The Birth of an Opinionated personality

There was a time , when people saw me just as the child , I was. Reckless , naïve, my feet yet to grow a long way in the shoes they had placed for me. Everyone had an opinion of their own. And as a story being recited to a child , I found myself listening keenly to all these opinions. I was smart , some said. Some said , I was merely observant. Many concluded , that I would either end up as an engineer or a doctor. It amazed me how people could just figure out one’s future. I remember once seeing a Tarrot lady on the streets . She had this mysterious look in her eyes, and though it was just Cataract, for a kid it seemed like something mystique. The power to see the future demanded respect. I was scared to go to her. I had braces then, and earlier that day , my dad had got really peeved at seeing me picking the metal wires in search of chocolate bits, that he had threatened to cut short my supply of chocolate! That was one future I was not interested in knowing. But when people spoke of a bright future for me, I found myself gaping in respect
A couple of years later, I was standing six feet tall , beside this kid who barely crossed my knees. He stared up at me with his big eyes, which from my height , I could see contained more white than black. His eyes darted for a second to the tv screen, and it never returned. He was lost in the world of the Jetsons. I had loved this show when I was a kid. Teleporting , robotic butler, it sure was a different world. Airports are pretty boring places, especially if you are travelling alone during Christmas eve. Well I had this kid for company , actually I was hoping for the mom , but then , my luck always worked against me. So here I was left baby sitting this kid , while his mom , scurried to the Duty free.
‘Mister Stranger, What do you do ‘ He asked , looking at my briefcase
‘Well, I’m an engineer’
‘Aw cool , so do you build cars’
‘Well not exactly’
‘Do they fly. Do they zip and can they go up and down , left and right and roll over’
‘Uh no , they don’t. I don’t actually build cars. You see I’m a design engineer .’
‘Oh ‘. And there was this lost look in his face.
‘ A design engineer , designs stuff. You see these hover cars, well someone has to think of them , before it can be made’
‘Oh cool , so have you build these cars? I like flaming red . I thinks its cool , but my mom hates it. Which color do you have.’
‘Uh , I don’t have a car. And I don’t design cars.’
‘But you said , you designed cars. How come you dont have one.’
‘It was just an example! Cars are expensive and I cant afford one’
‘But don’t you get paid’
‘Well I do , but its complicated.’
‘What’s complicated?’
‘Well , you see , I kind of give my suggestions to people , and if they like it they pay me. Its what we in the adult world call free lancing.’
‘So have you designed any cars!’
‘No I haven’t , As I told before, I don’t design cars!’
‘Then what do you design’
‘Pipes’ I whispered in a sheepish voice.
‘Pipes, okhay. But what do you design in pipes. Arent they already build round and long ?’
‘Well , for you they maybe. But pipes are complex things , Its got curves , angles , and a small kid like you may not know it now. But when you grow up , study and become an enginner, well you‘ll know how important pipes are.’
‘My mom says I’m going to be an engineer. She says I’ll make these cars that fly. Vrooommmmm!!.People say I’m smart.’
‘Yeah I’m sure you are.’

And then for a brief moment there was silence. Two souls lost in translation. The kid was probably designing his first flaming red car. Myself on the other hand , was torn between two memories.

T thought of the morning’s conference came to picture. My ideas were genuine , but people were so ignorant. They looked at me as though , I was crazy. But I was sure about my idea. I was born a genius! One in a hundred was a prodigy.
Didn’t my uncle say
‘Son it’s a tough world, but you are going to make it. You know they say there’one in hundred is a genius. I am one , and am sure so are you. But remember the world is tough.’
Hmm .. but he didn’t get anywhere. Rather people thought he was crazy old guy , who just blurted rubbish. I wasn’t going o turn out to him. So what if I’m 35 , I know I’m smart. I’m smarter than everybody. My concepts work and the world was just too see ignorant what the Jetsons had achieved
And just maybe one day , these kids might just learn something from me, and till then , I just got to keep fighting against the world!

Farewell dear friend

When night comes and the cold breeze blows
When the sun sets , and a cloudless night appears
When all is silent , and time still
When my eyes close , and into deep slumber I fall
Will you be there beside me ,
to hold my hand , lest I feel scared

When heat fades , and stillness comes
When the whisper from lips turns into silence
When my lips be locked in a eternal bliss
When only sunny days shall exist
Will you be there beside me
to be my eyes , lest I be lost

When broken wounds heal
When tears become but a stranger to me
When still I stand , as time blows by
When in stone, my name be engraved
Will you be there beside me
To carry my name , lest in time it be lost

Perhaps alone I may be, tis day
In a land, where only light be there
Cry not shall I , for only happiness be here
And yet I feel so empty , for down there I see you all
Our time will come , but not so soon I pray
For many more stories I yearn to hear from you
Good bye for now , my dear ones
Fear not , for I shall always be the hand that holds you close

Thousand syllables with fingers on the lips

One of my earliest memories of school , has to be the on line, which constantly found its way into any 2nd grade teachers arsenal. ‘Finger on your lips’, was merely a polite way of saying , what we now fondly refer to as ‘Shut up!’. However , that said , the vessel still squeaks until the lid force itself on . In school it was the mere threat of a complaint to father and mother superior. For a grown up , the threat is far more disturbing.Perhaps even as far as a whisper of a scar , that bids all those money laundering ,proposals goodbye. None the less , we as humans have always exercised our right to the freedom of speech , only falling short to dire situations , as mentioned earlier.

It was a normal day . And as my normal days usually goes , there’s a bus ride , followed by a train , and yet another bus ride. Public transports , truly in its definition, serve the word public. People drool over each other , holler tunes as though they it were their bathrooms and then there’s the usual swarm of kids , who think speaking about how their discovery of someone’s wedgies , would one day make it the find of the century. And the day , would have been as normal as it normally was , if it were not for that couple , who occupied the front row of bus 362.

It is not often, that you notice people. There’s actually nothing special , the same sleeping faces , or the same , ‘Girl , I’m in love with you till the next arrive ‘expressions. But this couple caught my attention. There was something simple , and so simple about them that intrigued me. Through out the ride , I saw the lady looking out the window , staring at the passing bushes, and you could actually see the twinkle in her eye, as she turned to her elderly husband. They must have been in their late 50’s , if you considered their wrinkles and the receeding hairline. I was sitting two rows behind them , obstructed by a rather obese lady , whose sense of fashion and tube tops , stretched far beyond the definition of a sexy cleavage and , ‘oh that’s totally gross!’. I could only see the glitter in her eyes when she turned, and it struck me odd , for she was just looking at bushes! I couldn’t see the husband, but I could witness her lips curl into , what has to be described as , perhaps the most pleasant smile one would find on such a ‘public ‘transport.

Two stops later , I managed to get a seat behind the couple , and ahead of the heaving overly exposed obese lady. The old in front of me , continued to stare into the bushes. She once again turned to her husband , and her lips moved. She smiled again. My iPod was blaring a tune , and my noise cancellation ear buds , gave me what was the closest definition of silence, I could ever think of. Her smile , did raise a lot of curiosity. I slipped off my ear buds , hoping to catch , what the lady found so fascinating in these bushes. It was quite hard to concentrate , with all the ruckus , yet I strived hard to maintain my patience. After a while , of what seemed like ages to me, she turned towards her husband , and her lips transformed into what , I would have expected to be the formation of a syllable. No words came , not a single syllable. And then she smiled again . It drove me nuts. What was so interesting!

She turned again , and this time I saw it . Her lips curled , but her hands moved. Being the presence of mute person , was not a first time experience. What amazed me , however , was the response her husband gave. His hands only moved , his eyes fixed only on her. Nothing disturbed them , nothing broke their stride. Their hands spoke a conversation of a silent bush , which even with words , I could never find interesting.

I kept a finger on my lips, and thought to myself. When was the last time , I had actually known pure silence. When was the last time , I listened to the syllables in my own head. I had always had a voice , a voice to bleat , a voice to reach out. But what if one day, that voice bid me good bye, would the silence of the world , drive me mad, or transform me , into what life calls the beauty of miracles.

Miles to go before I sleep..

My right arm hung lifeless by the side of my torso.The blood from my badly wounded eye , blinded me. I couldn’t feel pain any more, I feel the chills rising from my feet. There was fire all around , and I felt my body give into the flames. I was tired, the battle had taken everything away from me. And then amidst the flames , she came. With her cry Tiamat , reminded of all the many of her kind that I had slayed. She was the last of their kind , and it was left to me. Slay the last of the dragons , or unleash her vengeance on my kind. A moment passed , she knew I had lost. I could see in her eyes, the sparkle of sweet revenge. She would make as pay a price, far greater , than that we had taken. Even before she acted , I knew what was coming. I had seen it many times before , i had heard the silence that accompanied the departing charred soul. I knew, death would come fast, and I was ready. I had , had my revenge. I had killed those that had taken my family. My death would not be in vain. As I stared into the cold eyes of Tiamat , I saw her raise her head , exposing her thick silver dragon scaled chest. It would only take seconds , for her to unleash her fury on me. I closed my eyes, and then the seconds stopped. The children’s tear stained faces appeared , the charred remains of their parents flooded my mind. Tiamat wrath had been unforgiving. Death had come to them in seconds , but the many who remained lived in the pain of their death. Tiamat was here , right in front of me. Her chest exposed, but my body was taken . I could see it in her eyes, I could see the fury she looked to unleash. She was smiling , it all about vengeance. And then she bore down on me. I raised my hand , leaving my eyes exposed. I saw the fire spew out. It came slowly, and then I felt it , the sweet plunge of destiny piercing her exposed chest. Our eyes locked for but only a moment , it was only a moment , but when the flames covered me , I could feel the chills leave my feet , as the flames gave smile to my departing soul.
*****************************************************

We live in a world where dragons and sorcers are only segments of imagination . We live in a world where darkness , does not present itself as a change in climate. We do not live in a world where Excalibur exists , nor do we live in a world , where a child imagine survives to bring out good.

I was pretty small when I was given , my first action figure. I spent hours waging various battles against the scores of imaginary evil forces. I saw myself in that figure, I saw myself in all the cartoons and comic books I read. The battles continued until reality set in. There were no dragons to be saved , no damsels to be saved. I was living in a world where there was no evil. There was only the line created by a non living thing called money. It was not evil , it was not even alive. Or so I was told, and though the child in me , accepted the popping of the Santa belief, that child never gave up his quest for glory.

I was 11 when I first imagined being an author. It was one of those frivolous ambitions , as herculean as drifting on the sands of Pluto. From the very moment , I imagined it , I knew it was just a juvenile thought. I was destined to be a doctor , or an engineer. Many had followed that path , and had found glory in the lifestyle that rewarded them. 9 years later , I found myself sitting in my room, surrounded by engineering books. The books bore striking resemblance to covers seen recently at the bookshop. There was an unnerving truth to it , they had never been opened. Success was inevitable for me. However there had always been something missing, the child had never vanished.
And as I penned of the last and final chapter, I remembered the dream that I was had. I could only smile , the child had never grown up. My book was but more or less , just a diary entry. With 17,000 words, a accomplishment , worthy of just a household showcase. But never could one underestimate the beauty of imagination. Couple with a sense of glory , and it make an individual do things they could practically never see themselves do. With false ambitions , I set out to look for a publisher. With 17,000 words and no experience , failure was eminent. For months I searched, foraging and discovering places i never knew possible. Through a dissuading conversation with Chetan Bhagat , I found myself only invigorated. I must have mailed around 30 – 40 publishers. But only few responded , and of them fewer asked for more. As days passed by , I found myself slowly accepting what Chetan Bhagat , had told me. ‘Publishing is a tough task , it’s not easy you know’. But the hope still existed , the hope that made me feel a 17,000 word script could be considered as a manuscript!

And then one fortunate day , I received a reply. I had finally found someone who was interested in it. That was 5 years ago. My book still remains unpublished , but not because I didn’t get a publisher. In light of the events that took place , I came face to face with reality. The dream a 11 year old boy once had , could now actually be transformed into a living realm. The dream rekindled itself , only greater. For 5 years , I sat down and rewrote my
script. From 17,000 , it grew to 70,000 and then 120,000 words. The story grew with experience. With critical evaluations, I felt chills of failure touch my feet. Today after 21 rewrites, I still look at that the book , and realize I can do better.

Perhaps I may write it 21 more times , but I know now that the dream is but a reach away. And as a child who slayed the ragon when he was down , I hope that one day when my body is bruised and my hair all greyed out , I shall be able to look into the eyes of heaven , and know that I gave my dreams a fight that none had seen before. And then I shall close my eyes a old man , living the dream of a 11 year old child.

Whose body is this , I do not know
A haven for a simple soul I see
An open invitation for shelter given
In the chills , to have but a cup of coffee

My thoughts think its eerie
To be part of a body so weary
Shattered and torn ,a haven ready to lend
for but a meandering soul, with dreams to mend

He opens his eye , just a whisker
Chapped lips open but the length of a whisper
Black and white , the fields beyond
A paint brush be his fist clasped around

The journey is wondrous, far and deep
But i have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep

When the world painted a different spectrum

Red , Green and Blue , a palette of primary colors she said
Of many more in the spectrum they form , she spoke
My teacher taught me , that which my father could not
He was blind he said, but not of sight
Rather of one of life

I knew not what he spoke of then
I was just a small Indian boy , sitting behind a small little desk
With crayons , I bid the teachers lessons of color.
Green plus Blue made Yellow she said

Though beautiful , the world of color was
The palette filled with colors of both hate and love
Light Brown be my favorite of them all
So wheatish , like the color of fresh morning bread

Yet a shade of it , I hated
Dipped was I , in the darkest shade of it.
Of low brand condemned, when from behind the desk , the teacher said
‘Hey South Indian, do your work’

That be years ago ,
when brown had a shade so many
Thousands miles away I moved ,
To a desk , where painted in white the canvas stood

An eastern neighbor, in a world back home, I saw
Lost in the center of the canvas of white
The sun struck his body , and glistened away
Perhaps it was the yellow color that scared them off.

That was yesterday , and today be the same .
When white shall radiate
Where yellow illuminates the white
Where the brown but a contrast provides

Red , Blue and Green
Primary colors of many spectrums to form , my teacher behind the desk ,did say
My father was blind , or was it me
For life did teach me a different palette
White , Brown and Yellow, I said
Primary colors of the human spectrum , I learnt

When Idli Wada Sambhar mattered?

Born into a South Indian family , Idli , Wada Sambar , was more or less the staple food that occupied the dinning table. Be it breakfast , lunch or dinner , idli wada Sambar , had a way of adjusting itself in any menu. Growing up , having the fresh taste of fermented dough, had its own way of taking the taste away from everything else.

After 17 years of the idli wada sambhar torture, I bolted at eth first chance, I got. It was good that I was going to college. And though college had its own share of Idli Wada Sambhar, the choices of avoiding the one time meal , was pretty accommodating. At home , having food was more like a stand off between the plate and yourself , with mom standing in as a referee. The plate would be stacked with so many idlis, that the very sight of it would make your stomach ache. There was no voice to question my mothers sense of quantity. After all she did make it with a lot of love , or so she remind me , whenever I raised an eyebrow. There was not a single battle , I had lost with Idli Wada Sambhar, but it was not because , I had the will to gorge myself. Every time , I came close to quitting , my mother would just remind me of the poor souls who didn’t have any food. She had these pictures of undernourished kids on the table. I really did not know how my gorging , helped these kids , but it didn’t help save me from the guilt ride.

College was different. I could forgo meals , without the guilt of tired kids suffering from malnutrition. I considered my act to be one of sacrifice My , not having a meal , gave my idli wada sambhar friends an extra salvo to fire into their yeast digesting stomachs!

Four years of college later , I moved up to the north of India. People here weren’t so crazy of idli wada sambhar, and it give me quite a relief . After all I didn’t have to skip any meals. I love north Indian food. I betrayed my loyalty towards Idli Wada Sambhar , for naans and dal chawal. I often found it hard to order a dish of my liking. This was primarily , because of my stubbornness to speak English. It as not that I was not fluent in Hindi, I just believed English brought a higher degree of sophistication. My friends tried their best to convince me otherwise , but I was plain too stubborn. A few months later and large pot belly later, I realized that I couldn’t savour Naan’s and dal Chawal anymore. There was no apparent reason , I just got bored of it. Now I was faced with a huge problem, and that problem was the size of my tummy. My oesophagus clamped at the very sight of North Indian food. And though it did permit me to have Idli Wada Sambhar, the taste seemed very different. The fermented taste though remained. That was a year ago.

When I was leaving India , my friends gifted me a DVD of Chandni Chowk to China. Though a pathetic movie, the DVD was more or less a reminder of the 180 rupees I had made everyone spend , to fulfil my desire of seeing Deepika Padukone on the big screen. I moved out of India. Things were quite different here. The prospect of eating international food really excited me. Pasta’s, original recipe burgers, salads, lasagne, steaks; the very thought of these made my mouth water. I had always wanted to learn how to eat with a fork and spoon, even a chopstick would do , as long I didn’t have to touch much food with my hands. I really loathed the way people ate with their hands back at home.

A few months later , and with an elongated waist line , I found myself confused at the food counter. I had tried out everything, and was simply bored of it. From my expertise in the silverware to the art of eating with chopsticks; from the Greek slovaki , to the Nigerian meat, the variety had been vast.

I would spend a lot many moments , staring at the menu , wondering what would fill my stomach. Food would go in , plates would be gorged down, but my stomach always remained empty. And oddly enough food brought a sense of depression that merged with the loneliness I had . The journey of discovery had lost its panache. Lunch turned to be the most depressing portion of the day. Without no one to share a moment , food had only been vessel of hope. And now lost , with no journey left, I had no clue of what I was supposed to do.

And there , I was sitting all alone, with my pocket full of money , wondering where to spend it, when my eyes followed a voice which was speaking to me.
‘Bhai Saab , aapko kuch chahiye’ (Do you want anything)

It was only then , that I noticed that, right ahead of me , squeezed into a corner was an Indian restaurant . Addressing me was a short Indian man, who everyone (including Indians) , chose to ignore. I myself had passed by this corner many times before, but in my search for exotic food , I had always turned a blind eye. Sitting a few meters away , I could experience the flavour , just through the few words he lisped in Hindi. In a world where everyone spoke English , the lisp of Hindi brought a lot of sophistication.

I scanned the menu , eager to order something I had missed. My eyes stopped short of the end of the menu, and I was sure of what I wanted. Idli Wada Sambhar – $ 9 only. $ 9 , surely was expensive for the single piece of Idli and wada they provided. I wondered how such small quantities would fill my bottomless stomach.

As my fingers touched the skin of the wada, I felt a tingling sensation run through my limbs. The rough course burnt skin , accentuated the feel of oil , in a place where frying food, was considered a taboo. As the first morsel touched the tip of my tongue , i was flooded with the over fermented taste , and special of uncooked dough. But it was heaven , just as it was when mom prepared the dough in the morning. The fermented taste , seemed like the feel of the numerous Idli’s, mom used to place on my plate. The watery sambhar , taste like the last strands of Sambhar on the plate , that my brother and me , used to lick off when we were kids. And as I gorged on the last bite, I found a tear on my cheek. I was successful , and I had discovered a lot , but it had taken me nearly 25 years , to realize how much Idli Wada Sambhar had actually meant to me.

I rose up , wiped my lips . I rushed home eager to watch the only Indian movie I had cared to take; Chandani Chowk to China , for the umpteenth time.

Oh Murphy, where art thou???

As children we are programmed to be prepared for the worse. Now by the term worse, I don’t literally mean the worst possible things. Worse in this scenario, is more quantified .Like perhaps scoring a 95 % in an exam , or say coming third in a lemon and spoon race.

The point is , from childhood , every parents preserves the right of protecting their child from disappointments. And so they grill in one simple rule. ‘Hope for the best, Prepare for the worse!’. And that simple rule goes a very long way in becoming Life’s rule of engagement.

So here I am, many years later , getting myself out of bed, to the annoying sound of my alarm. Now many may think , its a hard task to get yourself going in the morning. Trust me , it isn’t that hard. One look at the clock , and all my throttles are blazing. Its 6:30 in the morning and I have got to be at work by 8. And though my workplace is just a ten minute drive from here, it takes practically ages, with the morning traffic. Normally 6:30 would be considered late , in terms of the given scenario , but not for me. You see , its a daily routine. I set my alarm for 6. It rings at 6 , and as if knowingly always interrupts the interesting portions of my dream date. The next thirty minutes , I relapse into trying to find that position , which was so very interesting, and just when I have almost figured it out, the ringing begins again. Well everything’s lost, but then again , there’s always the next day to dream again .

So its 6:30 , and so i rush in to take a shower. Now generally , it takes around five minutes for the water to heat up. I cant take a shower in cold water. Its not that i have anything against cold water , its just that I kind of need those five minutes for myself. But I think I forgot to switch of the heater yesterday night. The water is warm. So that actually saves me five minutes. So I finish having my shower, and I start moving towards the dressing table, when I catch a glimpse of my bathroom clock. Yeah, I have one of those. It helps me synchronize everything. You see, to reach my office , I have got to take either the 7:13 or the 7:25 transit. Now I have never actually caught the 7:13, but by preparing for the 7:13 , I never miss the 7:25. So its 6:43 , that shower turned out to be quite fast. I cant help but stop in front of the mirror , and search for any stubs that may have grown in the 6 hours I was asleep. Now whilst one eye searches desperately for some growth, the other cautiously follows the second hand of the clock. Three minutes later, I’m totally satisfied , with my lack of facial hair.
I munch slowly on the banana pleased at how my day is progressing. I’ve got this huge meeting today at 8. And everything so far has gone great. its 6:50 now. It’s going to take me around 20 minutes to get my clothes and ironed , and get ready. I cant find any of my clothes in the pile, and its just before I begin to panic , that I realize, that I had collected them the night before from the laundry. I am ready in fifteen minutes.

I pace around a bit , eating away the remaining time. Its always the lame excuse that I might have forgotten something. I strut casually to the bus stop. Its 7:15.I’ve got ten more minutes to catch up on my favourite lucky tune , on my iPod. I’m just through the first stanza , when a bus halts in front of me . This cant be right , its just 7:18. But perhaps my watch is running slow. I could perhaps miss my meeting. The panic starts setting. But its all okay . I have been trained in art of countering Murphy’s laws. Surprisingly there is no traffic on the way. I reach my office by 7:45 . On normal days , I’m usually in by 7:57. That usually helps me a lot , as I don’t have to think much before such big meeting. I am now 12 minutes early, and I have no clue of what to do. In five years of my working career , I have never been 12 minutes early. Suddenly thoughts of the meeting envelop my mind. So far everything has worked out accordingly to the plan that I have studiously tried to follow for 5 years. But no day is perfect. Surely something is meant to go wrong. Isn’t that Murphy’s Law? My watch ticks 8. My eyes remain on the doors of the meetings room. its 8:02 , no one has pass by its preference. This is getting quite unnerving. They are never late. But that’s unless of course , they had a prior meeting . A closed door meeting , to which I was not invited. It was not a hidden fact that they were looking to terminate people. I was not invited , what did that mean. 8:05 , they all strut in. All of them together, yes they had to be in a meeting together. Paranoia sets in , I need this job. They don’t say anything in the meeting . Its as if they are preparing themselves. Every one’s nice to me the entire day. My boss especially. He pats on the back and says ‘You’re a good resource ‘. I’m waiting for the ‘But’ to come , but It never does. By the end of the day , I’m totally worried. I reach home , depressed and lost in my thoughts. My wife’s home , she’s speaking but I really don’t hear her. She’s speaking about something regarding how I felt my life was always a routine. I’m like ‘ýeah , yeah’. I’m not actually paying attention to her , I’ve got an axe on head. I’m determined not to be the sacrifice on the corporate altar. My wife keepings yapping away , least concerned of where the next days bread will come from. I sit down and type in my resignation letter. And its only when I hit the send button , that I find a moment of peace. Finally the day seems right. Finally something consequential had taken place.

My wife hollers, ‘Honey, are you even listening to me’.

‘I’m sorry’ I say, ‘What were you saying again ? ‘

‘Well , I don’t know if you noticed it ; but you remember how you always complained of how routine your life had become.’

‘Ýeah ‘ I reply back

‘Well I kind of hope it was different today. I set all the clocks back by 5 minutes today’.