Rajrupa Gupta's Blog, page 10
June 20, 2013
A Dark Tale - A story - Part I
This
time I am back to wearing the judge’s hat for the Indifiction Workshop once
again with Leo and Jaish. And we decided: why not use our power to make people
write some spooky stories? After all it’s also the season’s preference, isn’t
it? Who doesn’t like a good ghost story on a rainy evening, stretching on a
couch or a comfy floor mat and munching hot pakodas? The kind of stories that
makes your hairs stand straight on the back of your neck?
Source: Web
The ideal situation for such
storytelling, as preached by the many authors I grew up reading, always
involved an elderly person as the storyteller. He narrated his stories, his
life experiences in most cases, to a group of scared children. Invariably the
power would be out due to the heavy rain and storm that raged on.
There were so many storyteller dada,
dadu, uncles in the Bengali literature I grew up loving that I could easily
compensate the lack of one such elder in my life with them. My childhood was so
influenced by them, that I could easily hear a child’s cry in the crack of a
lightning and see a veiled woman in the wet shadow of a banana tree.
In
this post however, I am going to play the role of, say an elderly dadi, a
grandma that is, the storyteller. And in my jhuli tonight, I have a tale which
is, yes, you guessed it right, from my own experience. Make sure: you have your
pakodas and steaming cup of tea ready, you wouldn’t need to use the bathroom in
next five minutes and most importantly the lights of your room are turned off.
And
now, here comes the story:
In
the year of 2004, the summer was particularly hot in the campus of the engineering
college of Kolapur. The black fumes that rose from the ever burning six
chimneys of the neighbourhood power plant looked a little more menacing – pitch
black against the clear blue sky. The beautiful half circular lake that kept the
huge campus separated from the mainland was drying up. The greens of the Kadam
flower trees and the Eucalyptus trees that surrounded the campus looked dull as
a thick film of carbon particles from the power plant coated them evenly.
The
students were pretty much toasted that week as the heat wave barred them inside
the hostels. By the time it was Saturday almost all the students had gone home
for the weekend. Only few from far off places scattered the hostels in a room
or two.
Three
such first years, roommates actually, a little adventurous, ventured out early
afternoon just after the lunch was served. They strolled amidst the Eucalyptus
trees, scorched by the sun, past the white fence, by the bank of the lake. They
were alone for everyone was either gone home or taking a nap after lunch. Only
a cuckoo cuckooed on in a monotonous tone. The placid water, its fearsome depth
gone, looked safer, almost inviting to take a dip. Indeed, few villagers from
villages on the other side were dipping their heads in the water. They looked
tiny for the width of the lake was vast but yet they were there as a reassuring
presence to these three strollers.
One
look at each other and they knew, all of them, that they wanted to take a
plunge. A conforming nod at each other and they all stripped off their clothes
and jumped into the water. The water felt so cold, so soothing against their
hot skin. They laughed loudly exclaiming why they hadn’t tried this before!
After all, rules were meant to be broken, weren’t they? They swam, lapping up
the water happily.
They
didn’t remember how long they had been in the water, because the water was
hypnotizing against their burning skins. They noticed only when the bird’s
cuckooing grew louder and urgent. They laughed at the bird and screamed back
mocking its voice. The bird’s call grew more persistent. It was only then they noticed
that one of their friends was drowning – rather he seemed caught in a whirlpool
that pulled him down. The one closest to him lunged forward in an impulse to
grab his friend, to pull him out. The drowning boy too reached for his friend
and all his desperate hands could find was his janau – the sacred Brahmin
thread that went across his chest. He pulled it hard, as hard as he could,
without noticing that in his effort to survive he had already killed his friend
as the thread had cut deep in his throat. The third friend in his helplessness
was torn between saving himself and his friends. After few seconds of desperate
pondering he chose the latter while screaming as loudly for help as he could.
This
attracted the villagers’ notice. They too started screaming. All these,
combined with the cuckoo’s frantic calling may have alerted the guards for they
reached just as the boy reached the shore. He was holding the drowned boy’s
hand tightly who in turn still held the janau in his iron grip.
When
they were rushed to the hospital, two of them were unconscious and one was
dead. All the doctors in the power plant’s hospital tried their best but they
couldn’t save the second boy as well – he had drank too much water. The
third boy survived but he developed a far gone stare, he didn’t speak, he just
looked at people. Sometimes he laughed – probably happy about his survival,
while some other times he cried, howled hysterically – probably remembering his
dead friends. That’s what the doctors said anyway. His nearest relatives came
and took him away, to keep him safe under their care till his parents arrived.
But
the others students were blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was taking
place. Most of them were cocooned at that time in the comfort of their homes.
Those few who were in the campus knew but they didn’t feel like telling others
about it. Not yet anyway. They spared them another day of ignorance. It was
probably the first time in the college history the news didn’t spread through
like fire in the dry wood.
Nevertheless
the news did spread. As the dark of Sunday evening fell, as the flock of
students started coming back to the campus, they all knew. But it was such a
hard truth to take in! Some of the first years, the deceased’s friends, ran to
their room to cross check if this was a huge practical joke! But nobody could
touch the bolted unlocked door. It was as if an invisible force threw them
back.
Then,
around midnight, the storm started.
To
be continued…
Love
Riot of Random
time I am back to wearing the judge’s hat for the Indifiction Workshop once
again with Leo and Jaish. And we decided: why not use our power to make people
write some spooky stories? After all it’s also the season’s preference, isn’t
it? Who doesn’t like a good ghost story on a rainy evening, stretching on a
couch or a comfy floor mat and munching hot pakodas? The kind of stories that
makes your hairs stand straight on the back of your neck?
Source: Web
The ideal situation for such
storytelling, as preached by the many authors I grew up reading, always
involved an elderly person as the storyteller. He narrated his stories, his
life experiences in most cases, to a group of scared children. Invariably the
power would be out due to the heavy rain and storm that raged on.
There were so many storyteller dada,
dadu, uncles in the Bengali literature I grew up loving that I could easily
compensate the lack of one such elder in my life with them. My childhood was so
influenced by them, that I could easily hear a child’s cry in the crack of a
lightning and see a veiled woman in the wet shadow of a banana tree.
In
this post however, I am going to play the role of, say an elderly dadi, a
grandma that is, the storyteller. And in my jhuli tonight, I have a tale which
is, yes, you guessed it right, from my own experience. Make sure: you have your
pakodas and steaming cup of tea ready, you wouldn’t need to use the bathroom in
next five minutes and most importantly the lights of your room are turned off.
And
now, here comes the story:
In
the year of 2004, the summer was particularly hot in the campus of the engineering
college of Kolapur. The black fumes that rose from the ever burning six
chimneys of the neighbourhood power plant looked a little more menacing – pitch
black against the clear blue sky. The beautiful half circular lake that kept the
huge campus separated from the mainland was drying up. The greens of the Kadam
flower trees and the Eucalyptus trees that surrounded the campus looked dull as
a thick film of carbon particles from the power plant coated them evenly.
The
students were pretty much toasted that week as the heat wave barred them inside
the hostels. By the time it was Saturday almost all the students had gone home
for the weekend. Only few from far off places scattered the hostels in a room
or two.
Three
such first years, roommates actually, a little adventurous, ventured out early
afternoon just after the lunch was served. They strolled amidst the Eucalyptus
trees, scorched by the sun, past the white fence, by the bank of the lake. They
were alone for everyone was either gone home or taking a nap after lunch. Only
a cuckoo cuckooed on in a monotonous tone. The placid water, its fearsome depth
gone, looked safer, almost inviting to take a dip. Indeed, few villagers from
villages on the other side were dipping their heads in the water. They looked
tiny for the width of the lake was vast but yet they were there as a reassuring
presence to these three strollers.
One
look at each other and they knew, all of them, that they wanted to take a
plunge. A conforming nod at each other and they all stripped off their clothes
and jumped into the water. The water felt so cold, so soothing against their
hot skin. They laughed loudly exclaiming why they hadn’t tried this before!
After all, rules were meant to be broken, weren’t they? They swam, lapping up
the water happily.
They
didn’t remember how long they had been in the water, because the water was
hypnotizing against their burning skins. They noticed only when the bird’s
cuckooing grew louder and urgent. They laughed at the bird and screamed back
mocking its voice. The bird’s call grew more persistent. It was only then they noticed
that one of their friends was drowning – rather he seemed caught in a whirlpool
that pulled him down. The one closest to him lunged forward in an impulse to
grab his friend, to pull him out. The drowning boy too reached for his friend
and all his desperate hands could find was his janau – the sacred Brahmin
thread that went across his chest. He pulled it hard, as hard as he could,
without noticing that in his effort to survive he had already killed his friend
as the thread had cut deep in his throat. The third friend in his helplessness
was torn between saving himself and his friends. After few seconds of desperate
pondering he chose the latter while screaming as loudly for help as he could.
This
attracted the villagers’ notice. They too started screaming. All these,
combined with the cuckoo’s frantic calling may have alerted the guards for they
reached just as the boy reached the shore. He was holding the drowned boy’s
hand tightly who in turn still held the janau in his iron grip.
When
they were rushed to the hospital, two of them were unconscious and one was
dead. All the doctors in the power plant’s hospital tried their best but they
couldn’t save the second boy as well – he had drank too much water. The
third boy survived but he developed a far gone stare, he didn’t speak, he just
looked at people. Sometimes he laughed – probably happy about his survival,
while some other times he cried, howled hysterically – probably remembering his
dead friends. That’s what the doctors said anyway. His nearest relatives came
and took him away, to keep him safe under their care till his parents arrived.
But
the others students were blissfully unaware of the tragedy that was taking
place. Most of them were cocooned at that time in the comfort of their homes.
Those few who were in the campus knew but they didn’t feel like telling others
about it. Not yet anyway. They spared them another day of ignorance. It was
probably the first time in the college history the news didn’t spread through
like fire in the dry wood.
Nevertheless
the news did spread. As the dark of Sunday evening fell, as the flock of
students started coming back to the campus, they all knew. But it was such a
hard truth to take in! Some of the first years, the deceased’s friends, ran to
their room to cross check if this was a huge practical joke! But nobody could
touch the bolted unlocked door. It was as if an invisible force threw them
back.
Then,
around midnight, the storm started.
To
be continued…
Love
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
June 19, 2013
Let's Ring the Bell! Against Child Marriage!
Image sourced from web
India
has always been mysteriously guided by mythologies and scriptures that were
written thousands of years ago. Our very unwillingness to bring ourselves at
par with the current times has been the main reason why we are still a third
world country when the countries like China and Japan who started at the same
time as ours are already being considered as the next superpowers.
We
are so proud of our golden history that we fail to see it’s irrelevance in the modern
times. But I also feel that either we are too superficial in our understanding
of these ancient scriptures or a certain group of people manipulate our
understanding in order to maintain their superiority and power. For they are often
heard saying, “Our ancestors can never be wrong. For it was only in their time we
had reached the peak of the development.” They make poor, superstitious people wrongly
believe in the truth of the scriptures without ever explaining the reason that
triggered the action our ancestors had taken. For example, the issue of child
marriage:
At
a point in time when India was under constant attack and the attackers sought young
virgin girls to satisfy their carnal needs or to sell them as slaves to wealthy
merchants it was probably the easiest way to protect the weaker gender by
marrying them off early. The girls were probably denied education because an
educated partner, who is at par with his intellectual level, was likely to
tempt a man of a healthy relationship and be distracted while fighting the war.
But
it was then. Whatever their reasoning might have been doesn’t hold good in
today’s society. Yet it is all that we cling to. To me it all boils down to
game of powers, of dominance. The chauvinist men’s absolute need to dominate. By
marrying a child, whose mental development is not yet proper, who has not yet
found her own voice, the man gains an absolute dominance over her. And this
boasts his fake masculinity, something that heals the many failures he endures
in his life. The very fact that there’s someone weaker at home, who is living in
even worse than him soothes him.
So
while the men in rest of the world work harder in order to forget the
frustrations of failure, in order to prove their superiority; our men turn
inside, on their young wives. While the men in rest of the world measure their
achievements in terms of their work, our men measure their achievements by the
number of bluish marks on their wives skin and the number of sons they produce.
And in order to achieve more they need younger brides, who are feeble and
scared enough. In fact according to UNICEF, almost 69% of total marriages in
Bihar involve girls below 18! Shocking indeed.
Also
it hurts more when people who are forward enough to be able to use the
Internet, advocates child marriage openly, in his website:
“…And
the docs huh! They think they are the ones who create & save human lives.
They claim a woman is not physically or mentally fit to get married young.
Nonsense. In that case my grandmother could have never had 13 children and
lived till the age of 70 with one husband (She was married at the age of 14).”
And in another place:
"The people who fought against child marriages
were never subjected to the sexual desperation a man or a woman undergoes
during his/her teens or puberty. So what was the end result? People started
indulging more in masturbation, homosexuality, preteen & unsafe sex! What
if you had provided an environment conducive for sex, when the nature wanted
people to do? I think things would have been better. (Banning child marriages
have led to other socio-economic problems, which I will discuss in some other
blog….)"
And he is a spiritual guru. People go to him to
get advises on better living!
In spite of staying in Chennai for
few years, I have recently discovered about the Puberty Function for girls.
When I questioned the sanity of the function, I was told that it was a very
pure function and it was a way of the girls family to let people know that
their girls were ready for marriage now. Though I wanted to ask if reproduction
was the only reason to get married I never did. Instead I asked, if there was a
similar function for boys. The person in front of me looked scandalized. Clearly
being able to father a child isn’t a suitable criteria for a boy to get
married. Then why should being able to mother a child be the only suitable
criteria to get married for a girl child?
***
I have thought many times, what can
I do? Could I really do anything about helping our women, our little girls? Or
will it be ever enough, no matter how much I do?
But sitting here now, so many
thousands of miles away from my country, when I am able to take a bird’s eye
view of our system, I see that, most of the times the problem starts with a
third person, usually the village head or the eldest family member deciding on behalf of the parents. Most
of the time parents marry off their daughters just because someone influential told
so, or sometimes from the fear of people talking, even if they themselves were
not ready. Our democracy is nothing but a pseudonym. We still follow monarchy.
If we could somehow take out these
monarchs out of the equation, out of our system, probably there’s still chance
for our society to survive. Because isn’t it the very nature of any species to
protect their offspring against harms? Why should we, the most superior species
of all animals, be any different?
If I could eliminate at least one
such monarch I would consider this a great achievement. But till the time I
actually have the opportunity, I fulfil my role by spreading the word as far as
I can, by writing about it, by debating with people. I start in my own circle,
trying to make people I know see things in a different light. Try to make them
feel differently about themselves, about who they listen to. Because I still
believe, a small step taken today can cross the mountain tomorrow.
So let us all pledge that we will take
our small steps today. Let’s ring the bell.
Love,
This post is a part of Indiblogger's initiative Ring The Bell for IndiChange. Please visit www.bellbajao.org for more information.
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
June 18, 2013
The Hassles of Higher Secondary
It’s that time of the year again when millions of students from all
over the country are starting a new phase of their lives. School days are over
and it’s now time for college. It’s time to fill numerous forms, to attend impressive
counselling and pray to be accepted in the college of dream. Many are nervous,
unsure of the unknown future. But trust me, the worst part is over. Future will
take its own shape in its own time. Life gets better from now on. Well it did
for me at least. Why, I am pretty sure, it was the same for most of us who
studied under the state board of West Bengal during the same time as I did.
Even though I hear things have changed, I have no idea how different it is now!
The trauma of studying for the Higher Secondary exam was so much
that even today on nights when I am much stressed, my sleep is often tormented
by a recurring dream: my Higher Secondary exam starts tomorrow and I have
discovered today, just today, that I don’t know anything about the Chemistry
Second Paper. A hysterical panic sets in and I feel a pressure in my heart, as
if someone is clenching it. Even though the next thing I know is the relief of waking
from a bad dream the panicky pulse just refuses to leave!
And this happens to me even now when it has been almost a decade
since I crossed the threshold of school with the dreadful Higher Secondary
Examination.
♠
It started right after I had written the last sentence of my secondary
exam. I studied hard for two years (though 4 years later my brother wouldn’t agree
seeing the newness of my text books), made the lives of people around me hell and
now I had just finished writing the first big exam of my life. But none of it
mattered. I didn’t yet deserve a vacation. Now it was the time to go through
another round of tests. Tests devised by renowned private tutors. Tests I
needed to fare very well in order to be accepted in their classes. Because,
everyone knows that, if you can’t get into their coaching classes you won’t have
the advantage of great notes which will miraculously sail you through the next
big hurdle two years later. Due to heavy rush of applicants some private tutors
are even forced to start accepting applications right after the Test exam which
takes place three months before the final secondary exam.
So after I had taken these tests (usually tougher than the board
papers), I waited for the board results to come out. Because these private
tutors would decide if they were going to take me in their class based on my
combined performance in the board exam and their own tests. While some tutors
had flexibility and divided the flock of students into three groups: brilliant,
good and mediocre, some others went with only the brilliant group.
The strategy worked well for them. Brilliant students equal to
brilliant result in the Higher Secondary Finals equal to good reputation equal
to more brilliant students equal to more money.
♠
Life that followed was nothing short of a hell. Our textbooks were
2000 pages at least a paper. Each subjects had two such papers. And reading
only the textbooks weren’t enough; we had other “reference” books to read as
well. Each of us brought back huge assignments to home. Some of us even had two
tutors per subject. On top of everything we had schools to attend too. All six
days a week! Otherwise we were denied access to the practical lessons. So while
some of us attended morning coaching in school uniforms others attended them in
the evening after school. We were becoming the future of our country and we had
to know everything, every damn thing, in two years.
As I staggered through my life, probably the only positive thing was
the way I was treated at home. Everyone was at my service. Each of my meals
was meticulously planned, so that I could maintain maximum energy level even
through acute sleep deprivation. Each of my whimsical wishes was fulfilled with
utmost sincerity. It was as though I was preparing for some great war with
little chances of coming back whole.
Some of us even carried two three types of meals in their huge
backpacks as they didn’t have time to stop by at home while they hopped one
coaching from another.
I saw through and survived everything:
When we were in std. XI, one of our school’s XII students committed
suicide. She left a note saying, she was going to fail Physics and she could
not bear the trauma of knowing it.
One of my classmates who lived just a block away from my home failed
to be promoted to std. XII. I had witnessed her trauma the whole year when she
struggled through the Himalayan course and now I saw her agony when she slowly
detached herself from all of us.
I experienced the numerous conspiracies when one distraught student
in pointless frustration tried to bring down another.
And I experienced old friendships crumble under the towering burden
of expectations from everyone that mattered: ourselves, our parents, our
teachers, our tutors, our relatives and even neighbours.
♠
Then came the dreaded time when all we had read and learnt in the
past two years were about to be tested. Yes. It was the final Higher Secondary
Exam.
All parents waited anxiously outside the exam halls with green
coconut water, glucose water, fruits, sweets and what not. We would come out
exhausted after gruelling 3 hours of 1st paper test, refresh
ourselves as much as we could; some of us would frantically go through the
second paper notes and then enter the hall again for another 3 hours of
torture.
Near the exam halls, ambulances were kept ready as it was not
uncommon for a student to fall sick from all the pressure.
♠
But I survived that as well. The last hurdle before I was officially
an adult. And finally I slept, first time in two years I slept for as long as I really
wanted. When people prayed for their results; I thanked God for helping me get
done with it while I was still whole.
Now when people ask me: Don’t you want to get a chance to relive
your school days?
I say to them: Sure. If you make sure there won’t be any HS waiting
for me.
Love,
Riot of Random
over the country are starting a new phase of their lives. School days are over
and it’s now time for college. It’s time to fill numerous forms, to attend impressive
counselling and pray to be accepted in the college of dream. Many are nervous,
unsure of the unknown future. But trust me, the worst part is over. Future will
take its own shape in its own time. Life gets better from now on. Well it did
for me at least. Why, I am pretty sure, it was the same for most of us who
studied under the state board of West Bengal during the same time as I did.
Even though I hear things have changed, I have no idea how different it is now!
The trauma of studying for the Higher Secondary exam was so muchthat even today on nights when I am much stressed, my sleep is often tormented
by a recurring dream: my Higher Secondary exam starts tomorrow and I have
discovered today, just today, that I don’t know anything about the Chemistry
Second Paper. A hysterical panic sets in and I feel a pressure in my heart, as
if someone is clenching it. Even though the next thing I know is the relief of waking
from a bad dream the panicky pulse just refuses to leave!
And this happens to me even now when it has been almost a decade
since I crossed the threshold of school with the dreadful Higher Secondary
Examination.
♠
It started right after I had written the last sentence of my secondary
exam. I studied hard for two years (though 4 years later my brother wouldn’t agree
seeing the newness of my text books), made the lives of people around me hell and
now I had just finished writing the first big exam of my life. But none of it
mattered. I didn’t yet deserve a vacation. Now it was the time to go through
another round of tests. Tests devised by renowned private tutors. Tests I
needed to fare very well in order to be accepted in their classes. Because,
everyone knows that, if you can’t get into their coaching classes you won’t have
the advantage of great notes which will miraculously sail you through the next
big hurdle two years later. Due to heavy rush of applicants some private tutors
are even forced to start accepting applications right after the Test exam which
takes place three months before the final secondary exam.
So after I had taken these tests (usually tougher than the boardpapers), I waited for the board results to come out. Because these private
tutors would decide if they were going to take me in their class based on my
combined performance in the board exam and their own tests. While some tutors
had flexibility and divided the flock of students into three groups: brilliant,
good and mediocre, some others went with only the brilliant group.
The strategy worked well for them. Brilliant students equal to
brilliant result in the Higher Secondary Finals equal to good reputation equal
to more brilliant students equal to more money.
♠
Life that followed was nothing short of a hell. Our textbooks were
2000 pages at least a paper. Each subjects had two such papers. And reading
only the textbooks weren’t enough; we had other “reference” books to read as
well. Each of us brought back huge assignments to home. Some of us even had two
tutors per subject. On top of everything we had schools to attend too. All six
days a week! Otherwise we were denied access to the practical lessons. So while
some of us attended morning coaching in school uniforms others attended them in
the evening after school. We were becoming the future of our country and we had
to know everything, every damn thing, in two years.
As I staggered through my life, probably the only positive thing was
the way I was treated at home. Everyone was at my service. Each of my meals
was meticulously planned, so that I could maintain maximum energy level even
through acute sleep deprivation. Each of my whimsical wishes was fulfilled with
utmost sincerity. It was as though I was preparing for some great war with
little chances of coming back whole.
Some of us even carried two three types of meals in their huge
backpacks as they didn’t have time to stop by at home while they hopped one
coaching from another.
I saw through and survived everything:
When we were in std. XI, one of our school’s XII students committed
suicide. She left a note saying, she was going to fail Physics and she could
not bear the trauma of knowing it.
One of my classmates who lived just a block away from my home failed
to be promoted to std. XII. I had witnessed her trauma the whole year when she
struggled through the Himalayan course and now I saw her agony when she slowly
detached herself from all of us.
I experienced the numerous conspiracies when one distraught student
in pointless frustration tried to bring down another.
And I experienced old friendships crumble under the towering burden
of expectations from everyone that mattered: ourselves, our parents, our
teachers, our tutors, our relatives and even neighbours.
♠
Then came the dreaded time when all we had read and learnt in thepast two years were about to be tested. Yes. It was the final Higher Secondary
Exam.
All parents waited anxiously outside the exam halls with green
coconut water, glucose water, fruits, sweets and what not. We would come out
exhausted after gruelling 3 hours of 1st paper test, refresh
ourselves as much as we could; some of us would frantically go through the
second paper notes and then enter the hall again for another 3 hours of
torture.
Near the exam halls, ambulances were kept ready as it was not
uncommon for a student to fall sick from all the pressure.
♠
But I survived that as well. The last hurdle before I was officially
an adult. And finally I slept, first time in two years I slept for as long as I really
wanted. When people prayed for their results; I thanked God for helping me get
done with it while I was still whole.
Now when people ask me: Don’t you want to get a chance to relive
your school days?
I say to them: Sure. If you make sure there won’t be any HS waiting
for me.
Love,
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
June 7, 2013
New York - the Dream Called a City
New York. No, not the movie. But the city. The real, actual city of
New York. A visit to this city confirmed a long standing conviction of mine –
that I am a city person. Nothing makes me happier than to have a little space
of my own to live in the city – amidst the centre of all the actions.
A view of Manhattan from the Empire State Building
I loved those
Concrete buildings - so tall that you have to bend your neck as far back as
probably possible to be able to see their peaks. They looked so beautiful when
the sun reflected from them.
If the busy roads at 2 AM in the morning, the road side food joints
bustling with people from all ethnicities, the beautiful bridges thickly dotted
with yellow cabs, the brilliant billboards and the colourful China Town boggle
your mind down, don’t worry; just take a walk to the East River Side Port. The
serene calmness of the vast water is sure to calm you down. And if you want
more, something that will take you out of breath, then take a subway down to
Exchange Place in New Jersey and stand at the dock by the Hudson River. This
was how the city had looked when we had gone down there:
The city sure is enchanting. It casts its spell on anyone and
everyone and I was not an exception. I fell in love with the city as soon as I
had had the first glimpse of its skyline. But this post is not yet another
travelogue of the city which has it all. I roamed the city, visited all its attractions, was amazed by most of them but what fascinated me most was its people, so varied, so versatile.
One day, at the subway station, I saw an elderly lady who had
rainbow coloured hair, yet was dressed in a plain black suit. Nobody looked at
her, as if this was the most normal thing: to wear a formal suit with rainbow
hair. But uncouth as I was, I couldn’t help gaping. Then suddenly but slowly, a
deep admiration grew inside me – not for the woman but for the city.
I noticed two men, holding hands and kissing each other standing in
a queue to enter the 9/11 memorial at the World Trade Center.
I found an elderly man soundly asleep on a corner table in the
Starbucks on the 42nd street and the 5th avenue. Gluey
strings of snots came steadily out of his nose. Everyone walked past him,
including the table cleaners without even looking. Probably he came there every
day.
People ran around with a maddening speed, people sat back over a
glass of beer. People rode skating boards, skating wheels, unicycles, bicycles,
tri-cycles, rickshaws, taxis, cars, limousines, buses, trains, ferries and what
not – in business suits, skirts, jeans, shorts, rags and gowns. People got
married on the road making the whole traffic to come to a stop. People came out
from posh looking residential buildings and then bought an ice cream cone from
the vendor on the road and walked away happily with their cute dogs.
So many people, each one so unique, each one with a purpose. We were
told that every day on an average New York employ around 10,000,000 people.
Among that only 2,000,000 actually live in the city while the rest travel in
from around the city. It is indeed, a city of dreams, where so many find their
footholds.
This is the city where you can do just about everything and be just
who you are without having to think about others. Anything and everything is
acceptable. Anything and everything is doable. This is the place where you could
experience the ultimate meaning of independence.
This is the place where you could just walk all day long and never
feel tired. Because this city had, long
back, decoded the formula of pure energy and scattered it in its air for its
people to breathe in. Once you are in the city, you feel it too. You feel the
young heart of the city beating excitedly resonating with your own, telling you
that it is happy to see you, infecting you with its highly infectious happiness
and making you feel obliged to say, by the time you leave, the cliched -
Love,
Riot of Random
New York. A visit to this city confirmed a long standing conviction of mine –
that I am a city person. Nothing makes me happier than to have a little space
of my own to live in the city – amidst the centre of all the actions.
A view of Manhattan from the Empire State Building
I loved those
Concrete buildings - so tall that you have to bend your neck as far back as
probably possible to be able to see their peaks. They looked so beautiful when
the sun reflected from them.
If the busy roads at 2 AM in the morning, the road side food joints
bustling with people from all ethnicities, the beautiful bridges thickly dotted
with yellow cabs, the brilliant billboards and the colourful China Town boggle
your mind down, don’t worry; just take a walk to the East River Side Port. The
serene calmness of the vast water is sure to calm you down. And if you want
more, something that will take you out of breath, then take a subway down to
Exchange Place in New Jersey and stand at the dock by the Hudson River. This
was how the city had looked when we had gone down there:
The city sure is enchanting. It casts its spell on anyone and
everyone and I was not an exception. I fell in love with the city as soon as I
had had the first glimpse of its skyline. But this post is not yet another
travelogue of the city which has it all. I roamed the city, visited all its attractions, was amazed by most of them but what fascinated me most was its people, so varied, so versatile.
One day, at the subway station, I saw an elderly lady who had
rainbow coloured hair, yet was dressed in a plain black suit. Nobody looked at
her, as if this was the most normal thing: to wear a formal suit with rainbow
hair. But uncouth as I was, I couldn’t help gaping. Then suddenly but slowly, a
deep admiration grew inside me – not for the woman but for the city.
I noticed two men, holding hands and kissing each other standing in
a queue to enter the 9/11 memorial at the World Trade Center.
I found an elderly man soundly asleep on a corner table in the
Starbucks on the 42nd street and the 5th avenue. Gluey
strings of snots came steadily out of his nose. Everyone walked past him,
including the table cleaners without even looking. Probably he came there every
day.
People ran around with a maddening speed, people sat back over a
glass of beer. People rode skating boards, skating wheels, unicycles, bicycles,
tri-cycles, rickshaws, taxis, cars, limousines, buses, trains, ferries and what
not – in business suits, skirts, jeans, shorts, rags and gowns. People got
married on the road making the whole traffic to come to a stop. People came out
from posh looking residential buildings and then bought an ice cream cone from
the vendor on the road and walked away happily with their cute dogs.
So many people, each one so unique, each one with a purpose. We were
told that every day on an average New York employ around 10,000,000 people.
Among that only 2,000,000 actually live in the city while the rest travel in
from around the city. It is indeed, a city of dreams, where so many find their
footholds.
This is the city where you can do just about everything and be just
who you are without having to think about others. Anything and everything is
acceptable. Anything and everything is doable. This is the place where you could
experience the ultimate meaning of independence.
This is the place where you could just walk all day long and never
feel tired. Because this city had, long
back, decoded the formula of pure energy and scattered it in its air for its
people to breathe in. Once you are in the city, you feel it too. You feel the
young heart of the city beating excitedly resonating with your own, telling you
that it is happy to see you, infecting you with its highly infectious happiness
and making you feel obliged to say, by the time you leave, the cliched -
Love,
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
June 3, 2013
Some Fun and Gyan - A Stressful Party Later!
“Shaadi ke do saal ho gaye, abhi tak koi
issue nehi? Kyun?” Mrs. A asks me very casually. That is when, five minutes
into our introductory conversation, I see the red light first. Shocked that one
could ask such personal questions at the very first meeting, I smile politely
and try to change the topic. But Mrs. A clings on, stubbornly – with an
expression that seems to say, “You don’t know, what a strenuous dirt digger I
am.” Desperate to shake her off, I say something about our non-readiness for
parenthood as yet and walk on hastily.
A
little further down the hall, I spot a younger group of women giggling heartily.
Feeling optimistic I move closer. Yes, I
am in a party - a party of Indians living in and around the city.
In the younger group, Mrs B is saying, “So
the paediatrician said not to overdose my daughter (a four year old) on
television. Daily one hour of cartoons should be sufficient *giggles*. But what
to do? You know what a big fan of serials I am, so I just let her sit beside me
and watch. Now she has become so smart that she is giving me expressions like
the sad heroine all the time *giggles*.”
Mrs.
C chimes in, “Aww, that’s so cute!”
Mrs.
D is seemingly the queen of the group; she sits in the middle, like a
glittering jewel in the crown formed by the gorgeously dressed beautifully
made-up ladies. She is distributing wisdom on how to keep your husband under
your pallu. On learning that I live in a different location than my husband she
advises me good-naturedly against it. When I tell her that I had been living in
India for the past one year while my husband was here in the USA, she gives me
pitiful looks, convinced that my relationship with my husband is a goner.
Mrs.
E, on the other hand, is a blogger. She posts photos of herself in different
outfits, hairdos and makeups on her blog and boasts a followership of over
3000. She also looks at me pitifully when I tell her that I also have a blog
but haven’t even crossed the mark of 100 followers. She also very politely
tells me that my attire is not at all in accordance with rest of the guests and
next time onwards I must dress appropriately. Feeling incredibly small, I drift
away yet again.
I
eye through the entire room looking desperately for a group or a person, a
single person, I could have a chat with. An elderly group catches my eye. They
too are laughing, with an attractive openness. I approach them gingerly, too
weak after double onslaughts to take on another. I catch one or two phrases-
they are talking about visiting places. Not bad. I inch closer. They tell each
other about their voyages, long drives and camping. I am drawn in. But the
moment I decide to tell them about my recent NYC trip, Aunty A starts talking
about an antique and expensive mask she got from Bahamas. Aunty B, at this
point feels obligated to let us know that she possesses some original Bruce
Gray. And after that it really goes out of hand. Everyone starts speaking about
the beach houses they own and celebrities who are regular to their restaurants.
I quietly take a sip from my glass and move away. I notice children playing at
the furthest corner attended by their nannies – some whites, mostly blacks.
I
feel too claustrophobic. I hurry off to the secluded place and grit my teeth.
Being the odd one out makes me doubt my sanity. I try to think of topics I
commonly discuss with my friends. And the things that come to the top of my
head seem really laughable and lame - even to me. One time in one such get
together (with my friends) we had had a really long conversation about a money
plant and a goldfish!
I feel so stupid. I am a married woman (?)
who still flinches at being called a woman! I would rather prefer being called
a girl. I am still afraid to wear a saree as I fear that my pleats may come off
and I may trip over it. I am clumsy and feel uncomfortable in talking about
topics other women so easily discuss about. I won’t be able to put on such
gorgeous makeup in a thousand years to come. I sit there reflecting silently on
the ways I should groom myself to fit in.
But
then suddenly like waking up from a bad dream, I hear few of them discussing
which business deals their respective husbands closed last week or which
organisational award they were nominated for. They talk with the proud faces of
the children competing for, “my daddy strongest”.
I realize, no matter how hard I try I can
never find any common interest with them. These women, all of them, are basking
in the reflected glory of their husbands. All the achievements are their
husbands’ while they wear expensive clothes and makeups, vacation in exotic
places and buy famous artists’ works to decorate their houses. Then they sit on
the couches with a glass of wine and admire their “collections” while the
nannies watch over the kids. They are just content to be their husbands’ arm
candy.
Will I ever be able to satisfy myself with
those things? No. I don’t relate to their world. The prism of judgement is
reversed this time. This time I pity them. They know the joy of riding luxurious
BMWs, yet they are deprived of the exhilaration of riding a Scooty bought with your
own hard earned money. They enjoy the air-conditioning in their posh
apartments, yet they so pitifully miss the heat of the first sense of true
independence in the small attic rented apartment.
Yet in reality they are happy. And I am happy
too. Maybe nobody’s wrong or nobody’s right. It’s just that we belong to
different worlds. It’s ridiculous to be influenced or try to influence each
other. So what to do next? Just behave like the Romans when in Rome. Then come
out, wipe your forehead and say, “Uff, those Romans!”
Love
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
May 30, 2013
Rituparno Ghosh: You will remain in silence in my heart - Always
Dear Mr. Rituparno Ghosh,
I got up this morning with a shocking news. That you had died. My first thought was, “What kind of silly joke is this?” So I cleaned my eyes once again and looked closer into the phone. Yes, there it was. Rituparno Ghosh was no more. That you really had died.
You are gone with a finality that can never be undone. With you went the niche of Bengali cinema I was so proud of. I have never been a fan of films because I have never found films comparable to books in terms of portrayal of human emotions. But you were among the very few filmmakers in whose works I found the respite of watching a film without the feeling of a superficial watcher. You restored my faith in Bangla movies. You were the one who had direct access to Ray’s culture of filmmaking. You held me spellbound with each of the movies you made.
I was too young when you made Titli. When I first watched it, I didn’t quite grasp it. But then when I watched it again, in college, I had goose bumps all over. I exclaimed: how is this man doing it? Your portrayal of complex human emotions was so simple and subtle and yet so piercing that it went right through my heart and I didn’t even realise what did it.
Then came “Chokher Bali”- your interpretation of the Tagore novel – and I saw a beloved novel of mine turning into a beautiful poetry on the screen before me.
Through all your films you surprised me, inspired me, and made me stronger. I came out of your films stronger and bolder. You influenced me so subtly yet deeply that my outlook of the world changed in just two hours. You took taboo subjects and made heart wrenching films out of them, rubbing it in the face of your audience and forcing them to face the issues than hide from them. I, as a woman, connected so well with the way you made your women strong and vulnerable at the same time. The way you spoke of women – hardly anyone had done that before. You made me realise that certain tabooed topics could be freely spoken about after all. That it was ok to talk about things I felt for. That it was not necessary to be afraid of what people will think all the time.
You will be remembered in my heart for the way you held up courage through all the gibes at the way you dressed and talked, the personal attacks on your films and the roles you acted, through all the ridicules that popular TV show hosts threw your way and the way you never shied away from what you believed.
Today when the same insensitive society you were trying so hard to change and educate gathered voluntarily to pay you last homage for what you were and what you did, you are no more to witness it. You had to leave the world to be left unnoticed for the next six hours, with all the pain and anger that you had to deal with.
Now that you are gone, people are truly realising what they will miss. Without you modern Bengali intellectualism will never be the same again. Now that you are gone, there’s nothing to bring you back. If only it is of any relevance to you, wherever you are, I would like to tell you that, you would always be remembered in hearts of those who loved you and those who were jealous of you. Your films will always have their special spots in the hearts of people and you will always be the epitome of contemporary Bangaliyana.
There’s only so much I can tell about what I feel right now. So once again, like all other Bengalis, I borrow words from the greatest poet:
You will remain in silence in my heart
You will remain in silence
Silent, withdrawn, closer as the full moon sky
You will remain in silence
My life, youth, my entire world, my entire aspirations
You will fill me with pride and honour
With your silent inspirations
Sincerely
One of your biggest fans
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
May 15, 2013
The Tragedy(?) of Troy
IndiFiction Workshop is an initiative to help Indian Fiction Writers hone their style. This idea is the brainchild of 'The Fool' who blogs at http://luciferhouseinc.blogspot.in and C. Suresh who blogs at http://jambudweepam.blogspot.in/, both of them need no further introduction other than their names. The workshop in general follows certain rules. Everyone has to tell the story using their own narrative style based on a given plot. Different narrative styles are evaluated by fellow participants and judges.
The plot for this exercise can be found here. You can read my entry here as well. All comments and critiques are welcome.
Hector: Paris! Come here. I have found a thief hiding in our ship.
Helen: What the heck? I’m no thief! Paris, baby! Tell this bulky dork who I am.
Paris: Oh, Hector. She is no thief. She is the greatest pastor I’ve ever known!
Hector: She is a pastor?
Helen: I am a pastor?
Paris: Pastor? Oh no! I mean pistor. She baked the bread in the royal dinner last night you see!
Hector: So you are a royal cook! What are you doing here on my ship?
Helen: Cook? How dare you call me a cook? Paris!
Paris: How dare you call her a cook, bro?
Hector: You just said that!
Paris: I said pistor. Anyway she is Helen. Menelaus’s wife.
Hector: Menelaus’s wife? Have you completely lost it brother? You are kidnapping Menelaus’s wife?
Helen: Hello mister! Nobody’s kidnapping me ok? I am coming on my own. Don’t worry; I have left Menelaus a message on Facebook. Don’t act so frustrated now. I like your brother, he likes me. What’s your problem in that?
Hector: What’s my problem? It’s just that we came here for a peace treaty between Troy and Sparta. You fools just ruined it.
Paris: Chill bro! Can’t you see how beautiful she is? How could I leave her there in that love less palace?
Hector: And now you are bringing our doom with us to Troy. Do whatever you want to do. We all are going to die for you.
Paris(whispers): See I told you it won’t be too difficult. After all who wouldn’t like you? You are so beautiful!
Helen: I know right!
***
Agamemnon: What an absolute shame brother. You did the right thing coming to me. Let’s attack Troy and show them who the boss is.
Menelaus: Don’t look so excited please. I know how enthusiastic you are about battles, but I heard their walls are unbreakable.
Agamemnon: Do I see fear in your eyes? Don’t you know who I am? I am the emperor of the mighty Greece. We can crush them. And you will get your wife back.
Menelaus: Why! You are right of course. I will get my Helen back. Oh what fun it will be. We can certainly crush the cursed Trojans into dust. We have Achilles after all.
Agamemnon: If only that idiot will fight. The joker is only obsessed about what the media is writing about him. Typical celebrity syndrome, if you ask me. Menelaus, go convince Odysseus, the king of Ithaca, to go convince Achilles for this battle. We have no hope without him.
***
Odysseus: Achilles!
Patroclus: Hiya lord Odysseus. What a pleasure! I am Patroclus. Achilles’s cousin.
Odysseus: I thought you were Achilles. You are dressed exactly like him.
Achilles: Never mind him Odysseus. He is just obsessed with me. I don’t blame him though. I mean who wouldn’t? After all not everyone is lucky to be blessed with a cousin as popular as myself right?
Odysseus: Right! Now if you would listen to me I am carrying a message from king Agamemnon.
Achilles: Ha! What does he want now? Didn’t I tell him that I won’t fight for his goals?
Odysseus: Didn’t you hear about what happened to Helen? The Trojans kidnapped her! So Menelaus seeks revenge. Agamemnon’s just helping him. Don’t you think you should help poor Menelaus get his wife back?
Achilles: Pfft! Revenge my foot. All that power thirsty animal cares for is to bring down the Trojans too. Menelaus’s wife is just the excuse he needed. But you know what, I have a feeling that this one’s going to be an epic battle, you know the kind poets write about when they want to be famous?
Odysseus: It’s going to be a tough one for sure. Poseidon himself built the wall around the city of Troy. It is believed to be indestructible.
Achilles: You make interesting points. Sure you know what tickles me. Off you go Odysseus. Inform your boss that I will join his team but not as one of his troop. I will bring my own men. Only this will ensure me the amount of papyrus I crave for.
Patroclus: Why do you need so much papyrus Achilles? Is the water poisoned there? Are we all going to get upset stomachs?
Achilles (Bangs his forehead): Go to your room now and keep quiet if you don’t want me to snatch the “No. 1 Fan of Achilles” trophy from you.
***
Achilles (Stretching on the deck of his ship): I don’t see anybody Eudorus. Are you sure the captain brought us to the right place? You know I don’t blame him; he’s kind of ancient.
Eudorus: I am pretty sure this is the right place. But Agamemnon won’t arrive for another day at least. He tweeted so. The rowers of his ships are as pathetic as their king.
Achilles: Hmm. Hey Eudorus, what’s that structure ahead? Looks like some kind of tourist spot. Why don’t we make an appearance there? It could give us some media coverage!
Eudorus: I don’t think so Achilles. That’s the temple of Apollo. You may end up hurting people’s sentiment.
Achilles (sniggers): Who cares about Apollo? In fact this is the best opportunity to become even more popular. Eudorus, get ready with the men. We are attacking. If we can ransack the place, I would be more famous than that good for nothing Apollo.
Eudorus: Attack soldiers!
Achilles: Yes. Go Myrmidons go!
Patroclus: But you are not fighting!
Achilles: Aww! Is it bothering you? You still need to learn a lot about being a celebrity. Just watch. Go Myrmidons go, kill them, arrest them!
Eudorus: They have fallen, Achilles. We have taken the princes’ cousin Briseis into custody.
Achilles: Good! Patroclus, could you please bring me a really sharp sword? Eudorus, could you please see if anyone from the media is covering this? Thanks Patroclus, you are very quick. So where’s the statue of Apollo? Let’s go behead it.
Hector (Comes running with an open sword): How dare you violate the holy temple of Apollo, Achilles? Have you no moral sense?
Achilles (waves dismissively): Whoa! Are you going to fight me Hector? Here? Look around. Nobody’s here. No press! I don’t fight like this. I need limelight. After all I am a hero!
Hector: You killed my people in a temple like a coward. Now you want me to call the press to witness our fight? What a sick person you are!
Achilles: Now now. Hold that thought. You know what a big celebrity I am, right? Let me tell you a secret. It’s not easy being popular. The public wants to see us fight. You know what, I can see it in your face, you are going to be a celebrity one day, if you are not already. So you must measure all your steps and seek all the media attentions that you can, if you want to be popular. Consider it as expert tips. Go home now. We can’t fight in this no man’s land.
Hector: You know what, as much as I loathe you, what you say makes sense. But we’ll definitely do it ok? Maybe after I have killed Agamemnon – the leech you call your king. And I will make sure to invite the media to cheer us. We’ll see who is more popular then.
Achilles: Ha ha! Sure Hector. I will wait eagerly.
***
Agamemnon: Bravo Achilles. I always knew you were not a fake celebrity.
Achilles: I agree.
Agamemnon: I am so delighted to see the gift you brought me. Briseis is an honorary member of my harem now.
Achilles: Wait. What? She belongs to me! Not you!
Agamemnon: Achilles. As much as I appreciate your attachment to the cousin of the kidnappers, she stays here. And you will obey, because, well, I am the EMPEROR.
Achilles: I don’t care. Do you wish me to fight you for the throne, Agamemnon? People will vote for me you know. I am more popular than you. Let’s have a poll in Facebook.
Agamemnon: Maybe. But are you aware of my connections in the Greek media? If you don’t want to be turned into a villain overnight, she stays here and you go back to your camp. Take rest. Tomorrow morning we are attacking. I will call you then.
***
Paris(Next day at the battle field): Hey Menelaus, look at you. Good to see you man!
Menelaus: Don’t talk to me that way Paris. You have dishonoured my hospitality.
Paris: I am sorry if I hurt you man. But what could I do? Love is blind you see?
Menelaus: And now you must suffer the wrath of Greece for your blindness.
Paris (Looks at the vast expanse of Greek army): Whoa! I can’t believe you brought such a big army to fight me! You must be really scared of me!
Menelaus: I am not scared of you, Paris.
Paris: Let’s have a duel then? What say? You and me, one on one. The winner gets Helen.
Menelaus: Fair enough! Much bloodshed can be avoided that way!
Agamemnon: I find this… disturbing Menelaus. We are here to fight a battle, to take Troy down.
Menelaus: Brother, my battle is with Paris. It’s Helen who I want to win back, not Troy. Paris, come on, come on. Let’s see what you got? Let me see what Helen saw in you!
Paris (Ducking Menelaus’s sword): Ooh! Aah! Not bad Menelaus. Not bad at all! Come on. Catch me if you can!
Menelaus: Why don’t you fight me Paris! You coward!
Helen: Ooh! This is working. Menelaus is angry. He’s lost control. You did it!
Paris: I did it! Hector! Go bro! It’s your turn now.
Hector (Growling): I can’t believe you call yourself a prince! You can’t even fight your own battle.
Paris: It’s all because of love bro! It’s all because of love. I can’t kill you know! I am above all this violence now!
Helen: Oh, Paris. You are such an adorable cutie!
Hector (Shakes his head and drives the sword through Menelaus): Die Menelaus die. Let the drama end!
***
Priyam: Hector, even if the battle appears to have become meaningless now that Menelaus is dead I am not sure Agamemnon agrees.
Hector: You are right dad! Did you see him after Menelaus died?
Priyam: Yes I did. He will attack again. And that’s why I think we should attack the Greek army first.
Hector: Great idea dad. Good news is Achilles won’t even join the battle unless there is press to cover it live.
Priyam: There’s more son. I have been following him on Twitter. He is tweeting along the same lines of your hopeless brother. He wants to spend the rest of his life away from the madness of battle in the Garden of Eden. I think he is in love.
Hector: What? Who is he in love with?
Priyam: Briseis apparently. He saved her from Agamemnon’s harem and then they made love!
Hector: And he tweeted about all that? Good lord! Anyway dad, I am going to get ready for the battle. I think we can cream them!
***
Eudorus: Alert soldiers! Alert! We have been attacked.
Odysseus: Oh no! Look at those fireballs descending from the sky! We are sure going to die.
Agamemnon: Don’t be a coward Odysseus! Fight back!
Odysseus: Stop being a boss, boss. Don’t shout orders from your high chair. Come join the battle.
Agamemnon: Why? I have so many people to do the work for me! Where’s Achilles?
Eudorus: He is not fighting. It’s the biggest buzz in Tweeter now. Honestly Agamemnon, you need to be on top of things if you want to be the king.
Odysseus: Look! Achilles!
Patroclus: Oh! This is so cool! People are actually thinking that I am Achilles!
Hector: So Achilles, finally you decided to come to the fight huh? But it seems that your love life has taken away the battle skills from you. I didn’t know you were so clumsy!
Patroclus: Fight me Hector. Stop talking.
Hector (Drives the sword through Patroclus): See, I killed you! Aww, Achilles, the biggest celebrity dying huh? Wait let me take a picture. Here let’s take your headgear off.
Holy shit! Who are you? Dressed like Achilles?
Achilles (Shouting from distance): Hector!
Hector: Wait! Was that Achilles’s voice?
Achilles: Damn right it was! Hector! How could you kill my cousin? He was my no.1 fan!
Hector: Oh Achilles, I didn’t know. He was dressed just like you.
Achilles: Of course he was. What else do you expect from my fan?
Hector: I am so sorry Achilles. I didn’t mean to kill him. But he was just a kid! How could you let him come to the battlefield?
Achilles: I didn’t know about it. I was busy inside my tent tweeting.
Hector: Yeah. That you were.
Achilles: But I must kill you now. Else my other fans will slam me. No one will come to the No.1 fan of Achilles contest.
Hector (defends Achilles’s blow): So you know your stuff too. I thought you were just an empty shell of coconut.
Achilles: Take this Hector. I picked up this move from Jackie Chan.
Hector: I don’t like your re-mixed moves Achilles. I am a purist.
Achilles: To hell with your purist moves Hector. Take this Bruce Lee blow and die.
Hector (breathes as he dies): Please tweet about my death Achilles. Let my dad know. He is following you.
***
Agamemnon: I don’t understand why we can’t attack now. This is the perfect opportunity. Troy is so vulnerable now!
Achilles: Because Priyam requested me to leave them alone for twelve days for Hector’s funeral. He is one of my followers in Twitter. I couldn’t deny him.
Agamemnon: That’s it. I am done with your PMS. I am going in that damned city.
Achilles: Hello! Get your facts correct first. Guys don’t get PMS!
Agamemnon: PMS. Popular Moron Syndrome.
Achilles: I…
Odysseus (Cutting in): Please stop arguing. We need to think here.
Achilles: What’s there to think? At the end of the twelfth day, we attack Troy!
Agamemnon(Copying Achilles): At the end of the twelfth day, we attack Troy! (Shouting) If you were fighting from the beginning I wouldn’t be seeing this day! You not only let Priyam take Hector’s body but also let that girlfriend of yours go. That girl, she knows our battle strategy. She was here! Now I don’t even know if they are arranging Hector’s funeral or building some deadly weapon! That damned wall! Even our greatest periscopes could not help.
Achilles: They are mourning. Briseis’s Facebook page is updated every day with photos of the mourning ceremony!
Agamemnon: Just get out! Get out from here. She may be lying to distract you. (To Odysseus) Has he always been this stupid?
Odysseus: You know what? I have got an idea!
***
Helen: Darling Paris. Come, see what an extra-ordinary sight! Mr. Priyam, take a look!
Priyam: Indeed! No Greek soldier and such a beautiful wooden horse! I think Lord Poseidon is helping us. The horse must be a gift from him in Hector’s remembrance! What could be a more appropriate gift for the great soldier that he was!
Paris: I think it’s a trap! Why would the Greeks leave otherwise?
Priyam: Because they were attacked by some deadly disease! Achilles tweeted. See! I think Poseidon released some lethal bio-weapon on them!
Paris: You believe Achilles, dad? Hector’s killer? I still believe this is a big scam.
Helen: When did you become such a sceptic baby? Mr. Priyam, let’s bring that horse in? What say? It’s the coolest and biggest thing I have ever seen.
Priyam: I think that’s a very good idea.
***
Achilles: I hate you Odysseus. First you make me lie and then you put me inside this dark horse belly. And who knows when these soldiers bathed last time. Oh God! It really stinks in here. I think I am going to pass out.
Odysseus: Stop over-reacting. Sshhh! I think they are here! Now let’s see whether they are idiotic enough to believe this!
Achilles (whispers): And what if they are smart! What then?
Odysseus (whispers): I don’t know. Maybe they will kill us.
Achilles (whispers): Kill us! Kill us! You really are out of your mind aren’t you?
Odysseus: Wait I think they are dragging us in. Look from this crack. See? That’s the city door we just crossed! I can’t believe the plan actually worked!
Achilles: Let’s crawl out. I really need some fresh air.
Odysseus: Attack soldiers! Massacre everything. Let’s destroy Troy!
Achilles: You people go ahead. I am going to find Briseis.
Priyam: Achilles, you lied!
Achilles: It’s really not my fault. That guy made me type it on sword point.
Priyam: I trusted you!
Achilles: I am sorry! But I have to find Briseis! Bye!
Paris(Blocks the road ahead): You are a bigger coward than me. Boy! It sure feels good. Here. Let me kill you! (Pulls the arrow)
Achilles(sniggers): You will kill me? Look you can’t even aim. Your arrow has hit my heel!
Paris: I don’t kill people. But they do. Look around.
Achilles: Oh! No! I can’t believe so many people actually want to kill me. I thought people loved me! Please don’t kill me! Look at me! I am Achilles. The most popular hero alive! You sure don’t want me dead! Or maybe you do, judging by the looks on your faces! Shocking! Ok! I guess I have no other choice. (Many arrows pierce through his body) Paris could you please let the media know of my heroic death? They sure will find many ways to promote it. Could you please make sure I look presentable when they see my body? I don’t want to disappoint them in my death. Oh! I think this is it! Bye dear world. I am sorry I have to leave you, because, honestly, I don’t think you will get such a hero ever again! I know I will be dearly missed. A legend comes to an end! Goodbye dear earth. Goodbye.
Love
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
May 8, 2013
A Desi Girl in Videsh (Surviving America) - II
No. Living in the US is not as easy as it
seems to be. While I try my best to feel at home here, random culture shocks are
thrown at me, making me wiser or sometimes leaving me dumbstruck. Here in my
blog I collect them as breadcrumbs lest I forget my way.
If you haven’t read my earlier post on this,
go ahead and take a look at it: here.
This one, however, is more about my culinary
tastes. I am a compulsive foodie. I love to eat. I am also a big believer of
the saying in Sanskrit, Ghranena Ardha Bhojanam - the aroma is half the taste.
But I am very lazy. In fact I am so lazy that
I believe if you spill water on the floor, it will eventually dry so why bother
yourself with the mop! I would rather stay on my couch and read a book or eat
than take the laborious task of cooking on my own shoulder.
But then the other day in office, while
crossing the pantry on my way to the rest room, I smelled something heavenly. I peeked through the door and there she was, glowing
like Devi Annapurna herself, and sitting with 2-3 small boxes laid before her. She
tore small pieces of dosa, dipped them into the golden sambar and chewed them
with her eyes closed.
I was so mesmerized that I stood there, completely
forgetting about my need to use the rest room. I’d never realized before that I
loved Dosa, and Sambar so much. I looked so hard that I am sure the poor lady had
had to suffer a bad case of indigestion that night.
Anyway, that night I decided to cook Dosa
and Sambar myself. I considered this as a big feat because inspiration didn’t visit
me willingly. I was under those rare attacks of enthusiasm throughout the
entire process of shopping for the Dosa batter (making the batter at home? I
am not sure if anything can ever inspire me that much), making the pan ready,
boiling the dal for the Sambar and all. But then something strange happened.
I was just pouring the mustard seeds, chilli
peppers and curry leaves into the hot oil when I heard a strange sound outside
my door: “tssst tssst”. I switched off the heat and listened carefully. The
spluttering of the spices stopped. But so had the sound. I turned on the gas. A
few minutes later, the same sound started coming through my door again. This time
for longer duration, “tsssssssssts”, a short pause and then again, “tsssssssssssssssssts”.
Unsure of what to do, I braced myself and peeped through the eye hole. There they
were, two goras, their mouths tightly covered in cloths, spraying two bottles
frantically in front of my door.
Call me stupid, but I didn’t understand, at
first, what it was about. My very first thought was -were these two some kind
of goons, trying to break into my apartment? Maybe the spray was some kind of
chemical that dissolved wood! I waited with my breath held. But then after 2-3
seconds of extreme anxiety attack, I found out that they were merely spraying room
fresheners! Apparently the smell of the spices sautéing was too strong for them.
Meanwhile I had already forgotten about the
sizzling pan and the shimmering wok. So what greeted me next was the burning
smell of the spices and a coughing fit outside my door.
I stopped for a moment. Then I said, “Pfft”, and
poured fresh oil into a clean wok.
Love
Riot of Random
seems to be. While I try my best to feel at home here, random culture shocks are
thrown at me, making me wiser or sometimes leaving me dumbstruck. Here in my
blog I collect them as breadcrumbs lest I forget my way.
If you haven’t read my earlier post on this,
go ahead and take a look at it: here.
This one, however, is more about my culinary
tastes. I am a compulsive foodie. I love to eat. I am also a big believer of
the saying in Sanskrit, Ghranena Ardha Bhojanam - the aroma is half the taste.
But I am very lazy. In fact I am so lazy that
I believe if you spill water on the floor, it will eventually dry so why bother
yourself with the mop! I would rather stay on my couch and read a book or eat
than take the laborious task of cooking on my own shoulder.
But then the other day in office, while
crossing the pantry on my way to the rest room, I smelled something heavenly. I peeked through the door and there she was, glowing
like Devi Annapurna herself, and sitting with 2-3 small boxes laid before her. She
tore small pieces of dosa, dipped them into the golden sambar and chewed them
with her eyes closed.
I was so mesmerized that I stood there, completely
forgetting about my need to use the rest room. I’d never realized before that I
loved Dosa, and Sambar so much. I looked so hard that I am sure the poor lady had
had to suffer a bad case of indigestion that night.
Anyway, that night I decided to cook Dosa
and Sambar myself. I considered this as a big feat because inspiration didn’t visit
me willingly. I was under those rare attacks of enthusiasm throughout the
entire process of shopping for the Dosa batter (making the batter at home? I
am not sure if anything can ever inspire me that much), making the pan ready,
boiling the dal for the Sambar and all. But then something strange happened.
I was just pouring the mustard seeds, chilli
peppers and curry leaves into the hot oil when I heard a strange sound outside
my door: “tssst tssst”. I switched off the heat and listened carefully. The
spluttering of the spices stopped. But so had the sound. I turned on the gas. A
few minutes later, the same sound started coming through my door again. This time
for longer duration, “tsssssssssts”, a short pause and then again, “tsssssssssssssssssts”.
Unsure of what to do, I braced myself and peeped through the eye hole. There they
were, two goras, their mouths tightly covered in cloths, spraying two bottles
frantically in front of my door.
Call me stupid, but I didn’t understand, at
first, what it was about. My very first thought was -were these two some kind
of goons, trying to break into my apartment? Maybe the spray was some kind of
chemical that dissolved wood! I waited with my breath held. But then after 2-3
seconds of extreme anxiety attack, I found out that they were merely spraying room
fresheners! Apparently the smell of the spices sautéing was too strong for them.
Meanwhile I had already forgotten about the
sizzling pan and the shimmering wok. So what greeted me next was the burning
smell of the spices and a coughing fit outside my door.
I stopped for a moment. Then I said, “Pfft”, and
poured fresh oil into a clean wok.
Love
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
May 1, 2013
Yet Another Fruitless Rant
About Women in India
Your lips are probably curved upward already
as you read the title. Your incredulous eyes probably refuse to believe that
yet another person wants to write yet again about the same tiring topic. And
you are probably thinking, “What will it achieve anyway? As if everyone didn’t
already know everything!”
Maybe you are correct. Maybe what I have to
say has already been said many times by numerous other people. But that doesn’t
make the unease I feel everyday go away. So I have to speak, I have to vent my
feelings out irrespective of whether it reaches you or not.
Every day the newspaper reports at least one
incident of rape happening in India. The news of rape has become so common that
I now look at it with a numb indifference. I feel only distantly sick. It is just the constant unease under my diaphragm that refuses to leave.
I don’t know what I should do, what I could
do to help the little girls and women back home. Sometimes I wish I was born a
male so that I could escape identifying so deeply with these distressed women,
or probably better understand the male perspective. Sometimes I wish there was
a superhuman, even an avatar maybe, who could actually destroy the evil that
our society has become. Who needs saving from an Alien, our own men are vicious
enough.
As you would probably rightly argue, I
agree, that not all men are offspring of Satan. But even you would agree,
wouldn’t you, that you have met at least one who is?
Offspring of Satan – a rash choice of words.
You say. But what would you say a man is, when he rapes his own five year old
daughter? Or the school principal who forces the three year old little pupil of
his to take sedatives so that he can rape her noiselessly?
You say poverty and illiteracy are the
culprits. Educated men, enlightened men are different. You claim they are
compassionate even.
But what about the rich Delhi based mining
tycoon who took his own sixteen year old daughter on bonding trips all over the
country where he raped her in anonymous hotels. Or the compounder, a man from
the glorified middle class, who used his knowledge of causing minimal visible
damage while raping his adolescent daughter. Or the fourteen year old girl from
Kerala whose father pimped her out to 148 other men including a businessman, a
clerk and several actors after raping her brutally himself.
But I needn’t tell you all these. You
already know. But yet you deny. It is so easy to say, it is even comforting to
say that only drunk and unusually wired men are capable of such evil crimes. It
is not easy to confront the reality within the confine of your home. Family
honour and prestige often lead you to bury the crime into darkness.
I remember, long back, in my teenage, I had
read a story where the father sexually abused his daughter, and I was shocked
at the crooked imagination of the writer. I thought how disturbed one must be
to think of something so bad, to pollute the relationship of a father and a
daughter. But even the writer had the decency of making the father a psychotic.
Then I realised that the truth is much
harsher. I now know that I was only very lucky, that my father was one of those
rare men whom I could look up to. I feel blessed that I was given a childhood
worth remembering.
That is why the story of Reshma, from a
brothel in Mumbai, does not shock me. Quite expectedly she says, “Why would
father and brother be different? After all, they are men too.” And it is not
surprising, not anymore, that it was her father who sold her to the pimp when
she was just nine. The pimp then raped (trained in Reshma’s words) her in every
way possible.
She doesn’t flinch when she
says civilian women in the country are safe only because there are sex workers
in the world — warriors of a different kind — to ensure there is a vent for
baser male desires.
The horror doesn’t stop here for our girls.
When a mother goes to the police to file a complaint against her husband who
raped her daughter, the police officer sniggers and suggests that the woman is
so frigid that the poor man doesn’t have any other option than turning to his
own daughter.
Some of you even suggest the influence of
the western culture responsible for the catastrophic moral degradation our
society is going through. With due respect to you, you make me laugh. Why don’t
you look closer? Why don’t you look into our so called highly cultured society?
When do you think the women lived in a
better condition in our country? Our men have always kept their women subdued.
Do you think girls are raped only now? And it didn’t happen before? Why. You
are wrong. India has always been a living hell for women. Men have always raped
women, husbands and fathers have always traded their wives and daughters in
exchange of more materialistic things. And the women have always tolerated. Because
the Veda advices so. It is women’s duty to serve the men in their lives. If the
western influence is to be blamed for anything, it is for making our women able
to tell wrong from right.
Rape is the twisted outburst of the subconscious
pampering of a dominating heart, the belief of supremacy, the inability to see
women as their equal. So power hungry they are that they don't even spare little powerless boys. Pervert desire to project themselves as strong, fearsome to the weak. Over time the educated men have become subtle. They allow their
wives to work because little extra money always helps. But honestly, don't you men still cringe if your wife earns more than you do? How many of you men
have ever got up from the bed in night to pacify the crying baby? How many of you
men have shamelessly accepted dowry while you were getting married? And how
many of you ladies could have a career but didn’t have because your family
needed you? The answer is 'numerous'.
Every other neighbour of yours probably has
the same problem. Probably you too do. It’s just that we have become so used to
these that we don’t even think them as problems. Only when something extreme
like rape happens, we shift on our chairs, put on our reading glasses, write
blogs, letters to editors of newspapers, participate in debate and protest rallies and blame
a particular social tier we don’t belong to.
And as hard it may sound, there is no
respite. This is something where there won’t be any generation gap. Men will
continue to rape and women will continue to fight for what is rightfully
theirs. For our society is built on the dangerous quicksand of patriarchy, the more we try to escape the
more we get trapped.
Meanwhile mothers will continue to have the fear of
bearing a girl child lest she be tortured. I will continue my frustrated
rants even after knowing that there’s no way out. And India will continue to be India.
Love,
Riot of Random
Your lips are probably curved upward already
as you read the title. Your incredulous eyes probably refuse to believe that
yet another person wants to write yet again about the same tiring topic. And
you are probably thinking, “What will it achieve anyway? As if everyone didn’t
already know everything!”
Maybe you are correct. Maybe what I have to
say has already been said many times by numerous other people. But that doesn’t
make the unease I feel everyday go away. So I have to speak, I have to vent my
feelings out irrespective of whether it reaches you or not.
Every day the newspaper reports at least one
incident of rape happening in India. The news of rape has become so common that
I now look at it with a numb indifference. I feel only distantly sick. It is just the constant unease under my diaphragm that refuses to leave.
I don’t know what I should do, what I could
do to help the little girls and women back home. Sometimes I wish I was born a
male so that I could escape identifying so deeply with these distressed women,
or probably better understand the male perspective. Sometimes I wish there was
a superhuman, even an avatar maybe, who could actually destroy the evil that
our society has become. Who needs saving from an Alien, our own men are vicious
enough.
As you would probably rightly argue, I
agree, that not all men are offspring of Satan. But even you would agree,
wouldn’t you, that you have met at least one who is?
Offspring of Satan – a rash choice of words.
You say. But what would you say a man is, when he rapes his own five year old
daughter? Or the school principal who forces the three year old little pupil of
his to take sedatives so that he can rape her noiselessly?
You say poverty and illiteracy are the
culprits. Educated men, enlightened men are different. You claim they are
compassionate even.
But what about the rich Delhi based mining
tycoon who took his own sixteen year old daughter on bonding trips all over the
country where he raped her in anonymous hotels. Or the compounder, a man from
the glorified middle class, who used his knowledge of causing minimal visible
damage while raping his adolescent daughter. Or the fourteen year old girl from
Kerala whose father pimped her out to 148 other men including a businessman, a
clerk and several actors after raping her brutally himself.
But I needn’t tell you all these. Youalready know. But yet you deny. It is so easy to say, it is even comforting to
say that only drunk and unusually wired men are capable of such evil crimes. It
is not easy to confront the reality within the confine of your home. Family
honour and prestige often lead you to bury the crime into darkness.
I remember, long back, in my teenage, I had
read a story where the father sexually abused his daughter, and I was shocked
at the crooked imagination of the writer. I thought how disturbed one must be
to think of something so bad, to pollute the relationship of a father and a
daughter. But even the writer had the decency of making the father a psychotic.
Then I realised that the truth is much
harsher. I now know that I was only very lucky, that my father was one of those
rare men whom I could look up to. I feel blessed that I was given a childhood
worth remembering.
That is why the story of Reshma, from a
brothel in Mumbai, does not shock me. Quite expectedly she says, “Why would
father and brother be different? After all, they are men too.” And it is not
surprising, not anymore, that it was her father who sold her to the pimp when
she was just nine. The pimp then raped (trained in Reshma’s words) her in every
way possible.
She doesn’t flinch when she
says civilian women in the country are safe only because there are sex workers
in the world — warriors of a different kind — to ensure there is a vent for
baser male desires.
The horror doesn’t stop here for our girls.
When a mother goes to the police to file a complaint against her husband who
raped her daughter, the police officer sniggers and suggests that the woman is
so frigid that the poor man doesn’t have any other option than turning to his
own daughter.
Some of you even suggest the influence of
the western culture responsible for the catastrophic moral degradation our
society is going through. With due respect to you, you make me laugh. Why don’t
you look closer? Why don’t you look into our so called highly cultured society?
When do you think the women lived in a
better condition in our country? Our men have always kept their women subdued.
Do you think girls are raped only now? And it didn’t happen before? Why. You
are wrong. India has always been a living hell for women. Men have always raped
women, husbands and fathers have always traded their wives and daughters in
exchange of more materialistic things. And the women have always tolerated. Because
the Veda advices so. It is women’s duty to serve the men in their lives. If the
western influence is to be blamed for anything, it is for making our women able
to tell wrong from right.
Rape is the twisted outburst of the subconscious
pampering of a dominating heart, the belief of supremacy, the inability to see
women as their equal. So power hungry they are that they don't even spare little powerless boys. Pervert desire to project themselves as strong, fearsome to the weak. Over time the educated men have become subtle. They allow their
wives to work because little extra money always helps. But honestly, don't you men still cringe if your wife earns more than you do? How many of you men
have ever got up from the bed in night to pacify the crying baby? How many of you
men have shamelessly accepted dowry while you were getting married? And how
many of you ladies could have a career but didn’t have because your family
needed you? The answer is 'numerous'.
Every other neighbour of yours probably has
the same problem. Probably you too do. It’s just that we have become so used to
these that we don’t even think them as problems. Only when something extreme
like rape happens, we shift on our chairs, put on our reading glasses, write
blogs, letters to editors of newspapers, participate in debate and protest rallies and blame
a particular social tier we don’t belong to.
And as hard it may sound, there is no
respite. This is something where there won’t be any generation gap. Men will
continue to rape and women will continue to fight for what is rightfully
theirs. For our society is built on the dangerous quicksand of patriarchy, the more we try to escape the
more we get trapped.
Meanwhile mothers will continue to have the fear of
bearing a girl child lest she be tortured. I will continue my frustrated
rants even after knowing that there’s no way out. And India will continue to be India.
Love,
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
April 18, 2013
A Visit to America's Largest Dairy Farm
Last week I visited a dairy farm – The Fair Oaks Farm
situated between Indiana and Illinois. It is also the largest dairy farm of the
United States.
But we didn’t know about the farm until we reached
there. We were just driving to Chicago in order to attend a Holi Party a friend
invited us to and to buy some fish from the Devon Avenue. But as luck would
have it, we ended up in the farm. How? That’s another story which I would
probably tell later. But for now, let me share with you how impressive the farm
was.
The farm is Bio-Secure. That is, the places where the
cows and the calves live are out of bound for public. However they have a
guided bus tour of the entire facility, some dairy adventure sports, a cheese
factory that makes award winning cheese and the best ice cream I’ve ever had. And
a 4D movie where you can expect the unexpected.
We paid 12 dollars for the bus tour, which would take usthrough the farm. As we waited for the bus to come we caught this ten minutes
4D movie about dairy farming. They say it 4D because the usual 3D is
accompanied with vibrations, gust of wind and sprinkled water. We gasped from
shock many times.
Then began our most awaited bus tour. If I had any doubt
about 12 dollars being too much, it was gone now.
The Bio-Secure bus cruised slowly and a recorded voice
spoke about mind boggling things about the farm. The farm owned 25,000 acres,
i.e. 40 square miles of land and over 32000 cows. They produced 250,000 gallons
of milk everyday. A quantity that is sufficient to meet the milk demand of the
entire state of Indiana and major parts of the city of Chicago. The cow waste
is processed to produce methane and energy to power the entire farm and its
activities.
We visited one of ten barns where the cows lived. Our bus
cruised in between of two rows of cows grazing peacefully. We visited the place
where the newly born calves lived. Each of them had a separate den.
Fair Oaks has 10 milking parlours that are operative
24/7. Each of the farm’s cows is milked three times a day. The milking process
is fully automatic. We got off of the bus, climbed a flight of stairs and
reached a viewing area, enclosed by glass, just above the room where the cows
were being milked.
72 cows rode a huge, slow merry go around at a time, in
order to get milked. The cows are creatures of habit. So they walked on their
own into the empty stalls and waited patiently as the attendants smeared the
disinfectant on their teats and attached the suction cups of the automatic
milking machines. Each of the cows wore electronic transponders and the
computers kept track of the milk output of each of the cow. The suction pumps
were turned off automatically when the udders were empty.
The device made a full rotation in about ten minutes. Once
the rotation was complete, the cows backed out of the stalls on their own in
order to make place for a new one.
Like any mammal, cows too must have offspring in order
to produce milk, so the birthing barn at the Fair Oaks is a busy place. Between
80 and 100 calves are born there each day. In the birthing barn the cows give
birth to calves in parlours that are covered in glass. Visitors can see the
entire process from outside the glass partition sitting on seats arranged like a gallery.
While we watched, a cow lay there, grazing disinterested.
Two small hooves protruded from her back. A technician pulled them and after a
couple of mighty heaves, she hauled a wet, bloody calf into the world. It lay on
the straw, still, and from all appearances lifeless. The mother stayed in place
so long that I began to worry whether everything was okay. But then she
suddenly stood, turned around, and began to lick the calf vigorously. It
responded by raising its head and moving its hooves. The technician informed
that it was a girl and is expected to stand on its feet within next 45 minutes!
It was a sight so impact-full that we couldn’t speak for
some time.
The up close view of the 21-century agriculture was amazing.
I had never known visiting a dairy farm could be so much fun!
Love
© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved
Riot of Random
