,when I didn't know of the existence of a laptop. When a computer meant a big machine that big people used,when talking on the telephone with a loved one, brought memories of togetherness and a sudden craving to meet them. I find it difficult to believe how technology has spread its wings over the vast expanse of India in just a span of ten years.

  My grandparents still stay there, but now they have an invertor ,and electricity seldom goes off . I haven't visited the town for almost two years and nowadays the longest time I can go for is two days .

   My brother is well settled in a city far away, and I don't remember the last time all of us were together in that ancestral house. I can talk to everyone over the phone, its so common now, but there are no rainy laughter filled nights any longer. Everyone has all the luxury in the world, but I yearn for those stories,my grand mother's lap and those bright candles...

Up and down...

When I want to go to the third floor, he opens the door for me . When I want to go back down, he’s there yet again.

Strange, I don’t quite remember how he looks. I think he was dressed in a bluish grey uniform.

   Did he have something in his hand ? I can’t recollect. Has my memory gone bad ? I’ve been there about 15 times, how do I not remember ?

Yes, there was a chair , that beige colored plastic one, sold for peanuts in any market . He’s almost always propped down on it . The man is probably 40 years of age, maybe older, his hair was greying, slightly bald also .

   Did he have a moustache ? Strange I can’t recall, ? I’ve been there about 15 times, how do I not remember ?

“Are you here all the time ‘kaka’ ?”

He wasn’t used to being questioned.

“ Ahh, this is a very surprising turn of events” .

He wasn’t used to being spoken to .

   Does, he have a book for company ? Did he wear specs ? Strange ,I can’t conjure up his image .. I’ve been there about 15 times, how do I not remember ?

“Yes, I am here for eight hours, every day sometimes 16 “.

“Wow !! Don’t you ever go dizzy , I mean its tough just travelling up and down all day, no ?? I get a jolt in my head and its just 3 floors , damn claustrophobic out here ya ...talk about boredom ”

“It’s my job, I’ve been used to this, this is all I do“

“Hmm...yeah I guess “

As usual, the third floor came and the door opened ..

“ I’ve seen this girl often and I know her very well. She’s always yapping about a certain college and certain people. Her subjects never change, her topics never change, her clothes ? Ah, well I remember all of them and her friends as well. But did she see me for the first time today ? Atleast she did , but why does she always talk of the same things, she sees the bright sunlight everyday and her heart and head aren’t shrouded by circumstances, the world is filled with variety, but hell, she doesn’t remember“

“Bye ‘kaka’ “

“There someone calls me from the terrace , 176^th time I’m going there today”

..and up went the lift , with that plastic chair and that petite man .

   Yet again, I forgot did I ask him his name ? He must’ve mentioned, he smiled atleast, for the first time I noticed, but his name ...what was it again ? Something beginning with ‘A’ was it or ‘O’.. ? I’ve been there about 15 times, how do I not remember ?

Dancing Beads ...

It was a crisp Monday morning . Ten year old Amu was hastily getting ready for her school science exhibition.
All the students from toddlers to young adults in senior school put forth their ingenuity by displaying their science projects to parents , teachers and any interested onlookers .
Amu could still recollect the day her teacher had made an announcement about the event.Her vulnerable little head had immediately put itself into action .Like little kids her age, she promptly saw dreams of putting up something spectacular, a rare creation, that was unusual and unique.
However,she had this peculiar habit of trying to please everybody , she wanted to be noticed and praised for what she had done .Her efforts often went in vain and she ended up being just another contestant .
Weeks of toil, careful scouring through numerous books and a through thesis of 101 science projects pursued until finally she found her niche.

A bright colourful kaleidoscope .
Three solid pieces of wood were carefully carved out into neatly measured rectangles. Mirrors of the same dimension were pasted on them .Pastel coloured beads were then stuck on one open end of the incomplete pyramid using butter paper and voila, Amu’s little dream was created.

Amu made an early appearance at the venue ,her hair neatly combed ,wearing a pressed uniform with tie et all and unceasingly practising lines of how she would explain her wondrous kaleidoscope .
Turn by turn many guests arrived and patiently saw the projects ,the morning gracefully blended into twilight.The day was wearing Amu out , yet she was ecstatic , her project was marvelled at by many and her efforts were given due credit . It was like she was living her dream , never had so much attention and praise been bestowed upon her. It was like a butterfly coming out of her cocoon, spreading her pretty wings to fly !

At the finale of the exhibition, the chief guest made his entry. Flanked by the school principal on one side and his P.A on the other , he wanted to make a brief visit , as a customary obligation on social events . Barely glancing at the projects on display, he anchored to Amu’s table . Being a commerce graduate and a dud at science , he was puzzled looking at the kaleidoscope .It had no motors around it , no electro-magnets ,no batteries...was this object even scientific ??

Amu being her usual self, eager to impress, cleverly demonstrated her machine , with every single detail..He was mesmerised and suddenly got enganged in an animated babble with the principal before resuming his duty of visiting projects . The principal strangely stayed back .

“Amu , the chief guest loved your work ! Its a great effort , was it very difficult to make?”. Amu was zapped beyond words . Promptly she replied “No madam , it was easy , just a bit of effort here and there “ . “Ah , very well then, I am sure you wouldn’t mind giving it to the chief guest will you ? A small present to his daughter , a momento of our function ,can you redesign its exteriors and bring it to school tomorrow morning ?”

Amu was lost beyond words ,she couldn’t think of anything to say, she had suddenly been catapulted into a scary situation.On one hand the principal was giving her credit for her work,the chief guest had chosen her project over 100 others as a token for his little girl and on the other, it just plain hurt to do away with this tiny miracle .
Amu nodded meekly in consent . Her incessant need to please got the better of her and as the evening came to its end, so did her enthusiasm. She returned home with mixed feelings .
Before she settled into bed that night, she made a neat cover for the kaleidoscope , pasted white paper around it and drew tiny pictures so that it resembled a very attractive toy .

Tomorrow morning , it would be gone . The kaleidoscope had given her a sense of popularity. After the chief guest made his request, Amu was the source of envy for all her friends , yet she was morose . She loved the dancing beads , the natural play of light ,the rythm to which the beads swayed and their colourful reflections had become a part of her life and to just give it away to someone who could never realise its worth .The guest’s daughter would probably just toy with it for a little while and then it would lay forgotten, whereas Amu would’ve treasured it for a life time .Despite this strong sense of belonging, she could just submissively agree to what the principal asked of her .
Yes, indeed she had become a celebrity over night in school ,she was recognised now and not just a little girl lost in oblivion, but it came at a cost and a cost she’d remember for many years to come .
Fifteen years from then , she reminisces , had she said no , the coloured beads would still be dancing with her .

Pretty child...

I just returned from a bit of grocery shopping at the 'kiranmalyacha dukaan' under my apartment. In the usual rumble for change , I picked up an eclair in exchange for my one rupee dime .

I love chocolates so the change was just an excuse to guiltlessly indulge my sweet tooth .As I came out , I, saw a middle aged lady and her little 4 year old on a bike outside , On a sudden whim I walked up to her and offered her the eclair .The lady was taken aback and mildly elated :) and promptly handed over the toffee to her toddler , who was restlessly standing behind the handle of her vehicle .

On receiving the chocolate,the kid glanced at me and smiled . His eyes were so innocent and reflected genuine gratitude and happiness .That smile from a strange kid totally made my day .

The thing about kids is that they don't put forethought in whatever they do . He got the toffee and immediately felt this sudden surge of trust and liking for the giver, regardless of who he/she was, its just this inherent quality of theirs that doesn't over analyse their actions, they feel happy they show it, they're upset, they make a hue and cry of things but make sure their point is across, there's no facade of any kind .

I always feel that as one grows older he becomes tactful and diplomatic, the uncanny demeanor leaves him gradually .Each word spoken is cleverly wrought . Sometimes, as much as I'd like to avoid it , I get sucked in to the whirlpool of this mindset and have to go with the flow, standing apart just pulls you in with greater force .

I wish like the kid, I could be so reflective in the way I think, I try hard not to measure my words and speak, of course it may bite me in the end, if I'm too frank and win me foes instead of friends but I admire people when nice or not , they're an image of their true self.

I'd like my actions to mirror what I think, my expressions , a reflection of the intricacies of my mind , my words should convey just what I feel, thats what I mean when I say I'd like to keep the child alive in me ....