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 ....

Fergusson..

I really hate leaving my blog idle for long .So many ideas come to my head however, I just don't have the time to put them onto paper or in my case, console.

Nevertheless, here's an old offering. It seems childish, was written five years back, but its my favourite.

All of 15 , I had moved into a new city seeking greener pastures . A new college , a new life , excitement failed to cease and everyday was a new discovery . From a secluded and protected environment I was catapulted into a totally new world full of different people and varied lifestyles ..and boy did I enjoy it !! :D

My college , however claims a special place in my heart ....

Sunday , September 11, 2005

MY FIRST DAY AT FERGUSSON

<>I combed my hair, I brushed my teeth
And ate my breakfast in a sway
I hurled my bag , my arm underneath
And left my house far away .

<>To catch a rickshaw ,I had to jog
I had to make it to college in time
On the street I looked like a panic stricken frog
However , I didn’t care as the day was my prime

<>I reached my class fifteen minutes late
Shamelessly I entered with a sheepish grin
I found a place near my mate
While the teacher tried to quieten the merry din

<>I glanced around to see people sundry
And indeed saw a varied crowd
Bookworms and nerds sat nearby
While the backbenches were ruled by the flashy and proud

<>I saw a boy with long , curly locks
And a girl with red streaked hair
Another lad wore shocking pink socks
I couldn’t help but appallingly stare!

<>The teachers were yet another surprise
Each different from the other as chalk and cheese
One old dame who seemed pretty wise
Had a flower in her plat that made me sneeze !!

<>Some of them did laudably teach
While a few made my fresh brains rot
Others recklessly continued to preach
Seldom practising what they taught

<>The college campus was a sheer delight
I adored the gigantic buildings of the old age
Although the overgrown gardens were quite a sight
It had managed to maintain a regal image

<>The canteen however I tried to evade
It offered nothing I could greedily condiment
On its table soggy sandwiches were laid
Spreading around an abominable scent

<>Fergusson didn’t seem to differ from the rest
It wasn’t astonishingly majestic and divine
Yet I found it better than the best
For the mere reason that it was mine!!!!

For the sake of it...

Have any of you seen laborers near a construction site ? They get daily wages for their work, stacking one brick on top of the other and carrying lumsome amounts of cement,stones, mud and what not on their heads from one place to another. Everyday,their incharge looks into the day's accomplishments and gives them wages, which they use to buy their daily rations.

What happens if the bricks aren't stacked properly on top of each other, what happens if the foundation isn't built correctly, what happens if due to this attitude of getting things done, one day many years later, the building breaks , because of bad construction, bringing in its wake death of simpletons, a loss of money, lots of court cases against the builders, a loss of jobs ?

Who is to blame ? Is it that daily wage earner who for the sake of his job and dismal economical condition ten years back, didn't lay the bricks right, is it the incharge who to wrap up the project fast enough, was lenient and didn't look into the site with care, is it that man who didn't supply authentic material to save costs or maybe pocket some finances, is it the family that chose to choose this house, without thorough research on the quality of work of the builder, or is it those few people who's lives went into jeopardy because a few others didn't do their work right ?

This is just an example. So many times, I find people doing things just for the heck of doing it,because they have to give it in, they have to meet deadlines , they have to impress their heads, they have to prove to the world that they're doing a decent job, because even they know that nobody cares enough to give it a second thought or delve into in deeper, so well, lets take the easy way out of this crisis !

Its just a mindset that I've become immune to seeing now and I HATE it ! There's nothing more than I hate than that ! I really don't care if I accomplish a little lesser than my peers but I need to make sure I'm worth whatever I have accomplished so far !!

How does it matter if the incharge thought the bricks were laid neatly one day, if ten years down the line the building is going to collapse anyway ? Wouldn't it be way better, if the development was slow but of some standard ?

The irony of the situation is , I too have many a times been a part of this sad scenario . This thought came into my mind as for the past few days I've been copy pasting numerous write ups one after the other, so that I can meet the submission deadlines and its not just me , its those numerous engineering students in Indian colleges, that complain about this futile system of journals and files that continues to shroud over their education . I don't even remember what I've written on those numerous pages , in a tizzy with music blaring in my ears, yet I have done them for the sake of it ! The good part is it really doesn't matter in this situation, because no one EVER reads them. They just form a pile in a corner of the laboratory and someone in the next batch, picks one up to help him in his forthcoming submission !

What I don't like here, no one in the authority is even protesting that its a royal waste of time and neither is anyone making it more meaningful. Everyone's just doing their duty for the HECK of it !

How can we ever expect to achieve something if we just don't care enough for it ! I wish people made an effort to at least reason why they're doing something. I wish people made an effort to learn and not complete....

A lil thought ...

Its a paradox that i see,
first it was pangea,
then so many continents broken down into 7 from 3,
a small living bacteria too,
lead to the formation of many races from just two,
then nature's language man began to read,
he separated himself from the rest of the creed,
he said ur green, ur blue and im yellow,
oh how strange it would be to mix and match with the other fellow,
i'll hang around in my end of the spectrum,
and the other colours soon chanted the same anthem,
soon, formed the rainbow a coloured band
and each colour was happy in his own petty land,
they accepted that this was the right way to live,
don't mix or mingle wid the rest in an attempt to take or give,
we'll blossom into a mighty clan of our own,
the seeds of this separation, long before nature had sown,
but they didn't see wid their ignorance a colour that was lost ,
the colour of snow , which heard their chatter as it lay still on the frost ,
i wish you would learn to disobey sometime said he,
i stand peaceful despite having a little of all of you in me ,
oh i know that you've seen things only separate out this far ,
but give this a thought despite it sounding so bizarre ,
i know its not easy to co-exist when you've been apart this long ,
although u cud atleast make a feeble attempt to get along ,
don't shut ur eyes so tight that u can't see how beautiful green is dear blue,
its shade is slightly different but it shines just as radiantly as you do !
there's a slight tendency to stick to the same kind,
but don't shut ur eyes to others , making ur insight so blind ,
we don't need to have one colour that is omnipresent ,
its this contrast thats makes life worth living, of things being so different,
i wish dear colours you would make this an asset not a liabilty,
for once don't concede to segregate and thrive in this variety...

P.S : i normally refrain from using sms lingo wen i write ...ill make this post an exception..m in a bit of a hurry

The place was dimly lit yet it bustled with the vigour and zest of an ongoing festival . The little wooden door was left ajar and onlookers could catch a glimpse of the cozy atmosphere inside as they bustled around with their daily chores .

The place reminded little Prithu of an old weary looking shack , yet he couldn't contain his curiosity to know what lay behind those rustic walls.

Prithu lived with his family in a small one bedroom apartment across this misty looking cottage. He'd never stepped foot in it , rather none of his family had . Despite having a dreary look , he'd heard that the place held some treasures that his clan couldn't buy .

Nevertheless for the past twelve years , he'd always held a fascination for those sundry people that visited it . He wondered, what was it after all that so many people who looked so different found in this place ? Indian men with their lovely dressed ladies wearing classy attire , young boys and girls who seemed to have given their college a miss, unknown foreigners known in his local community as 'hippies' having strange drawings all over their bodies ...and many more fascinating people , he'd been witness to all, entering this tumbledown place . They all looked so smug and often came out carrying big brown bags , which he thought contained savouries from some strange land .

That evening Prithu’s father scurried into the house babbling with excitement. In a flurry he narrated to Prithu how he'd managed to get a job in the little shack in the opposite lane . Finally , thought Prithu , he'd know what happens in there . The innocent concerns of twelve years of his life would find their answers in a jiffy, after all appu would tell him, exciting stories of the place he thought of everyday , maybe if he was a good boy , he'd get to take a glance at what was inside ...

It was time for appu to leave and Prithu blissfully slipped back into his reverie with even more excitement than before , for now he'd soon be a part of it .

At around seven in the evening , a deafening roar awakened the lazy neighbourhood around the shack . Prithu ran out as fast as he could to see what the sudden pandemonium was about .

People everywhere , lying around , crying in desperation , lots of men in uniforms , flashlights had gathered around his mystery shack. The smoke shrouded his eye sight and Prithu became a part of the deadly inferno.

The chant of 'German Bakery has been bombed' echoed all night long . At last , he knew ….

A week ago, I was sitting on the last bench of an extremely boring lecture in class. The teacher was trying her best to teach a management subject, but due to her poor linguistic skills fell short of conveying her point . Then , she posed a question to us , 'Do you never understand what I teach because I'm getting a miserable response, let me know, so then I can change my style' ...

Well, any third person would feel sorry for this dame and label us as a ruthless and indisciplined mob, who care a hoot for a teacher . There's a young lady trying to communicate and we, stand like a united unyielding barrier who just won't relent .

Delving deeper into the issue, the issue I want to raise here is that, we go to college to learn and learning needs to be holistic. How is a class in which a teacher comes into class, displays a few slides, speaks a few sentences in broken english, be remotely interesting .

When such a monotonous class is on, I always put myself in the teacher's shoes and ponder about how I'd teach .. and I somehow find innumerable ways to make the class interesting - a few being discussions, real life situations enacted , a few videos , examples from the current scenario ...

Try and talk about or explain something that students will relate to. Give them something to think about and get practical !!I mean , what use is a bunch of theoretical conclusions if you just can't apply them to life ?

Alas , when she gave me a chance to convey all of this to her , I didn't . Why ? Well, because it would've made no difference . In an ideal world , we would be taught that way and she wouldn't be the one teaching us , it'd be someone who knew the language, someone who didn't just read it off a book , someone who exploited their resources to no end(internet), someone who actually cared enough ......and we are spectators to this method of teaching have slowly started losing hope in our educational institutions .

Give a thought.....

My teachers always told me, close your eyes and ponder about what you imagine yourself to be ten years down the line. Harbouring dreams, of being a broadcast journalist I imagined myself being at the scene of war , maybe somewhere in the middle east, reporting some gruesome activities amidst a lot of confusion and anarchy.

I posed a question to me, why is it that ten years down the line do I still foresee so much violence, have I grown accustomed to it, or is it that I've not seen it any other way for a long time now.

A thought crept into my head, that how tamed our mind is today, to the age of warfare, mistrust, death and deterioration around us . How tuned our routine is to read the morning newspaper and see headlines eliciting carnage. How events like rape,robbery,murder,suicide are just being hyped at and the hoopla surrounding one dies after another one comes by, and how we have smugly adjusted to this cycle.I am baffled at how my definition of the normalcy of life has significantly changed and how I have come to live normally in such abnormal circumstances.

It was the year of my very first Board Examination, the hype and hoopla of the boards had surrounded me for like a year now (yes from mid ninth) and after being a little baffled and frightened at how important the boards were , often quoted as 'They're the turning point of your life' like a zillion times by my teachers and parents, I had started studying very scrupulously. I felt that my life depended on them. I used to maintain a diary at that time, and now when I read it again, I am bored and shocked at myself. Almost every page, talks about how I have been a bad student and how I needed to improve!!! I was a little disappointed at the 'me' a few years back, because in retrospect I feel that without having all those guilty feelings of not putting in much effort, I'd still have managed to do well, because at any point and time in life, its really necessary that all you need is a goal, and focus. Once there's a reason(not will ) there's a way to do it , and I had my reason. In any case, I was disappointed for overburdening my diary with my guilt trips instead of something creative and making an interesting read.

Like a real student, I used to get very bored while studying because for a long while thats all that had been said, around me and at me ! This is an excerpt from those times .....

I was feeling stagnant,like the still water on which mosquitoes breed

Like a painted picture, dead, not suited for the artist's greed

Like a torn doll not painted anymore

Like a red toe, bloody and sore ...

I was a stale egg on which fleas feed

A little fresh air and some music was all I did need

I stood pale and sleepy with my senses numb

I can't describe better my dreadful boredom !!!!

PS: I did well and hardwork is the key to success :P just don't center your life around one particular thing and don't let others do it too !!

Past ramblings....(2)

The poem the 'Frog and the nightingale' was my favorite in the tenth standard. In my opinion, it was one of the best examples of sarcastic humor and had a very amusing rhyme scheme....My friends and I could remember only the first two lines of the poem and we made up the rest ...The result of our boredom, turned out to be a trifle bit less boring, and I loved it !!

There was a frog in Bingle Bog

Who lived beneath a thick green log

He hopped outside in the middle of the night

To see if he could find some food in sight

But, no! alas! That could not be

He was blind and he could not see

He called his friend from way up there

And raised his hands up in a prayer

But unfortunetaly his prayers went in vain

His thoughts were marred by the slime in his brain

But his hunger he could not overcome

His tummy went rum rum rum rum rum

Eventually he was nearly dead

As his empty stomach could not be fed

As he lay and breathed his last

He was killed by his unending fast

And hence ended the story of the Bingle Bog Frog

Who lived beneath the thick green log

By the three mouseketeers

In fond memory of the bingle big frog.

Past ramblings....(1)

I am convinced that some of my older posts in my 'enthusiastically started but never pursued' older blogs are way better than what I pen down these days,I am posting some of them here ....

Why is understanding the intricacies of the self sometimes so difficult...

why can i lend a patient year to the whole world and solve their problems in a jiffy while mine are unfathomable....

why when i want to hear the inner voice echoing through my heart is it so difficult to drain the screams of everything moving through the corridorsof my little brain....

why when i know what i want from life and my brain thinks perfectly straight..do i want something thats not going to lead anywhere but will provide momentary bliss...

why is penning down thoughts being more confusing than thinking in itself...

why am i sure that what im convinced about this moment will turn hazy this same moment tomorrow....

why does impulse take over the calmness and thoughtfulnessof my actions ....

why do i cause so much hurt to those who love me while all my time goes in being polite and amicable to those who 'll probably not register that i exist after my meeting.....

why is it that sometimes relationships go so sour that i fail to recognise the very person who i shared the most of my life with.....

why is it a herculean task to somtimes accept life the way that it is ......

why ???

This is a memory ....

A long time ago , I had been to a beautiful place amongst the highest mountain ranges this world has seen ....Himalayas. It was a trek organised to Har ki Dun, or valley of God .

The total duration of our trip was for 7 days , everyday being a novel experience , one of its kind . I especially loved the different terrain that I encountered on each of these journeys .

From a rocky area ,to grasslands , and beautiful meadows I treaded sundry paths . In a seven day span , I saw how wonderous and varied nature in a hilly region could get .

But the memory is of no different day , its just of a small moment in the entire travel .

After a long and tiresome walk we had just reached our camp area in the route ,a small station called Taluka , not different from the others .

It had a small gallery in the girls dormitory . On reaching , everyone unpacked and went downstairs to join the whole gang, engaged themselves in random group activities .

I on the other hand was drawn to that one gallery, the picture outside was beautiful, I still remember it vividly. I was staring at two mountains , immensely huge , their peaks covered in snow like icing on a gigantic chocolate cake, the white shining in the misty twilight.

That day, I felt like such a tiny part of this universe, yet I felt so proud of being a part. A part that mattered on one hand to all those who knew me , around me , and yet a part whose prescence or abscence made absolutely no difference in the bigger picture ...the balance of this universe would still remain intact, if i didn't exist. Like a speck of dust, which actually had no meaning . Yet, there I was engaged in petty problems of my own head , lost in my own existence, finding my meaning to life and to why I was .

As these philosophical thoughts crept my mind, i noticed this cute little house next to ours .Two local ladies were looking at me and our pulton that had arrived. They were so far, I couldn't hear them and neither could I fathom what they were saying . I waved and smiled, they reciprocated, I asked them something in hindi, as loudly as I could, and they replied, I really didnt understand what they said, but our incomprehensible communication pursued for a while. At last, I went back in as the evening drew its blanket and the cold made it difficult for me to stay outdoors .

I felt strangely content , a small relationship in this world, which would make no difference to me or to them, but it made me feel happy . We didn't understand each other but i made a new friend, momentary but it lasted !

Oh and all those who take the time to read my thoughts and the many who don't ..wish you all A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR ! :)

I've not felt upto it to write in ages,rather to put it aptly , I've always felt like writing, but the course I am doing , my college and in the rut of my own mundane duties, it always took a backseat.Everytime I felt that I should pen something down, I was reminded of some other task that seemed more important and I kept putting this off .

Lately I've been getting this puzzling sense of Euphoria . It's not like I've achieved something spectacular , just a feeling of contentment . Life 's pretty much the same, the same old college, same friends,but a very subtle change has occurred - my attitude. I've realised the importance of so many small things in life that I'd been overlooking for so long . In the thrust of being someone I'd looked up to since I was little, trying to fulfill that mental image in my head , many kind of lost track of what I actually wanted to do in my life how I really wanted to be and what I was capable of . Not much has changed really , but I ve begun to think a little more about every action I take and its consequences . Nowadays, I feel more responsible as a person, I don't feel sheltered . I was independent at a very early age, but its real meaning I think I've started to understand now ...I guess it takes its own time for each person ..Maybe this realization is what is called growing up...or so I think...

Its been so long,so long a time that I have pondered this ,
Its not today ,its been a while that I’ve found life amiss,
I don’t complain that I have less and I do not want more,
A tender doubt lies in my mind,a question that creates uproar,
My father wishes me to play , every sport with elan,
My mother dreams to see me grow, a darling woman of my clan,
I have a friend who tells me that I should begin to write ,
My strength lies not in my sword , its with my pen that I fight .
A man becomes what he sees in his prime
Either a frail pod yearning for nourishment or a blossomming tree,invincible sublime
Oh how do I choose , the path to take,
A decision I guess its time to make
For listening to others my heart has grown numb ,
Its true call I fail to fathom ...
Its been so long that I can't hear , a lost soul in utter despair ..
I try so hard to clear this doubt ,
Scouring the sounds for voices within,suppressing those that stand with-out ...