Puneet Gupta's Blog, page 2

Book Review: The Shiva Trilogy

Recently finished reading the "Shiva Trilogy" by Amish Tripathy. While a lot has been said and written about him (many calling him the Dan Brown of India), I was left largely disappointed by these books which I picked up after a long procrastination (usually habit to stay away from stuff that seems to be getting too much attention)...

Good things first - reasonably researched, well thought out in terms of the concept, thoughtful choice of characters, mixing fiction with mythology, and an insightful psychological set of views (many of them very poignant and so very relevant). Where it falters is a very flat and monotonic narration (except for flashes of brilliance like the fight between Sati and The Egyptians), poor vocabulary, mundane characterization (except for some characters like Parvateshvar) and a hugely disappointing climax (the author seems to have no idea about what to do after bringing everyone along on a long journey)... The books could have been so much better. Hope that Amish can work out these kinks and do full justice to his power of imagination & potential that has been showcased through this trilogy.

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The Blood Ties

[FICTION - Short Story, Copyright - Puneet Gupta]


I look around and find no one I can tell that I feel suffocated. I cannot tell that I have wet myself with my own blood, for a second time in the same day. They ask me why I wont sit down. And I feign that I have a stomach ache. Its acidity, I say. Reluctantly, they agree, although they continue to beg me to sit down with them for the spicy starters. I am not menstruating, for I am a guy. Yet, every few weeks, for a few days, I go through my periods. No one knows about this but me. Well actually, some of my friends do know. In fact this is a topic of much discussion. But I dont mind that - not at all. Somehow, telling them was so much easier.

I am in discomfort. Being the host of this party, I am required to do the running around and watch over the arrangements. Of course, my sister or parents could do it as well, but I have thrown together this party to mark my parents twenty fifth wedding anniversary. I sent out all the invites, purchased all the flowers, called relatives and my parents' friends, selected the cake, bought gifts, booked the banquet hall and arranged for the pick ups. I cannot hand it down to someone else to manage. They wont be able to do it, I tell myself, knowing very well that it was infact not true. I acknowledge my weakness of not letting go when needed. I have been obsessively compulsive about order, discipline, and rules - perfectionism being a need more than a desire. So here I stand, waliking around the reception hall in my oh-so-tight black Red-Tape shoes (I should have tried them on with socks when I was buying them), talking to the guests asking about whether the food is to their taste, insisting that my paternal aunt takes a serving of sweet-corn soup, fretting about the red-and-blue-striped neck-tie my dad is wearing, cajoling my mother to sit down and relax and not worry about anything. All this while, I am very certainly conscious of the wetness around my groin. I am morbidly scared that inspite of the two underwears that I had on, the blood would ooze out and stain my khakis. So, I walk over to my cousin and ask if I had accidentally sat on ketchup spilled over a chair. He looks down at my butt and assures me it is alright. Phew...

I visit the men's room about eight times in the next one and a half hour, only to be assured every time that it was okay. I wipe the blood off with tissues on each occacion, and wondered what this is going to lead to eventually. As I step back into the festivity and music, I forget about it for some time, until one of my uncles asks me how I feel. I assure him for the third time that evening that I was perfectly alright - just had a little bit of an upset stomach. He concedes, sensing that his repeated inquiries were irking me. I dont bother to be too polite. But since he is my father's brother-in-law, I give in - trying to avoid another family showdowns a week later. So I find him a few minutes later and chit-chat about his son, who was enrolled in the Defence Academy for some engineering program. That seems to strike the right chord.

We raise a toast to my parents, and then my sister gives a small speech that she and I have prepared, working diligently on it for weeks. Thunderous applause of fifty six guests greets us as she closes. Our parents come forward and hug us, misty eyed and choking with emotion. Soon the cake is cut and the dance floor is thrown open to pelvic gyrations, shimmies, shoulder thrusts and all the balle-balle steps we Delhi people are so proud to claim as dance. I dont dance, of course, much to the chagrin of my cousin sisters. Dinner is soon served on white ceramic plates that I feel are too heavy. I dont eat, and no less than twenty people ask if I have had my meals. Of course I have had dinner, I say. I lie.

Amindst all this, my trips to the men's room have continued. On my fift visit, I run into my cousin. He is elder to me, married now and with a new born. Apparently the angel had pooped all over daddy's new trousers. He is cross when I say hi. After minutes of bickering about how his wife is too careless to be a mother, he asks if I am okay. I lie once again. I could have told him, but he would not know what to do. Inspite of his thirty years of age and parenthood, he has not once taken any decision on his own. I know telling him would be a huge mistake. Invariably he would tell his dad or my dad or someone's mom in the worst case. They would raise an alarm. All the fifty six people would demand to know what had happened, and embarass me with their detailed enquiries. Finally, the party would be prematuredly terminated since I would be instantly rushed to a hospital. And the perfection that I aspired for so much would surely be ruined - because of me. So I lie.

Back at home that night, I overhear my dad telling my mother on how great it was to have family around. He does not mention his friends. May be because he considers them too as his family. Or may be because they do not matter to him as much as his own sister or my mother's brother do. I cant help but wonder if I could bring about myself to find such happiness in my family alone. I wonder if family could also be friends. Or what the phrase "family friends" meant.

My friends mean more to me than anything in the world, I think as I toss around in the bed at night. The bleeding has now all but stopped. But I am aware of the fact that it may return any time without announcemnt. In the last few weeks, I have lost a few ounces of blood. Perhaps that was what my mother's keen eye had caught when I came home last week. At that time, I brushed it off saying that she was imagining things. But even then I knew the real reasons. A part of me had wanted to yell out and announce the truth. But I held back, thinking that this may be too much for my parents to handle. I had not wanted to spoil the party. Thinking about such things, I doze off.

I make it to the bathroom just in time next morning. Mornings are the worst usually. It is as if someone has turned on a tap. I leak blood for about fifteen minutes. I clean up diligently, not leaving any trace of blood - at least for the naked eye. My mother calls out from outside, asking me what was taking me so long. I yell back saying that I am in the mood for a long shower, feigning soreness from all the standing last night. She oohs her assurance and tells me I should take my time.

As I turn on the shower and stand under the cold running water, I remember my friends in Pune, where I now work. At first my father had insisted that I take up a job in Delhi or NCR (a phrase I have come to loathe and detest). But then he gave in to my preference. Now he is used to my being away, and I guess over a period of time, it has stopped mattering so much to him. My mother is still more sensitive. I can not tell her why I dont come back, though there are job offers I can secure if I really try - and if I really want to come back. I cant tell her that I feel stifled at home during the few days that I come over every couple of months. I become another person when I am at my parents' home in Delhi - quite a striking contrast to how my friends know me. With them, I dont have to pretend. I am who I am, and I am loved for being precisely that person. I dont have to make small talk to easy-to-irritate uncles or make courtesy phone calls to be in touch with cousins. I can admit my weaknesses and seek help, without being judged. I dont need to follow rules or keep appreances of status. I can help then in their need without feeling overly generous about it and share my own vulnerabilities without hesitation. They give me my space when I need it and dont insist on asking embarassing questions. They let me be.

And I remember how I did not need to make an excuse for stopping during our trek last month. I remember not having to hide that I felt dizzy or that my underwear was stained with fresh blood. I had not resisted when they had taken me home and then to the doctor. I had not fussed about wearing the change of clothes they got. I had let them go to the doctor's chamber with me next day to discuss the reports. I had let them be my strength as the doctor went over the procedures and risks of the treatment options for colon cancer.

Slaves of Rhythm

I giggled quite a lot when watching a recent episode from The Big Bang Theory - the famous sitcom on American television these days. Specifically on scenes where I see Sheldon - the quirky theoretical physicist with an obsessive compulsive disorder - vehemently opposing Indian food on Wednesday that happens to be a Thai food night. A creature of habit, he finds it very difficult to make these seemingly small changes. Later that night, a friend of mine suggested that I move to a new apartment - a suggestion I too quite vociferously shot down stating that I am way too comfortable the way my life has settled into its routine grind, and that a change would upset everything...


As I spoke those words, my mind wandered back to another incident from a few years back. It was on a chilly evening in Pittsburgh in 2004 that I recall this gentleman who claimed his powers in palmistry. A room-mate of my friend, he exclaimed loudly when he saw my hand (the third in the series of hands that he read that evening). He claimed that it was the most interesting hand he had ever read. Amongst the many other things he professed, one was that I would nt stay settled in one place for too long. That change would be an inevitable part of my destiny. That transformation would be constant and perennial.


The meory brought a smile to my face... Somewhat torn between my most certain destiny and my innate inertia to resist change, I pondered over my own acceptance of impending changes. And although I detest the idea of transitions from one to the other, from old to the new, I know in the heart of my hearts that I enjoy change. Unsettling as it may be during the time when it happens, the feeling it invariably leaves afterwards is of a merriment that lingers on. Of course, not all changes fall in that category - specially the ones that I have not chosen for myself. But whenever I am in the driver's seat, and am the one who has a say in the diversions I take from the planned route, the new destinations that I reach usually gladden me at the end of it.


While change in one's lifestyle or shifting to a new apartment may be simpler transitions to bring about or bear with, a change in one's toughts however is a more onerous undertaking - something that can drain a lot out of a person. I have learnt a few traits - the so called acquired behavior much like acquired taste - but its been a struggle. Because the very thing that you are tying to bring a difference to is what you actually are - what defines who you are, your nature, your self...And I wonder if that inherent self ever changes. Although we may learn to swagger to a new tune, does the basic rhythm ever change?

I know that I am slave to some of my habits - things that I am not sure I would ever be able to change, although the fate lines on hand suggest so... So is change really that simple? is the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder really that uncommon? Arent we all symptomatic of it at some or the other level?

Poeple Are Like Other People

Last week, I happened to read an old Agatha Christie mystery by the name of "Nemesis", starring the very dear and sharp Miss Jane Marple. Now, for all those who are familiar with Miss Marple, its common knowledge that she is able to play the sleuth's role that well because she studies and observes people very closely. And its her belief that some traits of very person are like some other person who she has met before in life. Some anthropological and psychological conundrum, but thats how she does it!

I have been quite intrigued by this philosophy of hers for years, although she certainly is a fictitious character. And for years, I have been trying to follow such patterns in people's personalities, leading a realization of the fact that Miss Marple, like the books, though right in her saying so, perhaps lacked a universal applicability of the idea. For example, I am quite certain that she would have found it very difficult to apply her approach for a crafty murder set in Cochin or Chandigarh instead of London. Wondering why? Let me explain.

The West has had this notion of "individuality" and "personal space" for ages, equivalents of which have thus far not existed in the Indian society. Although its changing in the urban communities, its too little for a population of over a 100 crores. Therefore, when Miss Marple saw a certain Mr Bradford and found him characteristically similar to the baker's son from down the street in St Mary's Mead, it was because she had the opportunity to interact with both the gentlemen as individuals... In India, however, every middle class person in Chennai is like every other middle class person in New Delhi. Every farmer in Andhra is like any other farmer in Punjab or Orissa. All college going students are like a herd of people excited about careers, Facebook and junk food. Maids across the country are from the same pool of clones vying for short cuts from house work and better salaries. Housewives follow identical life patterns all over the country with lives centred around everyone at home but for themselves. Their rights and their wrongs are the same; their prejudices and priorities are off-the-shelf commodities,often inherited across generations... So, Miss Marple would not interacted with a certain person and seen him/her behave in a certain way, she would have only seen behavior patterns of a whole society expressed though that person.

Of course, I am not claiming that every single one of us is a true replica of someone else, but am alluding to the fact that many of us do not have an independent thought process and are so heavily conditioned into sterotypes, conventions and acceptable modalities of life, that we simply follow and abide by many things almost robotically. Its programmed into us at a very innate level and hence makes distinction of one person from other as an individual quite a challenge...

How and when this came about, I am not sure. How and when it would change , I would want to know...

Simply Taboo

Water is essential for survival. Trees shed leaves in autumn. The sun is hot. Bitter gourd is bitter. White color is better to wear in summers. Traffic situation in Bangalore is bad...

We are so comfortable making these statements - small truths that we utter without the slightest of hestitation. Perhaps because we have gotten used to making these observations and mentioning them openly. But more so because the stakeholders like "water", "sun" or "Bangalore traffic" arent going to get hurt by whatever you are going to say.

But we also dont shy away from saying that Sunil Shetty sucks as an actor or Mayawati is the worst thing to happen to UP politics in a long long time. What works there is the fact that these people, though known, are public figures to whom individual opinions dont reach (or they dont care about it). But have you ever heard a boss in an MNC tell his subordinate "You have too
much attitude and too few results" or a son tell his mother "I think you are too bossy, Mom, Give dad a break!" Or a wife tell her husband "You are quite boring, even when in bed".

Perhaps not (of course, its not impossible that you actually have, but the odds are less).

The reason is simple - simplicity of expression has started become taboo in the modern social set up, especially the elite bourgeoisie (or the so called upper middle class). Something is conditioning us to go all circuitous about what we say and how we say it. Egos are fragile, impatience runs high and confidence in relationships at an all time low. Therefore, people are too careful not "hurting" other people's feelings. To such an extent, that they end up sugarcoating what they actually want to say. A reprimand sounds apologetic. A complaint comes across as a curiosity. A great distress is expressed more as a wondering... And in the whole pell-mell aproach to "discussion" or "talking", the simple thing that you wanted to say gets lost.

The sad truth is that the truth is often bitter, just like a bitter gourd, and not too many have the stomach to face it when presented in its naked grossness. But those who do bring themselves to face it often find a way to get past it, and relationships benefit from the stark nakedness of it. They find a way to grow and build greater levels of trust.

But when one tries to hold the ear by going atround the back of their head, it is only a matter of time before the hand holding the ear in that awkward manner starts to feel strained. Its only a matter of time that actual conversations cease and all that one does is to find some glue to hold together a crumbling cardhouse. Its only a matter of time before all the pent up emotion bursts and smothers the last strands holding people together.

Its simple... yet not so simple.

If Love, Then What?

It was over a cup of herbal tea that a friend suddenly grew pensive. We had been chatting quite late into the night and she happened to mention how sometimes expectations can be a burden. Sitting by the dim light of a hand-made candle, as I looked upon the delicate crawlers of the money plant held together by strands of sturdy strings, I couldnt help but wonder if there was any relationship that did not come with its baggage of expecations - something that was as important for the relationship as the strings was to the money-plant. Could the money-plant do without the support of the strings?

The discussion veered into myriad directions, and was followed with the dissection of quite a few relationships based on love - that amongst siblings, friends and of course children and parents. We asked each other - "Are the friendships and loves of our life quite so selfless? When we say or tell someone that we love them, what are we really telling them?"

My friend commented - quite to my astonishment- that even the most sacred of all relationships - the one between a mother and child - is perhaps a bit non-selfless... Shocking it was - to hear it first - but she argued and argued it well, quoting instances and experiences from her own life. I didnt know if I agreed with her or not - the thought was so unsettling that I decided to abandon it and not think about it any more.

But the question lingered on in my mind until quite later. What really is unconditional love? Can one really do that? And if one claims that he / she really does, then they must be doing it because they truly feel good doing so... But if thats the case, how can we say that it was really selfless?

I analyzed my own life and people I think I love and possily unconditionally. But introspecting and delving deeper into my conscience, as I started to read my innermost thoughts without the aid of the bearings of my societal training, I stumbled upon a discovery. Whichever way I went,
whatever person I picked - I realized that my need of giving the love that I gave was quite as important to me as it may be valuable for others, bordering on being existentially important for my being. It was then that I wondered that I coulnt love anyone unconditionally... with the exception of perhaps myself.

So is self-love the only unconditional one? Is it wrong to have expecations from the loved ones? Is there a thing as selfish love?

Diffressence...

Everything is made a certain way, using a certain mould. And then there are others like it made using the same mould or a similar one. With minor changes to the form, size, etchings and detailed patterns. But never the same. Even "identical" twins have their own quirks and peculiarities. Take a marigold flower, and look carefully at its frond - all the petals would look the same, but they are not xerox copies. Nor are all the slices cut from the same loaf of bread or all pencils drawn from a pack of Staedler HBs.

So, individuality is inherent to the existence of each thing and being... But the extent to which these differences are pronounced varies case by case. While all fish in a shoal are born pink, some might be born pinker. Some pages in a ream of A4 sheets would feel somewhat rougher than the rest. And some people come across as peculiar since they do not exhibit the general "traits" exhibited by people around in that geographical and demographical set up. These are the "outliers". The exceptions to the rule.

Is being different however cool? Has Maggi Tomato Ketchup been able to sell itself better by claiming to say "Its Different". Have movie makers been able to fool the audiences by saying that the script and stylizing of their creation is "different" and "offbeat"?

I dont know..

And how open are we to accpting people and ideas that are different? Radically different? Wasnt there a hue and cry over the Supereme Court judgement legalizing homesexuality in India? Havent be constantly underlizing the importance we attach to the diferences by highlighting issues like caste-based-reservations and protests for equal-rights-for-women? Dont we build special facilities for the physically disabled?

We do... Dont we?

But are we ashamed of being a party to these differences? Do we not feel a pride in being a friend to someone who is not stereotypical - someone who draws attention to you by being your friend? Arent we excited by stories that we read on Facebook about someone who trekked Machu-Pichu on two amputated legs? Dont we narrate such things to friends over lunch?

We do...

But when it comes to excercing our own individuality, whys is that we always shy away from it? Why is there always a desire to "fit in"? And why do we find ourselves too eager to label people as "freaks" if they dont fall under the stereotypes of normalcy?

I dont know... Do you?

Gulliver's Tales

My fingers were just getting a little tired while flipping the channels on the television. The worn out remote control (whose buttons have lost all symbols and numbers that once identified them) must have heaved a sign of relief when I gave up and resigned to undergo the mind numbing exercise of watching a news bulletin. During one of the several short breaks that followed, something caught my attention.

A bunch of colleagues in an office, one guy telling the others animatedly about a gigantic man and his tales of adventure. It reminded me of Gulliver. I was still wondering about what was on the TV when another power cut was bestowed upon my sweltering second floor. Bothered though I was by the dry heat, I was quite lost in the tales of adventures that Gulliver had once brought to my world of imagination as a ten year old. I remembered the pocket money that my grandfather used to give me - under the promise that I would lend a book from the nearby shop and read it instead of spending the 50 paise on orange and rose candies (may favorite). Although I cringed every time he made me make that promise, in my heart of hearts I treasured these reading expeditions more than any game of Ludo or hide-and-seek. My favorites were Chanda-mama, Tinkle and Chacha-Chaudhary, Tauji (with his magic stick) and Rumjhum (with his magic beard); although He-Man, Bittoo, Pinki, Nagraj, Mandrake, Archies, and many others were in the running too.

The sudden clamor of my fan brought me back to the present. The TV was back on and what it had on took me aback - a boy of about 10 years was sitting on a table and narrating the exciting experiences of someone or the other - mirroring the same excitement that had just imbued me in my reverie. It was just a coincidence, but the boy was living my daydream on TV. As he went on, I got more interested, and drawn into what it was all about.

I was soon to find out that this was a new service that Vodafone has started - Amar Chitra Katha is now available for reading and sharing on your mobile phones. I excaliamed in joy and applauded the geniuses behind the idea - the sheer concept and the apt advertising. In the fast moving age of shopping malls and endless gadgets, its perhaps a smart way of drawing children back to story books and the rich legacy of folklore that our country has - the richness that I had had the luxury to experience.

Parents can play an important role in coloring their child's growing years with the scintillating palette of colors that these stories have to offer. Their encourgaement can help their child develop an interest in reading. Whats more, children today can even listen to and watch these stories from all over the world with websites like Runjhun Stories (www.runjhunstory.com). With avenues like these, I hope that imagination would once again find its wings, fly, soar and exhilirate the souls that it touches!

Story Telling – The Lost Charm of Childhood

During the long summer vacations, every evening I would sit down next to my grandmother, assisting her in her evening chore – peeling off the semi hard shell of the seeds that she extracted from the musk melon we had had the previous day. But more than the intent to help, what made me offer my help was driven by an ulterior motive. I liked, in fact loved listening to her fantastical tales – from her childhood spent in her village, her marriage and moving to the city and about her children. Sometimes, she would forget the seeds altogether while she narrated some anecdote from her yester years with great zest. She told me about how she watched the first film on a bioscope that was brought to her village by a nautanki company. I learnt about the horrid times the family had been through during the years of emergency. I found out about the rituals that were done when my father was born. And she narrated to me hundreds of stories from Mahabharata and Ramayana, giving me my first insight into these glorious epics of Indian
mythology. Sometimes, my mother would pick up the threads of our conversation and add to those stories from her knowledge. That’s how folklore must be born and passed across generations, I understood. These and many other stories gave my childhood a flavor that I would never forget.

Cut to the year 2008. Video games, computer widgets and electronic entertainment has made such forays into most of the homes in the cities – big and small – that the times when parents and grandparents would sit with the children of the house and talk seem too rare. And even during those, the conversation tends to linger around the next trip to water amusement parks, the next animation film, the new burger at McDonalds and the spelling bee contest. Its no surprise therefore, that the children today can’t name the five Pandavas or tell chabbees (Hindi for 26) from saintalees (Hindi for 47) to save their lives. It’s not about knowledge but about being in touch with one’s roots, and much more. With parents working and/or too busy with the mad rush of city life, most children today don’t get a healthy doze of bedtime stories. They are told not to lie, but they never get to see it from Pinocchio’s perspective. They are taught to work hard, but they never get to see the rabbit loose the race. Morals, life values and lessons all stay in words – they never make home in children’s hearts and minds. And we see the manifestations of that in every day life. The moral fabric of the city life weakens with every passing year. What was not so acceptable yesterday has become normal today. History is forgotten and the learnings lost. Principles are compromised every day.

Looking back now, I wonder, if the times would ever be the same again. If Panchatantra and Chanda Mama would ever have their lost charm again. If parents would tell stories to their children again. If schools would enact folk tales on annual day functions again. If grandmother’s would pick musk melon seeds with their grand children again…