It was a wonderful evening. As the silent rain spread all over, we made our way back to the apartment after having a quiet dinner at a nearby restaurant. When I was struggling with the last piece of the bland naan and trying to figure out why the daal was called Daal makhani when it actually tasted like sambhar, my three years old loyal Nokia cell-phone rang with compromised clarity. It was Mum.
Barely ten days had passed since I came to Chennai. I am doing a Post Graduate course in Journalism in a premier institute here ; and we have been allotted decent flats in a grand building at Kodambakkam, called Jain’s Antariksh. It was the sixth night of our stay in the building. Normally, on weekdays, I stay back in the college till 8.30 in the night, going through different books in the brilliantly stocked library. Then I have my dinner in a nearby Bengali hotel (which serves good food and is easy on the pocket too) and come back to Jain’s with a friend of mine.
As it was a Saturday, the library closed at 5 p.m and we had to come back early. The morning’s plan to go to the Eliot beach after college was cancelled . It was fortunate as for some obscure reason, I was feeling a bit low. The clouds had already started to gather when I was in the auto, coming back to the hostel. Before entering the building, quite involuntarily, I looked up at the sky. It had started to drizzle and the grey sky with looming clouds projected gloominess all around.
As the dabba food system was not yet arranged for our dinner on weekends, ten of us decided to have our dinner in this shabby looking restaurant, right in front of our apartment. There wasn’t a better place nearby, so though reluctant at the beginning, we had to settle for it.
“Hello Beta ! shob bhaalo to ?”, (Hello Son ! Is everything ok?) spoke a starkly familiar , distinctly near and crystal clear voice on the other end of the phone. Suddenly, I was gripped by a spasm of terrible physical weakness but I held on. The conversation lasted for a couple of minutes, where my mother enquired about my well-being and asked me to be careful in the city. I did not miss the wet hoarseness of her voice, deliberately trying to conceal it, towards the end of the conversation.
All my friends around me were discussing, animatedly , about some issue and cheering over it. It was all an audible incomprehensibility for me as I pushed the phone inside my jeans pocket, heaving a deep sigh of emptiness, lingering somewhere.
Ria asked me that who was on the line. I smiled and said that it was Mum. As we made our way towards Jain’s, I could feel the cool distant wind brushing past my hair, caressing my cheeks and it sent a shiver down my spine.
Now, the sky was black and so was the road. The mood slowly plunged into me as we sat down on a bench near our building, to chat, which is a regular affair before retiring for the day.
I tried my best to participate in the conversation and look interested but soft, almost tangible memories flashed through my mind, each time I put in an extra effort. Scenes flashed rapidly – my cosy bedroom, the torn yellow blanket, my neighbouring aunt’s smiling face, my mother preparing a wonderful dish for me, my father’s voice on the telephone, the crowded Howrah railway station, the chicken roll at Shiraz, the fun-filled college days…an evening walk to the market, holding Her hands and careless whispers in Her ears, the last time I saw Her before coming to Chennai - those eyes which spoke in volumes, clinching me, desperate to put up a performance of silent courage… everything was coming back to me in fast forward.
Suddenly, I found Devjeet asking me why I was so quiet tonight? I brushed it off with a casual non-chalance and broke off into an artificial giggle, trying to sound convincing.
It was tough. It was very tough to hold back. Every time I thought about my home, my family, my friends, my Love – my heart wrenched apart and a dry lump formed in my throat. I was so far from them, physically… I was feeling breathless and terribly weak. My heart – It was a kid, a lonely naked kid, running down an empty dark street, crying uncontrollably but the screams could not be heard. The doors of the houses on both sides of the street were locked and from the windows, he could see dim illumination inside, a warm glow beckoning him…
Suddenly, the soft strains of “Saiyyan”, a song by Kailash Kher (One of the purest, I have ever heard) filled the air around me and a deep, distant call of melancholy stabbed my heart.
I had promised to myself that in these 10 months, I would never listen to any kind of song which had a strange, pure romance in it – songs which transport me to another world of fantastic reality, of floral dreams and clear skies, of sparkling waterfall and soft wind, of a setting sun , of a lone cyclist riding through a dark maize field, of the pure, majestic moon – songs which lay my heart bare, an inexplicable pain gripping me, a convulsive shivering, a grinding feeling of nostalgia and a touch of numbness…
I was not able to take it anymore. I could not hold back my tears. I buried my face with my palms, my ears turning hot sensing the surprised faces around me. Quickly getting over their fluster, some of my friends comforted me, while others were reminded of their family. I was feeling extremely embarrassed and frustrated, not being able to control my emotions. I made myself steady soon, and found that everyone around me had a sombre expression on their faces, staring at a distance. I had opened a passageway of memories for them, that night. No one lingered around after that. I returned back to my flat, straight, weak but more in control.
As I lay on the bed, I tried to think about the morning lectures in an attempt to escape from my wandering thoughts.
The next morning, we were all fresh faced, greeting each other. That day, we enjoyed a lot. But deep in my heart, I still bore the promise…Nowadays, whenever I hear the tune of any special song, I escape from the place before it tries to enter my soul.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Mahashtami-an episode from the epic
“I am speaking from the Vidyasagar Niketan Puja Mandap. Those who want to pay their homage to the deity and participate in the anjali, please come to the mandap soon” – These words. These very words greet me every morning along with the resonance of the rat-a-tat of the drums, during the Durga puja celebrations in our locality in Kolkata. The inimitable voice of Pinku da has a charm of its own. What more ! It does not sound repetitive also. The voice is a beckoning-a beckoning to tread through the green dewy grass and make my way to the colossal pandal amidst rows of shiuli flowers and the freshly incensed air, hovering all around the scene.
The anjali or the holy offering of flowers to the Goddess marks the beginning of the day, every Mahashtami. As I changed into the crisp beige coloured dhoti and a newly purchased rust coloured embroidered kurta, I heard my friends calling me to come to the pandal. Making a quick reply, I literally skipped through the flight of stairs and made my way downstairs to the street. All my friends had neatly dressed themselves in traditional Indian wear. Arka was robed in a pista coloured kurta pajama, Tanya in one of her favourite yellow saree with red border.. Rhea was at her usual best, tying her hair tidily and sporting a chrome coloured saree, clutching the pallu with her hands. Arunava was the only one who wore a pair of jeans and a casual t-shirt. “Look Tipu, I don’t feel like dressing up in a traditional way”, he says, “It feels good to be different…” and we are left in splits.
As we made our way to the Puja pandal, which is about fifty feet away from my building , we saw Mukut kaku approaching us hurriedly, ignorant of the fact that his snot-smeared handkerchief was hanging loose from his kurta’s pocket. The glasses were slipping down his sweaty nose, every time he made an attempt to wear it tightly.
“Arey ! You are still wandering here-You young kids ! Don’t have any respect for tradition,it seems! When I was of your age, I used to reach the mandap early morning and helped the elders prepare for the anjali” he said. “Go to the pandal fast. The anjali will start soon.”—The quintessential English professor, who sported a golden heart beneath a tough exterior.
The plastic chairs outside the pandal were unoccupied as most of the people had gathered inside to participate in the holy occasion. We jostled for space inside the pandal which was crammed with uncles in khadis and spotless white pajamas, aunties in crisp cotton sarees with vermillion smeared across their forehead, and grandmothers with their restless grandchildren in their arms. A brass container with flowers and bel leaves were making rounds among the people. We clutched on to a sufficient amount of flowers as offerings to the Goddess. The old shriveled, bare bodied priest was standing on the dias in front of the Goddess ,waiting impatiently for the crowd to assemble and organize so that the proceedings can begin.
And there was the deity of Maa Durga standing tall .Her structure dazzled with golden decorations, a bright red saree adorning her image. Her ten hands grasped the glittering weapons, out of which the trishul was seen to be piercing Mahishasura’s muscular frame. The images of Lakhshmi, Saraswati, Ganesha and Kartikeya, masterfully crafted and carefully decorated flanked Devi Durga. As the flame of the 5-headed lamp burned vigorously, the reflection of that in Maa’s eyes was a sight to behold. It is a sight which inspires the craftsmen after they have completed constructing the image, the priest who worships the Goddess and has devoted all his life to the service of The Mother. It inspires the millions of devotees who pray with folded hands, laying their hearts bare to Maa. The eyes of the Goddess spoke of power, love, trust, faith, benevolence, forgiveness, destruction and empathy. It is a sight which gives us power- the power to transcend the oddities and complexities of our every day life and emerge as the warrior under the shadows of Durga, who blesses us with the strength and the will to excel.
“Namoh Vishnu…”-the priest started to chant, quivery voiced, but with the tone of passion, enriched through long years of experience and servitude to the Goddess. Soon there was a lull inside the mandap-the mutterings of the repeated prayers and the noise of the rickety table fan being the only sounds apart from the chanting by the priest on the microphone. I overheard some sniffs of overwhelm, a chuckle of unmindfulness, soft murmurs discussing about where to visit this evening and low hushes of mothers asking their children to keep quiet and pray. Every fragment fitted perfectly to the scene. It was as if the omission of a single element would cause the sight to be incomplete.
Everything added to the magic of the atmosphere.
Outside the pandal, Kaash flowers were getting blown all around by the breeze. The sun shone gracefully generating an aura of purity which cleanses the soul of even the most skeptic.. One could hear koyals chirping among the branches, hiding among the shades of the peepul trees in the compound. The haze of the chaste smoke, emanating out of a puja ritual fumed the morning air as the anjali arrived at its climax. Soon the beatings of the drums reverberated and the clanking of Kaanshis incorporated a spirit of an eastern enchantment to the vista. After the anjali the devotees were sprinkled with holy water from the Ganges and slowly the mass began to disperse, their hearts full and souls purified. As the second batch of devotees entered the pandal, the others fed on the sacred offerings to the Goddess and broke their fast.
(This year I might have to miss the Durga Puja celebrations, back home. But the spirit of the site shall be imprinted on my mind and bore in my heart…forever.)
The anjali or the holy offering of flowers to the Goddess marks the beginning of the day, every Mahashtami. As I changed into the crisp beige coloured dhoti and a newly purchased rust coloured embroidered kurta, I heard my friends calling me to come to the pandal. Making a quick reply, I literally skipped through the flight of stairs and made my way downstairs to the street. All my friends had neatly dressed themselves in traditional Indian wear. Arka was robed in a pista coloured kurta pajama, Tanya in one of her favourite yellow saree with red border.. Rhea was at her usual best, tying her hair tidily and sporting a chrome coloured saree, clutching the pallu with her hands. Arunava was the only one who wore a pair of jeans and a casual t-shirt. “Look Tipu, I don’t feel like dressing up in a traditional way”, he says, “It feels good to be different…” and we are left in splits.
As we made our way to the Puja pandal, which is about fifty feet away from my building , we saw Mukut kaku approaching us hurriedly, ignorant of the fact that his snot-smeared handkerchief was hanging loose from his kurta’s pocket. The glasses were slipping down his sweaty nose, every time he made an attempt to wear it tightly.
“Arey ! You are still wandering here-You young kids ! Don’t have any respect for tradition,it seems! When I was of your age, I used to reach the mandap early morning and helped the elders prepare for the anjali” he said. “Go to the pandal fast. The anjali will start soon.”—The quintessential English professor, who sported a golden heart beneath a tough exterior.
The plastic chairs outside the pandal were unoccupied as most of the people had gathered inside to participate in the holy occasion. We jostled for space inside the pandal which was crammed with uncles in khadis and spotless white pajamas, aunties in crisp cotton sarees with vermillion smeared across their forehead, and grandmothers with their restless grandchildren in their arms. A brass container with flowers and bel leaves were making rounds among the people. We clutched on to a sufficient amount of flowers as offerings to the Goddess. The old shriveled, bare bodied priest was standing on the dias in front of the Goddess ,waiting impatiently for the crowd to assemble and organize so that the proceedings can begin.
And there was the deity of Maa Durga standing tall .Her structure dazzled with golden decorations, a bright red saree adorning her image. Her ten hands grasped the glittering weapons, out of which the trishul was seen to be piercing Mahishasura’s muscular frame. The images of Lakhshmi, Saraswati, Ganesha and Kartikeya, masterfully crafted and carefully decorated flanked Devi Durga. As the flame of the 5-headed lamp burned vigorously, the reflection of that in Maa’s eyes was a sight to behold. It is a sight which inspires the craftsmen after they have completed constructing the image, the priest who worships the Goddess and has devoted all his life to the service of The Mother. It inspires the millions of devotees who pray with folded hands, laying their hearts bare to Maa. The eyes of the Goddess spoke of power, love, trust, faith, benevolence, forgiveness, destruction and empathy. It is a sight which gives us power- the power to transcend the oddities and complexities of our every day life and emerge as the warrior under the shadows of Durga, who blesses us with the strength and the will to excel.
“Namoh Vishnu…”-the priest started to chant, quivery voiced, but with the tone of passion, enriched through long years of experience and servitude to the Goddess. Soon there was a lull inside the mandap-the mutterings of the repeated prayers and the noise of the rickety table fan being the only sounds apart from the chanting by the priest on the microphone. I overheard some sniffs of overwhelm, a chuckle of unmindfulness, soft murmurs discussing about where to visit this evening and low hushes of mothers asking their children to keep quiet and pray. Every fragment fitted perfectly to the scene. It was as if the omission of a single element would cause the sight to be incomplete.
Everything added to the magic of the atmosphere.
Outside the pandal, Kaash flowers were getting blown all around by the breeze. The sun shone gracefully generating an aura of purity which cleanses the soul of even the most skeptic.. One could hear koyals chirping among the branches, hiding among the shades of the peepul trees in the compound. The haze of the chaste smoke, emanating out of a puja ritual fumed the morning air as the anjali arrived at its climax. Soon the beatings of the drums reverberated and the clanking of Kaanshis incorporated a spirit of an eastern enchantment to the vista. After the anjali the devotees were sprinkled with holy water from the Ganges and slowly the mass began to disperse, their hearts full and souls purified. As the second batch of devotees entered the pandal, the others fed on the sacred offerings to the Goddess and broke their fast.
(This year I might have to miss the Durga Puja celebrations, back home. But the spirit of the site shall be imprinted on my mind and bore in my heart…forever.)
Alexander Solzhenitsyn
“One should never direct people towards happiness, because happiness too is an idol of the market-place. One should direct them towards mutual affection. A beast gnawing at its prey can be happy too, but only human beings can feel affection for each other, and this is the highest achievement they can aspire to.”
Only a person who has experienced the quagmire multiplicity of pains can vent out his misery, couched in the façade of philosophy, in this way. One of the greatest Russian authors who held a prominent image in world literature, Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn makes a character from his novel, The Cancer ward, preach this line.
Solzhenitsyn had seen suffering at close quarters. He had smelled the filth of the Russian labour camps called Gulag, he had tasted the thick, cold blows of the batons; He had felt the sharp, draining numbness of existence in the camp; He has maintained a desperate effort to keep his mental stability during inhuman conditions.
Under the dictatorial regime of Stalin, Solzhenitsyn was accused of anti-Soviet propaganda when in February 1945, while serving in east Prussia he was arrested for writing a derogatory comment in a letter to a friend about the conduct of the World war II by Stalin. In the letter he referred to him as “the whiskered one”, “Khozyain”(the master) and “Balabos”, which meant the same. Solzhenitsyn was serving the Soviet union as the commander of an acoustic recognizance unit in the Red Army. He was sentenced to an eight-year term in a labour camp to be followed by permanent internal exile. During his term in the prison he tried to broaden his intellectual horizon through the Joycean virtues of “silence, cunning and exile” This was the normal sentence for most crimes under Article 58 at the time. Any person who posed as a threat to Stalin’s autocratic rule was arrested and put into the labour camps called Gulags. There were 176 separate camp complexes each comprising hundreds, even thousands of camps. Approximately there were 7 million prisoners in the gulag under Stalin’s rule. People were imprisoned in a gulag camp for committing crimes such as unexcused absence from work, petty thefts, anti-government jokes and so on. The treatments meted out to the prisoners were not only brutal and cruel but intolerable too. They were forced to do work which was mainly of a hard, physical nature. The conditions were unbearable and the gulag camps had high mortality rates among the prisoners. Life of the people after jail was also a bane as they were denied jobs and were forbidden to settle in cities. Thus, the gulag was a kind of a hell for the soviet dwellers.
A moral and spiritual leader, Alexsandr stirred the minds and the deepest emotions of the readers in his times and his works still carry the magic to posterity. A profound thinker and a deep humanist, Alexsandr translated the horrors of the inhuman conditions and the brutal treatment towards the prisoners in most of his works. One of his most famous works is One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich which portrayed the oppression of the gulag army men towards the prisoners and strongly criticised the sadistic intentions of Stalin and the horrors of camp survival. A man suffering from cancer, he poured out his feelings and his helplessness into words in The Cancer Ward. The novel, makes many allegorical references to the state of Soviet Russia, in particular the quote from Kostoglotov "A man dies from a tumour, so how can a country survive with growths like labour camps and exiles?" highlights the comparison between cancer overtaking the patient with the police state overtaking Russia. The First circle was also a document of the evils and the oppression in the gulag. The title is an allusion to Dante’s first circle of hell in The Divine Comedy. The Gulag Archipelago was a three volume work on the Soviet prison camp system. It was based upon Solzhenitsyn's own experience as well as the testimony of 227 former prisoners and Solzhenitsyn's own research into the history of the penal system. It discussed the system's origins from the founding of the Communist regime, with Lenin himself having responsibility, detailing interrogation procedures, prisoner transports, prison camp culture, prisoner uprisings and revolts, and the practice of internal exile.
Solzhenitsyn did not question his state ideology before spending time in the camp. But after the stint he suffered a jolt to his beliefs and strongly opposed the Soviet government. In the 1917 publication, The Red Wheel he warned the world against the dangers of communist aggression. Even in his last works-Rebuilding Russia (’90) and Russia in collapse (’98) he criticized the oligarchic excesses of the new Russian democracy and held it responsible for the dismay that the country was passing through. He also held a strong, critical view of the West in bringing out the evils of Soviet Communism. He was of the opinion that the west suffered spiritual weakness and there was nobody to look clearly at it. He also blamed the west to be a victim of vulgar materialism and strongly condemned its attack on Vietnam. But his biased and lopsided approach was not without any inexplicable views. While accusing the West of imperialism, he seemed quite unaware of the extraordinary expansion of his own country into regions inhabited by non-Russians. He never asked himself, why Marxism in other European countries led not to the Gulag but welfare states. His knowledge of the Russian history was very superficial and laced with romantic sentimentalism. Instead of blaming the Russian conditions, he blamed the teachings of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels arguing that Marxism itself is violent. He strained the conclusion that Communism will always be totalitarian and violent, wherever it is practiced.
Through his works one can gauge each drop of blood that has moulded itself to the vibrant and breathing words which fumes towards the oppressors. A man bombarded with experience and overflowing with articulations, no holds barred, Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn was a prophet not only of his times but of the succeeding generation also.
Only a person who has experienced the quagmire multiplicity of pains can vent out his misery, couched in the façade of philosophy, in this way. One of the greatest Russian authors who held a prominent image in world literature, Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn makes a character from his novel, The Cancer ward, preach this line.
Solzhenitsyn had seen suffering at close quarters. He had smelled the filth of the Russian labour camps called Gulag, he had tasted the thick, cold blows of the batons; He had felt the sharp, draining numbness of existence in the camp; He has maintained a desperate effort to keep his mental stability during inhuman conditions.
Under the dictatorial regime of Stalin, Solzhenitsyn was accused of anti-Soviet propaganda when in February 1945, while serving in east Prussia he was arrested for writing a derogatory comment in a letter to a friend about the conduct of the World war II by Stalin. In the letter he referred to him as “the whiskered one”, “Khozyain”(the master) and “Balabos”, which meant the same. Solzhenitsyn was serving the Soviet union as the commander of an acoustic recognizance unit in the Red Army. He was sentenced to an eight-year term in a labour camp to be followed by permanent internal exile. During his term in the prison he tried to broaden his intellectual horizon through the Joycean virtues of “silence, cunning and exile” This was the normal sentence for most crimes under Article 58 at the time. Any person who posed as a threat to Stalin’s autocratic rule was arrested and put into the labour camps called Gulags. There were 176 separate camp complexes each comprising hundreds, even thousands of camps. Approximately there were 7 million prisoners in the gulag under Stalin’s rule. People were imprisoned in a gulag camp for committing crimes such as unexcused absence from work, petty thefts, anti-government jokes and so on. The treatments meted out to the prisoners were not only brutal and cruel but intolerable too. They were forced to do work which was mainly of a hard, physical nature. The conditions were unbearable and the gulag camps had high mortality rates among the prisoners. Life of the people after jail was also a bane as they were denied jobs and were forbidden to settle in cities. Thus, the gulag was a kind of a hell for the soviet dwellers.
A moral and spiritual leader, Alexsandr stirred the minds and the deepest emotions of the readers in his times and his works still carry the magic to posterity. A profound thinker and a deep humanist, Alexsandr translated the horrors of the inhuman conditions and the brutal treatment towards the prisoners in most of his works. One of his most famous works is One day in the life of Ivan Denisovich which portrayed the oppression of the gulag army men towards the prisoners and strongly criticised the sadistic intentions of Stalin and the horrors of camp survival. A man suffering from cancer, he poured out his feelings and his helplessness into words in The Cancer Ward. The novel, makes many allegorical references to the state of Soviet Russia, in particular the quote from Kostoglotov "A man dies from a tumour, so how can a country survive with growths like labour camps and exiles?" highlights the comparison between cancer overtaking the patient with the police state overtaking Russia. The First circle was also a document of the evils and the oppression in the gulag. The title is an allusion to Dante’s first circle of hell in The Divine Comedy. The Gulag Archipelago was a three volume work on the Soviet prison camp system. It was based upon Solzhenitsyn's own experience as well as the testimony of 227 former prisoners and Solzhenitsyn's own research into the history of the penal system. It discussed the system's origins from the founding of the Communist regime, with Lenin himself having responsibility, detailing interrogation procedures, prisoner transports, prison camp culture, prisoner uprisings and revolts, and the practice of internal exile.
Solzhenitsyn did not question his state ideology before spending time in the camp. But after the stint he suffered a jolt to his beliefs and strongly opposed the Soviet government. In the 1917 publication, The Red Wheel he warned the world against the dangers of communist aggression. Even in his last works-Rebuilding Russia (’90) and Russia in collapse (’98) he criticized the oligarchic excesses of the new Russian democracy and held it responsible for the dismay that the country was passing through. He also held a strong, critical view of the West in bringing out the evils of Soviet Communism. He was of the opinion that the west suffered spiritual weakness and there was nobody to look clearly at it. He also blamed the west to be a victim of vulgar materialism and strongly condemned its attack on Vietnam. But his biased and lopsided approach was not without any inexplicable views. While accusing the West of imperialism, he seemed quite unaware of the extraordinary expansion of his own country into regions inhabited by non-Russians. He never asked himself, why Marxism in other European countries led not to the Gulag but welfare states. His knowledge of the Russian history was very superficial and laced with romantic sentimentalism. Instead of blaming the Russian conditions, he blamed the teachings of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels arguing that Marxism itself is violent. He strained the conclusion that Communism will always be totalitarian and violent, wherever it is practiced.
Through his works one can gauge each drop of blood that has moulded itself to the vibrant and breathing words which fumes towards the oppressors. A man bombarded with experience and overflowing with articulations, no holds barred, Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn was a prophet not only of his times but of the succeeding generation also.
A view from the top
Sam smiled triumphantly as he walked down the shining marble floor of Apex international, graciously responding to the “Good Morning” wishes by the employees in the desk and the PR people stopping in their tracks. He had an air of self-contentment and was humming , inaudibly, under his breath. Once inside the lift, the façade of the dignified silent smile was substituted by a more natural grin. He had moved up the corporate ladder as swiftly as he was making his way up to the 20th floor now. He had just been promoted as the senior manager of the software company which was growing by leaps and bounds in the international arena.
After entering his plush upholstered cabin, he pressed the bell for the steward to attend to him. He was now the master of the show. He had all the luxuries of life now. Sam remembered how he had worked really hard to get his first job. All those sleepless nights, skipping meals and hard labour-just to make a mark-just to fuel his ambitions. All these had paid off. Sam luckily caught the fancy of one of his bosses in the marketing division and was generously helped by him to get a job in Apex at New York .
Knock Knock !
A short fellow in a black suit entered the room , his head bowed and a look of passive calmness on his face.
“Here boy. Bring me an Armitage—and make it fast.” He was checking some reports and did not look up while he commanded.
“Right away, Sir” replied the waiter.
Just as he made his way to the door, Sam glanced at him, for no apparent reason. Suddenly he felt like conversing with the man.
“Boy, what’s your name?” he asked with a smirk on his face.
The steward turned back swiftly. “Mike, Sir…My name is Mike” he smiled back.
“Oh Mike, tell me Mike, how long have you been working here?”
“A year, Sir” he smiled again.
There was no definite question in Sam’s mind but he was in a mood to linger on.
“So, do you like the work here?”
“I do, Sir”
Sam leaned on to his big leather chair. “So you are happy?” blurted out Sam and in the next instant he felt very disturbed again for a reason which he could not comprehend.
“My Parents are happy, Sir. They are very happy that I work in such a big office.”
It was as if the flood gates of emotions had been opened. Emotions gushed out of Sam’s closely guarded soul and took the form of tears in his eyes. With the blurred vision of reality, he managed to croak out-“You may go”.
The attendant politely bowed his head and went away with the same smile adorning his face.
Sam got up and came near the mirror. Was this Shyam Prabhat Saxena? He tracked his profile from head till toe. He was wearing a shining black Armani suit and was looking unnaturally neat today.
“Is that me?” His soul reverberated. Where is the Shyam who wore a cotton trouser and a casual white shirt to his first job? This was not Shyam. He is now what his colleagues call him as-Sam.
“My parents are happy”
The words still rang in his ears as they opened for him an avenue of long lost, long forgotten memories. Shyam remembered how he used to go out with his friends in Baroda , for a movie, 5 years back. How he used to enjoy the cluttered, dingy and occassionally smelly market place in Vasantnagar-how he used to come back from his office and feasted on the steaming ghee rotis made by his mother. He remembered the look of satisfaction in her eyes as she saw her son enjoying the food…
Where are those days? He might be doing a great job, earning lots of money, but is he at peace? Where are the lost days of simplicity? Everyone was happy with his job in India . But not he. He had dreams of making it really big one day. Shyam was a big shot excecutive now with a humungous contract salary, two cars, several attendants and a beautiful house in a posh colony.
But he existed alone. All alone. Life had shown him a dream and while pursuing that, he had moved so ahead that he could not see anybody in the vicinity now.
As he stared from the window down to the streets with microscopic objects moving around far far away from him, he felt cold, cheated and helpless. How long has he not called his parents back in India . They were still not able to believe that their son was staying abroad. It was a numb feeling but were they happy? There has been so many instances that Shyam had rejected a call from his father as he was in the middle of a meeting. He had always brushed off his mother’s willingness to stay with him in New york , postponing it for months, stating lack of time to arrange for it.
What has he done? What has he become?
Shyam could not take it anymore. He placed his head against the cool glass of the window closing his eyes with a deep sense of emptiness in his heart.
Knock Knock
It was the steward.
“Oh Mike, come in”,managed the Senior manager of Apex.
Mike brought in the tray consisting of the bottle of wine, a crystal clear glass and a tumbler of ice with tongs in it.
“Shall I make a drink, sir?”
“No”said Shyam. “I don’t need it”
He refused to be intoxicated.
Mike left the room with the same smile on his lips as Shyam, disillusioned, took up his phone to call back home.
After entering his plush upholstered cabin, he pressed the bell for the steward to attend to him. He was now the master of the show. He had all the luxuries of life now. Sam remembered how he had worked really hard to get his first job. All those sleepless nights, skipping meals and hard labour-just to make a mark-just to fuel his ambitions. All these had paid off. Sam luckily caught the fancy of one of his bosses in the marketing division and was generously helped by him to get a job in Apex at New York .
Knock Knock !
A short fellow in a black suit entered the room , his head bowed and a look of passive calmness on his face.
“Here boy. Bring me an Armitage—and make it fast.” He was checking some reports and did not look up while he commanded.
“Right away, Sir” replied the waiter.
Just as he made his way to the door, Sam glanced at him, for no apparent reason. Suddenly he felt like conversing with the man.
“Boy, what’s your name?” he asked with a smirk on his face.
The steward turned back swiftly. “Mike, Sir…My name is Mike” he smiled back.
“Oh Mike, tell me Mike, how long have you been working here?”
“A year, Sir” he smiled again.
There was no definite question in Sam’s mind but he was in a mood to linger on.
“So, do you like the work here?”
“I do, Sir”
Sam leaned on to his big leather chair. “So you are happy?” blurted out Sam and in the next instant he felt very disturbed again for a reason which he could not comprehend.
“My Parents are happy, Sir. They are very happy that I work in such a big office.”
It was as if the flood gates of emotions had been opened. Emotions gushed out of Sam’s closely guarded soul and took the form of tears in his eyes. With the blurred vision of reality, he managed to croak out-“You may go”.
The attendant politely bowed his head and went away with the same smile adorning his face.
Sam got up and came near the mirror. Was this Shyam Prabhat Saxena? He tracked his profile from head till toe. He was wearing a shining black Armani suit and was looking unnaturally neat today.
“Is that me?” His soul reverberated. Where is the Shyam who wore a cotton trouser and a casual white shirt to his first job? This was not Shyam. He is now what his colleagues call him as-Sam.
“My parents are happy”
The words still rang in his ears as they opened for him an avenue of long lost, long forgotten memories. Shyam remembered how he used to go out with his friends in Baroda , for a movie, 5 years back. How he used to enjoy the cluttered, dingy and occassionally smelly market place in Vasantnagar-how he used to come back from his office and feasted on the steaming ghee rotis made by his mother. He remembered the look of satisfaction in her eyes as she saw her son enjoying the food…
Where are those days? He might be doing a great job, earning lots of money, but is he at peace? Where are the lost days of simplicity? Everyone was happy with his job in India . But not he. He had dreams of making it really big one day. Shyam was a big shot excecutive now with a humungous contract salary, two cars, several attendants and a beautiful house in a posh colony.
But he existed alone. All alone. Life had shown him a dream and while pursuing that, he had moved so ahead that he could not see anybody in the vicinity now.
As he stared from the window down to the streets with microscopic objects moving around far far away from him, he felt cold, cheated and helpless. How long has he not called his parents back in India . They were still not able to believe that their son was staying abroad. It was a numb feeling but were they happy? There has been so many instances that Shyam had rejected a call from his father as he was in the middle of a meeting. He had always brushed off his mother’s willingness to stay with him in New york , postponing it for months, stating lack of time to arrange for it.
What has he done? What has he become?
Shyam could not take it anymore. He placed his head against the cool glass of the window closing his eyes with a deep sense of emptiness in his heart.
Knock Knock
It was the steward.
“Oh Mike, come in”,managed the Senior manager of Apex.
Mike brought in the tray consisting of the bottle of wine, a crystal clear glass and a tumbler of ice with tongs in it.
“Shall I make a drink, sir?”
“No”said Shyam. “I don’t need it”
He refused to be intoxicated.
Mike left the room with the same smile on his lips as Shyam, disillusioned, took up his phone to call back home.
The Beatles assignment
Popular culture got a new name in the “Sixties”. It even got a new brand of music, a distinct hairstyle, a carefree lifestyle and a global phenomenon. It was called The Beatles. No Rock and Roll group had such a massive influence over the generation and the world as The Beatles. Comprising of the awesome foursome-John Lennon (rhythm guitar, vocals), Paul McCartney (bass guitar, vocals), George Harrison (lead guitar, vocals) and Ringo Starr (drums, vocals), the group is a timeless trend of what youth music and tireless popularity can be.
The Journey-Rise and Fall
John Lennon was the founder of a skiffle band in Liverpool called The Quarrymen. As luck would have it, he chanced upon meeting guitarist Paul McCartney at the Woolton Garden Fête, held at St. Peter's Church, one fine day, and he was absorbed into the group. Soon McCartney managed to bring in George Harrison, an aquaintance, to the group, inspite of the initial reluctance by Lennon about his age. Thus in 1957-58 began the journey of three of our heroes-young, confused and with passion in their hearts-a journey that would lead them (along with the later entry of Ringo Starr) to become the cynosure of millions of eyes and the delight of admiring pairs of ears. With the suggestion of the bass guitarist of The Quarrymen,Stuart Sutcliffe and Lennon's first wife, Cynthia Lennon, the band changed their names to The Beatles after a "brainstorming session over a beer-soaked table in the Renshaw Hall bar." During an interview in 2001, McCartney took credit for the peculiar spelling of the name, saying that "John had the idea of calling us the Beetles; I said, 'How about The Beatles; you know, like the beat of the drum?' At the time, everyone was stoned enough to find it hilarious. It's funny how history is made." Soon the group went and hired Pete best, who played with The Blackjacks in The Casbah Coffee club.He appropiately filled up the vacancy of a drummer in the group. From 1961 to 1962 The Beatles made 292 appearances at The Cavern club, culminating in a final appearance there on 3 August 1963.Meanwhile Sutcliffe left the group and McCartney took over the bass.A significant change occurred in the group when Peter best, due to his controversial antics and incongruous nature,got dismissed from the group and in came Ringo Starr, the drummer of one of the top Merseybeat band,Rory Storms and the Hurricane. The first recordings of Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, and Starr together were made as early as 15 October 1960, in a series of demonstration records privately recorded in Hamburg while acting as the backing group for singer Lu Walters. The Beatles' first EMI session on 6 June 1962 did not yield any recordings considered worthy of release, but the September sessions a few months later produced a minor UK hit "Love Me Do", which peaked on the charts at number seventeen."Love Me Do" would reach the top of the U.S. singles chart over eighteen months later in May 1964.
The first album of the group was Please please Me.The group started with their success in UK during 1962-63 with hit singles such as “Please please me", Till There Was You" and “I want to hold your hand”. Soon the songs branched out to the United States with growing popularity of the group among American teenagers. The record “I want to hold your hands” sold one million copies in just ten days, and by 16 January 1964, Cashbox magazine had certified the record number one.They were received among much pomp and fanfare in the States with fans waiting in queues and among the crowd for hours, just to catch a glimpse of their favourite idols. Other LPs such as The Beatles vs the Four seasons, The early beatles, Hear the beatles tell all (an interview with the members),Rubber soul, RevolverBeatles for sale, Sgt.Pepper’s Lonely hearts club band, Yellow submarine and so on followed and were translated into popular albums. Hits like “My Bonnie”, “Aint she sweet”, “I saw her standing there”, “She loves you”, “I will get you” generated mass hysteria all over the Atlantic. On 6 June 1964, A Hard Day's Night, the first movie starring The Beatles, was released in the United Kingdom.In June 1965, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II appointed the four Beatles Members of the Order of the British Empire, MBE. In July 1965, The Beatles's second feature film, Help!, was released. The film was accompanied by the band's fifth British studio album Help!, which also functioned as the soundtrack for the movie. On 15 August 1965, The Beatles performed the first major stadium concert in the history of rock 'n' roll at Shea Stadium in New York to a staggering crowd of 55,600.In 1968, there began some unfortunate differences among the band members with Starr temporarily leaving the band and Lennon providing more time for his girlfriend, Yoko Ono. McCartney was also alleged to be very authorative in his dealings and leaving less space for adjustments. The Beatles recorded their final album, Abbey Road, in the summer of 1969. The completion of the song "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" for the album on 20 August 1969 was the last time all four Beatles were together in the same studio.
The controversies
History says that almost all celebrities has had their share of controversies and their record of getting into scuffles, sometimes minor. With the contribution of papparazzi to that, the incidents are generally inflated and they register themselves in our minds in a major way.The beatles faced as much contentiousness as much they tasted success.During a prominent tour in Phillipines,The Beatles did not agree the breakfast invitation by the country’s first lady without realizing the disastrous consequences. They were viewed with utter contempt and disgrace from the countrymen. They had to face the ire of the people and the government there. Lennon’s controversial statement that the Beatles were “more popular than Jesus now” sparked off lashes of revolt from the conservatives and the general public alike. Towns across the United States and South Africa started to burn Beatles records in protest. The group's two-year series of Capitol compilations also took a strange twist in the United States when one of their publicity shots, used for a Yesterday and Today album and a poster promoting the UK release of "Paperback Writer", created an uproar, as it featured the band dressed in butchers' overalls, draped in meat and plastic dolls. Elvis Presley, though a friend earlier, apparently disapproved of The Beatles's anti-war activism and open use of drugs, later asking President Richard Nixon to ban all four members of the group from entering the United States. Apart from these, The Beatles had to come up to terms with much more criticisms for their drug overdoses.
Beatlemania
The rage of The Beatles spread all over the world during their career. People went into extreme frenzy over the music of the group that dominated all other forms and groups over a decade. The mop-top haircut began to be emulated by millions. The black and grey suits belonging to the mod youth cult and their tight-fitting, cuban-heeled, ankle-length boots with a pointed toe took the fans by storm. Caricatures of The Beatles were incorporated in TV shows, video games and documentaries. Bands like Badfinger, The Monkeys, Oasis were termed Beatlesque for their adherence to the musical techniques practised by The Beatles.
Indian Connection
The group spent the early part of 1968 in Rishikesh, Uttar Pradesh, India, studying transcendental meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.Their prime intention behind coming to India was to discover inner peace through meditation under the effective guidance of Maharshi yogi. They wanted to transcend the constraints of Materialism and purify their souls.With their venture in India the Western press followed them all the way to the country and tried to shed light on the till now unexplored abysses of the Ashrams in India. Their time at the Maharishi's ashram was highly productive from a musical standpoint, as many of the songs that would later be recorded for The Beatles (White Album) and Abbey Road were composed there by Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison. Harrison showed his socio-political consciousness and earned respect for his contribution for arranging the Concert For Bangladesh in New York City in August 1971 along with sitar maestro Ravi Shankar.The Beatles were also known for their use of unconventional use of instruments. They used Indian instruments like sitar in “Norwegian wood” (The Bird has Flown) and the swarmandal in “Strawberry fields forever”.
source : the internet
The Journey-Rise and Fall
John Lennon was the founder of a skiffle band in Liverpool called The Quarrymen. As luck would have it, he chanced upon meeting guitarist Paul McCartney at the Woolton Garden Fête, held at St. Peter's Church, one fine day, and he was absorbed into the group. Soon McCartney managed to bring in George Harrison, an aquaintance, to the group, inspite of the initial reluctance by Lennon about his age. Thus in 1957-58 began the journey of three of our heroes-young, confused and with passion in their hearts-a journey that would lead them (along with the later entry of Ringo Starr) to become the cynosure of millions of eyes and the delight of admiring pairs of ears. With the suggestion of the bass guitarist of The Quarrymen,Stuart Sutcliffe and Lennon's first wife, Cynthia Lennon, the band changed their names to The Beatles after a "brainstorming session over a beer-soaked table in the Renshaw Hall bar." During an interview in 2001, McCartney took credit for the peculiar spelling of the name, saying that "John had the idea of calling us the Beetles; I said, 'How about The Beatles; you know, like the beat of the drum?' At the time, everyone was stoned enough to find it hilarious. It's funny how history is made." Soon the group went and hired Pete best, who played with The Blackjacks in The Casbah Coffee club.He appropiately filled up the vacancy of a drummer in the group. From 1961 to 1962 The Beatles made 292 appearances at The Cavern club, culminating in a final appearance there on 3 August 1963.Meanwhile Sutcliffe left the group and McCartney took over the bass.A significant change occurred in the group when Peter best, due to his controversial antics and incongruous nature,got dismissed from the group and in came Ringo Starr, the drummer of one of the top Merseybeat band,Rory Storms and the Hurricane. The first recordings of Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, and Starr together were made as early as 15 October 1960, in a series of demonstration records privately recorded in Hamburg while acting as the backing group for singer Lu Walters. The Beatles' first EMI session on 6 June 1962 did not yield any recordings considered worthy of release, but the September sessions a few months later produced a minor UK hit "Love Me Do", which peaked on the charts at number seventeen."Love Me Do" would reach the top of the U.S. singles chart over eighteen months later in May 1964.
The first album of the group was Please please Me.The group started with their success in UK during 1962-63 with hit singles such as “Please please me", Till There Was You" and “I want to hold your hand”. Soon the songs branched out to the United States with growing popularity of the group among American teenagers. The record “I want to hold your hands” sold one million copies in just ten days, and by 16 January 1964, Cashbox magazine had certified the record number one.They were received among much pomp and fanfare in the States with fans waiting in queues and among the crowd for hours, just to catch a glimpse of their favourite idols. Other LPs such as The Beatles vs the Four seasons, The early beatles, Hear the beatles tell all (an interview with the members),Rubber soul, RevolverBeatles for sale, Sgt.Pepper’s Lonely hearts club band, Yellow submarine and so on followed and were translated into popular albums. Hits like “My Bonnie”, “Aint she sweet”, “I saw her standing there”, “She loves you”, “I will get you” generated mass hysteria all over the Atlantic. On 6 June 1964, A Hard Day's Night, the first movie starring The Beatles, was released in the United Kingdom.In June 1965, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II appointed the four Beatles Members of the Order of the British Empire, MBE. In July 1965, The Beatles's second feature film, Help!, was released. The film was accompanied by the band's fifth British studio album Help!, which also functioned as the soundtrack for the movie. On 15 August 1965, The Beatles performed the first major stadium concert in the history of rock 'n' roll at Shea Stadium in New York to a staggering crowd of 55,600.In 1968, there began some unfortunate differences among the band members with Starr temporarily leaving the band and Lennon providing more time for his girlfriend, Yoko Ono. McCartney was also alleged to be very authorative in his dealings and leaving less space for adjustments. The Beatles recorded their final album, Abbey Road, in the summer of 1969. The completion of the song "I Want You (She's So Heavy)" for the album on 20 August 1969 was the last time all four Beatles were together in the same studio.
The controversies
History says that almost all celebrities has had their share of controversies and their record of getting into scuffles, sometimes minor. With the contribution of papparazzi to that, the incidents are generally inflated and they register themselves in our minds in a major way.The beatles faced as much contentiousness as much they tasted success.During a prominent tour in Phillipines,The Beatles did not agree the breakfast invitation by the country’s first lady without realizing the disastrous consequences. They were viewed with utter contempt and disgrace from the countrymen. They had to face the ire of the people and the government there. Lennon’s controversial statement that the Beatles were “more popular than Jesus now” sparked off lashes of revolt from the conservatives and the general public alike. Towns across the United States and South Africa started to burn Beatles records in protest. The group's two-year series of Capitol compilations also took a strange twist in the United States when one of their publicity shots, used for a Yesterday and Today album and a poster promoting the UK release of "Paperback Writer", created an uproar, as it featured the band dressed in butchers' overalls, draped in meat and plastic dolls. Elvis Presley, though a friend earlier, apparently disapproved of The Beatles's anti-war activism and open use of drugs, later asking President Richard Nixon to ban all four members of the group from entering the United States. Apart from these, The Beatles had to come up to terms with much more criticisms for their drug overdoses.
Beatlemania
The rage of The Beatles spread all over the world during their career. People went into extreme frenzy over the music of the group that dominated all other forms and groups over a decade. The mop-top haircut began to be emulated by millions. The black and grey suits belonging to the mod youth cult and their tight-fitting, cuban-heeled, ankle-length boots with a pointed toe took the fans by storm. Caricatures of The Beatles were incorporated in TV shows, video games and documentaries. Bands like Badfinger, The Monkeys, Oasis were termed Beatlesque for their adherence to the musical techniques practised by The Beatles.
Indian Connection
The group spent the early part of 1968 in Rishikesh, Uttar Pradesh, India, studying transcendental meditation with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.Their prime intention behind coming to India was to discover inner peace through meditation under the effective guidance of Maharshi yogi. They wanted to transcend the constraints of Materialism and purify their souls.With their venture in India the Western press followed them all the way to the country and tried to shed light on the till now unexplored abysses of the Ashrams in India. Their time at the Maharishi's ashram was highly productive from a musical standpoint, as many of the songs that would later be recorded for The Beatles (White Album) and Abbey Road were composed there by Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison. Harrison showed his socio-political consciousness and earned respect for his contribution for arranging the Concert For Bangladesh in New York City in August 1971 along with sitar maestro Ravi Shankar.The Beatles were also known for their use of unconventional use of instruments. They used Indian instruments like sitar in “Norwegian wood” (The Bird has Flown) and the swarmandal in “Strawberry fields forever”.
source : the internet
A party under a moonlit sky
Unparalleled bliss visits me twice a year, when my father comes back home. Among the premeditated celebrations I try to fit in those two weeks, one of the most enjoyable is the lavish get-together that we hold. It’s essentially a small gathering attended by friends from our colony and is generally held on our sprawling terrace under a moonlit sky and a makeshift bulb.
Preparations begin in the morning of the D-day with all the families arranging for their culinary contributions. We, being the host, get the terrace cleaned and organize the event to the last detail, giving equal weightage to the snacks bought as well as the music equipments arranged. The party usually begins at eight in the evening with some inevitable latecomers sneaking in till 9’o’Clock with a ritualistic excuse of “Sorry, had some work to do.” or “Oh ! Was it 8 p.m?”
We sit on large mats and improvised bedcovers, munching on chips and sipping cold drinks. While the parents sit together with their alcohol, casual Sunday wear and conversations that push behind the materialistic pursuits they engage in everyday, people of our age group together to discuss the latest movie or criticize the current scandal in the locality. Music plays on in the background which suffers a constant threat of being reprimanded by the elders for invading their territory. Soon, dinner is served in neat melamine plates and we break into an innocent fight to have the lion’s share of food on them.
The party is followed by some light discussion gradually veering towards philosophy (With the stars twinkling, a light breeze blowing, full stomach and heavy eyes, I would not blame the theme of our discourse). The gathering comes to an end with guests leaving with filled stomachs and fulfilled souls and the resonance of the party lingering on for days.
Preparations begin in the morning of the D-day with all the families arranging for their culinary contributions. We, being the host, get the terrace cleaned and organize the event to the last detail, giving equal weightage to the snacks bought as well as the music equipments arranged. The party usually begins at eight in the evening with some inevitable latecomers sneaking in till 9’o’Clock with a ritualistic excuse of “Sorry, had some work to do.” or “Oh ! Was it 8 p.m?”
We sit on large mats and improvised bedcovers, munching on chips and sipping cold drinks. While the parents sit together with their alcohol, casual Sunday wear and conversations that push behind the materialistic pursuits they engage in everyday, people of our age group together to discuss the latest movie or criticize the current scandal in the locality. Music plays on in the background which suffers a constant threat of being reprimanded by the elders for invading their territory. Soon, dinner is served in neat melamine plates and we break into an innocent fight to have the lion’s share of food on them.
The party is followed by some light discussion gradually veering towards philosophy (With the stars twinkling, a light breeze blowing, full stomach and heavy eyes, I would not blame the theme of our discourse). The gathering comes to an end with guests leaving with filled stomachs and fulfilled souls and the resonance of the party lingering on for days.
The Emergency emerges from the dusty files...
The Emergency emerges from the dusty files…
The voice of the voiceless, the immense discomfort and the gurgling rage gets restricted in the silent stutter of the constrained souls. They grunt, they gripe, their eyeballs almost pop out of their sockets in a lame attempt to get their voice heard. But there is vacuum everywhere. They cannot listen to their own shrieks; they can only look at their throbbing veins and the futile tears leaving an evaporating coolness-the only consolation-the possession of personal tragedy. For centuries, people, to whom injustice has been meted out, have been concealing this self of theirs. They come out in sudden snatches of idiosyncrasies when they question their own existence…what is the purpose of this life? Why has it happened?
The Indian Emergency [25th June 1975–21st March 1977] was a 21-month period, when President Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed, upon advice by Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, declared a state of emergency under Article 352 of the Constitution of India, effectively bestowing on her the power to rule by decree, suspending elections and civil liberties. This is one of the most controversial periods of Indian history. The opponents, mainly the Janata Dal, under the leadership of Jaiprakash narayan, rubbished the Congress victory of the 1971 elections,as being won by fraudulent practices. Jaiprakash Narayan started an agitation in Bihar protesting against the Central government through satyagrahas. Under his initiative, people ceased to cooperate with the government directives and revolted against the government. This minor agitation was attempted to be quelled by the iron grip of the emergency period, so as not to take the shape of a nationwide movement.
Emma Tarlo’s “Narratives of Emergency” spotlights on the long lost and the blood smeared history of the period as she steals a look behind the rusty cupboards where the unheard and uncared for voices are dugged in dusty files.They haver been silenced by long years of negligence and concealment by the authorities. The unsettling memories can be comprehended once the accounts are read through. The book is a document of the terrible insecurity of the victims of the emergency, muted and blinded by the Government who tried and succeded in shoving the incidents under the realm of insignificance. The actual scene was not projected to the world. The state ensured the regulation of the public memory and many a witnesses were gagged and strangled by the fear of worse consequences.
The book holds up the true picture of the injustice and the wickedness of pseudo-democracy prevailing in that period. The government tried its best to underplay and pass off the incidents as brief “moments of madness”.
Under the veneer of a grand 20-point plan which had its share of discrepancies, attrocities were rampant. Ms. Gandhi started dislocation and relocation of slums in order to “beautify” the capital. Under the sword of her mother’s dictatorship, Sanjay gandhi also started compulsory vasectomy against the will of the people. Those who revolted were mercilessly beaten up.Terror ruled everywhere. Women were raped, shops were looted.All these mayhem caused much discomfort and disturbance to the common people who were shaken beyond their belief. Violence took the shape of a necessary ritual and upheld the alibi of its cause to move forward a society. This shattered the image of India being an essentially non-violent country.The much propagated “clean up” drive was more aimed at sweeping the poor to the outskirts of the capital so as to “beautify” it. This enforced localisation was a serious constraint for the people.
The state took a backseat during the procedings.. Corruption was rampant ; bribery and red-tapism prevailed everywhere. It is alleged the Indian “Hitler” even put the corrupt officials to high posts.Emma Tarlo, as an anthropologist, pierces through the documents as “evidences” and not mere “paper truths”. She stumbles upon the recorded monstrosity of facts from where emanates the soft silent sad music of human existence and thread between the individuals who share the common sentiments of pain. Emma records how the resettlement colony of “Welcome” soon turned into a den of criminals and all sorts of unsocial activities began to take place following the lack of adequate attention.The dearth of human kindness was felt everywhere.
Indira Gandhi, in her public speech, sounded artificially grandiose in stating that she was arresting people for the betterment of the country.and termed it as “necessary”. She pledged to reprimand the groups wedded to terror and murder. Press censorship was implemented and it invited the ire of journalists and eminent thinkers all over. It sent waves of protest as the press was gagged from voicing out any anti-government opinions. Journalists were jailed and seriously threatened. There are records of journalists killed during the emergency. The police was perceived everywhere as the mafia of the country, chucking tear gas shells everywhere and beating up protestors mercilessly. When asked, the uniformed figures had only one thing to say- they were only following orders.
Thus, the period of Emergency is a serious blot on India’s democratic record. The government fed on the carcasses of innocent thousands to maintain power and dominance. The story of people’s suffering is brought forward poignantly by the book and it opens the dam of the sorrow and lays bare the inhuman treatment by the government and the irreparable damages made to the people. Emma Tarlo embarks on a nostalgic journey to the past and discovers a whole new space of suffering souls, till now silenced by oppression and negligence. The book opens up a tunnel of soulless existence and portrays the picture of a helpless present looking back at a terrible past and staring at a bleak future.
The voice of the voiceless, the immense discomfort and the gurgling rage gets restricted in the silent stutter of the constrained souls. They grunt, they gripe, their eyeballs almost pop out of their sockets in a lame attempt to get their voice heard. But there is vacuum everywhere. They cannot listen to their own shrieks; they can only look at their throbbing veins and the futile tears leaving an evaporating coolness-the only consolation-the possession of personal tragedy. For centuries, people, to whom injustice has been meted out, have been concealing this self of theirs. They come out in sudden snatches of idiosyncrasies when they question their own existence…what is the purpose of this life? Why has it happened?
The Indian Emergency [25th June 1975–21st March 1977] was a 21-month period, when President Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed, upon advice by Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, declared a state of emergency under Article 352 of the Constitution of India, effectively bestowing on her the power to rule by decree, suspending elections and civil liberties. This is one of the most controversial periods of Indian history. The opponents, mainly the Janata Dal, under the leadership of Jaiprakash narayan, rubbished the Congress victory of the 1971 elections,as being won by fraudulent practices. Jaiprakash Narayan started an agitation in Bihar protesting against the Central government through satyagrahas. Under his initiative, people ceased to cooperate with the government directives and revolted against the government. This minor agitation was attempted to be quelled by the iron grip of the emergency period, so as not to take the shape of a nationwide movement.
Emma Tarlo’s “Narratives of Emergency” spotlights on the long lost and the blood smeared history of the period as she steals a look behind the rusty cupboards where the unheard and uncared for voices are dugged in dusty files.They haver been silenced by long years of negligence and concealment by the authorities. The unsettling memories can be comprehended once the accounts are read through. The book is a document of the terrible insecurity of the victims of the emergency, muted and blinded by the Government who tried and succeded in shoving the incidents under the realm of insignificance. The actual scene was not projected to the world. The state ensured the regulation of the public memory and many a witnesses were gagged and strangled by the fear of worse consequences.
The book holds up the true picture of the injustice and the wickedness of pseudo-democracy prevailing in that period. The government tried its best to underplay and pass off the incidents as brief “moments of madness”.
Under the veneer of a grand 20-point plan which had its share of discrepancies, attrocities were rampant. Ms. Gandhi started dislocation and relocation of slums in order to “beautify” the capital. Under the sword of her mother’s dictatorship, Sanjay gandhi also started compulsory vasectomy against the will of the people. Those who revolted were mercilessly beaten up.Terror ruled everywhere. Women were raped, shops were looted.All these mayhem caused much discomfort and disturbance to the common people who were shaken beyond their belief. Violence took the shape of a necessary ritual and upheld the alibi of its cause to move forward a society. This shattered the image of India being an essentially non-violent country.The much propagated “clean up” drive was more aimed at sweeping the poor to the outskirts of the capital so as to “beautify” it. This enforced localisation was a serious constraint for the people.
The state took a backseat during the procedings.. Corruption was rampant ; bribery and red-tapism prevailed everywhere. It is alleged the Indian “Hitler” even put the corrupt officials to high posts.Emma Tarlo, as an anthropologist, pierces through the documents as “evidences” and not mere “paper truths”. She stumbles upon the recorded monstrosity of facts from where emanates the soft silent sad music of human existence and thread between the individuals who share the common sentiments of pain. Emma records how the resettlement colony of “Welcome” soon turned into a den of criminals and all sorts of unsocial activities began to take place following the lack of adequate attention.The dearth of human kindness was felt everywhere.
Indira Gandhi, in her public speech, sounded artificially grandiose in stating that she was arresting people for the betterment of the country.and termed it as “necessary”. She pledged to reprimand the groups wedded to terror and murder. Press censorship was implemented and it invited the ire of journalists and eminent thinkers all over. It sent waves of protest as the press was gagged from voicing out any anti-government opinions. Journalists were jailed and seriously threatened. There are records of journalists killed during the emergency. The police was perceived everywhere as the mafia of the country, chucking tear gas shells everywhere and beating up protestors mercilessly. When asked, the uniformed figures had only one thing to say- they were only following orders.
Thus, the period of Emergency is a serious blot on India’s democratic record. The government fed on the carcasses of innocent thousands to maintain power and dominance. The story of people’s suffering is brought forward poignantly by the book and it opens the dam of the sorrow and lays bare the inhuman treatment by the government and the irreparable damages made to the people. Emma Tarlo embarks on a nostalgic journey to the past and discovers a whole new space of suffering souls, till now silenced by oppression and negligence. The book opens up a tunnel of soulless existence and portrays the picture of a helpless present looking back at a terrible past and staring at a bleak future.
Rambling in rain
Its raining...
and its cold too.cold that injects my weakly guarded strong soul. cold that spears down to the core of sensitivity and tickles the cartilage of the destitute lonely that wanders through unchartered streets.
The streets are dry. the wind is hollow and the destiny of that empty street is designed by the pattern of surging sameness found in the dry crumpled leaves of an existence that has ceased to breathe fresh.
The pain jabs and the throat becomes parch.it sends shivers which culminates in goosebumps. the ears buzz and the vision blurs...
what am i? where am i? how am l? ahen am i? who am i?
who is i...
Monday, July 14, 2008
The pitter patter in my dreams.
Blogging will be a luxury now. Its a new city, a new episode, a new beginning with the roots becoming stronger and the music turning fainter (I am making an effort though)
"Steady" will be buzz word these 10 months or so.
...And there's no place like Kolkata on this planet.
I dont miss nothing....
"Steady" will be buzz word these 10 months or so.
...And there's no place like Kolkata on this planet.
I dont miss nothing....
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Stay with my Loved ones...
A new place to settle for a year...new friends to meet...new pressures to cope up with...new deadlines to meet...new emotions (or the lack of it)...new newness...old oldness...people...bottled up in my heart... difficult time is approaching and people say I gotta be strong.
Yes I will be strong when I miss my Mom,a twitch of someone's brow will bring back memories, when some soft strains of distant music will wrench apart my heart and dry tears will stab my heart with a saline choking feeling. I will be strong when I get up in the morning and call aloud my mother and then realize that She must be sitting in the Lobby and asking me drink up the sherbet soaked overnight. I will be strong in the evenings...at nights...when it rains..when the cool breeze would brush against my face,when some distant memory would come back to haunt me in silent shapes and formiddable(sp?) forms. I will be strong in front of malls,when I will walk in a lane,during auto rides,when will I pray,when I will wait for a friend,when I will write in my blog,when I will live,exist,smile,gumble,when I will breathe,when I will stay alive...
Music,dont come near me and movies,go away for a year. golden sunshine ! stay with my loved ones, messages,be nice to me, wet roads and the divine fragrance ! take care of them...
I will be strong
I will come back soon....
Bless.
Yes I will be strong when I miss my Mom,a twitch of someone's brow will bring back memories, when some soft strains of distant music will wrench apart my heart and dry tears will stab my heart with a saline choking feeling. I will be strong when I get up in the morning and call aloud my mother and then realize that She must be sitting in the Lobby and asking me drink up the sherbet soaked overnight. I will be strong in the evenings...at nights...when it rains..when the cool breeze would brush against my face,when some distant memory would come back to haunt me in silent shapes and formiddable(sp?) forms. I will be strong in front of malls,when I will walk in a lane,during auto rides,when will I pray,when I will wait for a friend,when I will write in my blog,when I will live,exist,smile,gumble,when I will breathe,when I will stay alive...
Music,dont come near me and movies,go away for a year. golden sunshine ! stay with my loved ones, messages,be nice to me, wet roads and the divine fragrance ! take care of them...
I will be strong
I will come back soon....
Bless.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Dhoni - Dude or Dud?
The Big Bazaar ads are some of the most horrible ads that I have seen. I mean come on gimme a break.He may be a youth icon but he cannot be possibly a style icon ! The middle class consumers can look up to John or even Akshay for that matter. and if thats too hard on the pocket,then let me say that I dont believe that Dhoni is too much of a big heart to charge less in his endorsements !
Whatever crap he blurts - "aukaad kapdo se pata chalta hai" - is that his aukaad ? that muck of a t-shirt (the black striped one) and whatever else he wears (dont wanna recall them too). Bhai,aukaad to logo ke chalne se bhi pata chalta hai. why do u walk in that manner in the ad,mahi bhaiyya?
I guess Dhoni does a good job in the parle milk shakti and brylcreem ads. while in doodh ka power he is in his natural self (the one with dadi darling is humorous), its more of the extra characters that weave magic (or "gels" with the audience) in the latter.
Dhoni may be cool on field but he has a long way to go on television and on the ramp too.
He is not expected to be classy and perfect to the T too. come on after all he is good in whatever he does best-cricket and I do respect that. Its just the ad makers and the product heads who sort of push guys from a different field to endorse a brand.(remember monster.com?)some click some does not. Sreesanth ,for instance ads panache and his goofy antics wins our hearts in the parachute and pepsi ads.but look at Sachin I dont remember that he was outstanding in any of the ads that he has done till now. after all our cricket stars are not models and thus they are not expected to have their characteristics in them.now every one cannot do an Irrfan khan,can they?
Note : A good ad maker can even pull off an ad and make it the best in the country with even a Ramesh Powar.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Amma,ille,chinna,poro....Bhai maaf koro !!
Its funny actually. 6 days back I was sitting in my home in Kolkata at this very hour and thinking about what will I be doing 6 days after. well here I am in the land of idli-dosa, sambhar-vada,of Karunanidhi-Jaya amma, of Kamal Haasan's Dasaavthaaram, of the Rajni mania and the Vijay craze, of cholamandalam bank and kaanjiverum sarees, of womwn who do not wash their hair everyday and tie a rajnigandha mala on in their hair instead [Sunsilk GOGs,what about the campaigning down south?], of marina beach and mamallapuram beach, of girls who are astoundingly fair as regards to south,of guys who consider it as their birthrght to sport moustaches,of shops where people help u with a smile in their face[sometimes over does it and creates trouble for us] and where almost everybody can manage the English language....Chennai has been a neat,proper and hassle free city for me.
Just as back in Good ol'Cal we address people as dada,here its baaabuuuu.tee hee.
I am staying in a lovely place called Kilpauk. Its a bit like Salt lake meets kankurgachi thing. The by lanes are neat and peaceful and the main road is bustling with activities.
The climate is quite pleasant as it rained heavily a couple of days back.But one cannot ignore the warm air that blows once in a while.
Its a politically demonstrative area with posters of a bald guy in black glasses and a yellow shawl [wink wink] stuck all over the city and the letters of the slogan doin their routine rotundum exercise[if u understand what I mean]. Their are two beautiful memorials built in the memory of MGR and Anna,political leaders. Ega and Sangam theatres have caught my eye and citycentre and spencer's plaza is good to look at from outside. The beach is a lovely view and the highways are smooth.
It was a surprising sight [my mistake to feel surprised] to see hindi movie posters in some parts of the city. So much for mere baap pehle aap and sarkar raj and one solitary bhoothnath.
I am boarding the train tomorrow night and I hope that this time the co passengers are easy to talk with.
Its been 3 days and I am already homesick.
I am coming home....Maaiiind it !
Monday, May 26, 2008
Keventer's and Thakuma
"Khoka baaere berochhish?",Thakuma piped up from behind the ash colored curtain which needed a wash badly but no one cared to. It was slowly getting dark and more so because it was overcast today. I answered that I was just going to have a walk in the Curzon park and would be back in a while. "please care to bring some jhaal muri for me,khoka.".I smiled and made my way to the main gate.
I didn't forget to take my umbrella with me-the tattered old wellings which Dadu had got as a gift from Mr.Saunderson. It is a priced posession, Dadu used to say. always treasure it.This does not happen everyday that your master gifts you something.It was a big thing for a Sahib to gift an Indian employee something. And Dadu was good in his work,Baba used to say.
As I waited near Chowringhee to cross the road,it started to drizzle.People were scuttering across in their dhotis looking for a nearby shade. The road was washed with the sweet smelling rain and the sky was splashed with dollops of oranges and grey. The wind was howling and two or three bare-bodied street urchins danced in the shower. I waited under the shade of a nearby flower shop as it was raining hard and it would be practically impossible to save my umbrella in the rain.
I was giving some private tuitions and managed to make some kind of income at the end of the month. After Baba's death,our family was in a crisis,emotional and financial. There were no bread winners in the family. And Ma did not agree to seek help from Kaka. It was a mess with the expenses that my higher education required. I was the only hope but getting a job was difficult. Mukul mama did help me by arranging for the job of a clerk but the office was very far away and I couldnt bear the conveyance expenses. So finally i settled for private tuitions in my neighbourhood. I was not paid handsomely but somehow I managed to run my family consisting of 4 members.
Today it was something special.The Mukherjees increased my salary by 5 rupees and I was on cloud nine. it did not matter that Sumonto was not a very sharp student. Money mattered more to me. I had seen a beautiful scarf in a display window of Keventer's last week and how i wished to buy it for her ! It was light blue in colour and had exquisite floral designs on it. The salesman Mr.White educated me that this scarp had recently come from their "home" and that it had become very popular "there". A stong desire gripped me to buy it for her but it was difficult as it was maasher shesh and I did not have enough money.
But now i had been paid by all the seven families and I had enough money to buy the scarf and save some too.
It was drizzling and I thought it proper to cross the road and visit the shop now. The huge double decker buses honked at me as I crossed the road and the traffic surgeon urged me to walk faster. My dhoti was already covered in splashes of mud and my glasses were wet and it disrupted my vision. On the other side of the footpath I gave a beggar a sparkling 2 paisa coin.
There it was ! The scarf was still displayed in the window of Keventer's.Soon I found myself walking with the scarf carefully wrapped with a red paper. It was getting late and I had to rush home. As i walked past Curzon park the thought of having to curtail some expenses in this month because i bought the gift came to my mind but it did not bother me. My steps were quick and I whistled a rabindrasangeet till i reached home.
The first thing that i did was to keep the gift carefully under a blanket in my room. Then i made it sure that I open my umbrella and keep it for drying in the verandah. As I asked Ma to make some tea for me and i began to empty some Muri into a steel bowl, Thakuma entered my room
"ki re khoka? Koi de. Muri ta aanli?"
It had began to rain again.
Prof.Ganguly slapped me on the back and asked "what's the matter,Ghoshal?you have been standing in front of this photograph for more than 20 minutes ! what are you thinking?Give your imagination a rest,proffessor. why don't you enjoy the drinks?".
I smiled wryly.On the special request of Osheema I attended this exhibition of photographs taken in the 1950s Calcutta. This particular photograph showed a rain drenched Chowringhee crossing,lonely and gray. A tram line intersected the road and there were people in white dhoti and kurtas scattered here and there. A group of Memsahibs were about to enter a taxi. It was peaceful,distant yet so near. One look at this photograph transferred me to a different time,a different era, a different setting. i dont know why and how but things just came to me... Slowly i made my way towards the drinks table.
When i came outside we were greeted by a huge rally called by a firebrand woman political leader for the rising inflation in the country. The news stated yesterday that she even threatened to call a bandh if the demands of the common people were not met by the government.Sudeenly the mobile rang. It was Mishti. "Hi dear. when will you come home? Sunny had been asking to go and visit the zoo today. cholo na please. we can call up Sumitra and family too....". I told her about the stuck-up and said that I would reach within an hour or so.
"Oh yes please bring the clothes from the laundry while you come.pay him. it will be around....say..."
"1 second,Mishti,let me check...."
"ki holo?..."
I opened my wallet.It was maasher shesh.My mind wandered back to the chowringhee streets,Keventer's and Thakuma...
Friday, May 23, 2008
The story of the coconut.
Once there was a coconut.
Among other fruits.
One season it rained and the fruits said that the coconut had turned pink from brown. The coconut saw himself in a mirror but could not see any change in colour. But the fruits were correct. they had to be...
And Voila ! one fine day,the coconut really turned pink !
One by one the fruits came to him and asked him "coconut brother ! why do you look so pink today?".
"I was always so",the coconut smiled.
Now the fruits enquire whether the inside of the coconut is white....
But the coconut does not look into the mirror anymore....
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Third man.
I was never a good cricket player but I loved playing cricket. And I loved it well. Sometimes in our lives the intention behind an action matters more than the consequence.
Passionate about the game, I used to play in the field in front of our building amidst swings, see-saws and the old chaanpa gaach. Bikels used to be wonderful. The sun never tortured me in the mornings during holidays. No matter how much I sweated and no matter how frequently my oval specs used to slide down my sweaty nose, it didn't matter. It didn't matter that footwork wasn't in my batting dictionary, that I must have played 20 to 30 shots only during those days on the leg side, that my reflexes betrayed me while going for catches, that some of my leg spins used to land way outside off stump, that I was called "great player" by my friends for bringing in emotions in the field (I used to put all my heart into the game) and also for not being such a "great player" after all.
I remember how I pretended to sleep but actually waited for the grandfather clock to strike 4pm and would scurry for the nearest jeans and tee and how I used to skip stairs and set my feet upon the brown soil of the field. This used to be preceded by Kirons and Bimbos shouting aloud my name from the field inviting me to come down -- I live on the third floor of my building. I felt on the top of the world as soon as I set my feet on the ground.
There was Ricky, Babu, Jijoe, Arka, Bhutu, Shumon, Tuhin da, Puchku, Babai, Ashish da, Sagar da, Babu da, Chandan da and Butu -- friends and dadas who used to play with me. And of course there were kids who played with us too. We never discriminated or underestimated one's potential. At least I didn't.
The funny thing was that we used to spend more time setting the field and criticising others than playing. seriously, it was fun. Great fun. We used to cheat a lot (though I remember rare instances of me cheating in the games). One of us was famous for his on-field temper and he used to take away the ball, bats and the wickets with him to home as soon he felt that the ball should not have hit his wicket or it was a great sin for a fielder of his team to not drop a catch to dismiss him. But he was sweet with his red face every time he could not get his point across.
Another used to consider cheating as apart of the game and I used to be in his team most of the times.I used to overlook the cheating part if we won (Ahem!).
Tuhin da with his leg spin, Bhutu with his effortless sixes and Arka with his slow left arm deliveries sparked the magic on field.
Ricky and Bhutu used to break window panes the most (I broke three times...all were my home's panes). The ball would occasionally wander off to the "jungle" (overgrown shrubbery, nay, an unkempt jungle really) near our field and sometimes make its way to the neighbouring colony, P and T.
And who can forget the white kurta pajama clad ( haven't seen him in any other dress till now) professor who used to scream at the top of his voice whenever we went to retrieve our ball from his shabbily maintained garden.
Uniformly, I proved to be an essential pinch hitter and my luck as a bowler was satisfactory. In fact I enjoyed bowling much better than batting. I still have spurts of fantasies about running down the pitch and bowling 150kmph swings to batsmen. I remember being enterprising and inspiring as a captain even if we lost the game.
Our cricket games used to be followed by brilliant shorts of luko churi in (and sometimes outside -- the cheating continues) our compound.
Rains used to play spoilsport and a day, wasted, would dampen my spirits. Some days we used to play at other fields in the complex and also in front of Arka's house or Butu's house. In the bikels there used to be days of high satisfaction and days when I thought that two matches were too less for the day. But I had to return home eyes on the ground and heart on the field waiting for the next day. Even when private tuitions started in full flow, I used to glance at the field full of swarming passions and leave for a long walk to my coaching class.
Nowadays Kaustav asks me why don't I come down to play the occasional cricket games. The thing is nothing is the same and it's not the same fun anymore. Nowadays, I like watching others play. Occasionally I sit near my living room window and observe a game with intent, excitement -- maybe like how the 12th man would do in a game of cricket.
Passionate about the game, I used to play in the field in front of our building amidst swings, see-saws and the old chaanpa gaach. Bikels used to be wonderful. The sun never tortured me in the mornings during holidays. No matter how much I sweated and no matter how frequently my oval specs used to slide down my sweaty nose, it didn't matter. It didn't matter that footwork wasn't in my batting dictionary, that I must have played 20 to 30 shots only during those days on the leg side, that my reflexes betrayed me while going for catches, that some of my leg spins used to land way outside off stump, that I was called "great player" by my friends for bringing in emotions in the field (I used to put all my heart into the game) and also for not being such a "great player" after all.
I remember how I pretended to sleep but actually waited for the grandfather clock to strike 4pm and would scurry for the nearest jeans and tee and how I used to skip stairs and set my feet upon the brown soil of the field. This used to be preceded by Kirons and Bimbos shouting aloud my name from the field inviting me to come down -- I live on the third floor of my building. I felt on the top of the world as soon as I set my feet on the ground.
There was Ricky, Babu, Jijoe, Arka, Bhutu, Shumon, Tuhin da, Puchku, Babai, Ashish da, Sagar da, Babu da, Chandan da and Butu -- friends and dadas who used to play with me. And of course there were kids who played with us too. We never discriminated or underestimated one's potential. At least I didn't.
The funny thing was that we used to spend more time setting the field and criticising others than playing. seriously, it was fun. Great fun. We used to cheat a lot (though I remember rare instances of me cheating in the games). One of us was famous for his on-field temper and he used to take away the ball, bats and the wickets with him to home as soon he felt that the ball should not have hit his wicket or it was a great sin for a fielder of his team to not drop a catch to dismiss him. But he was sweet with his red face every time he could not get his point across.
Another used to consider cheating as apart of the game and I used to be in his team most of the times.I used to overlook the cheating part if we won (Ahem!).
Tuhin da with his leg spin, Bhutu with his effortless sixes and Arka with his slow left arm deliveries sparked the magic on field.
Ricky and Bhutu used to break window panes the most (I broke three times...all were my home's panes). The ball would occasionally wander off to the "jungle" (overgrown shrubbery, nay, an unkempt jungle really) near our field and sometimes make its way to the neighbouring colony, P and T.
And who can forget the white kurta pajama clad ( haven't seen him in any other dress till now) professor who used to scream at the top of his voice whenever we went to retrieve our ball from his shabbily maintained garden.
Uniformly, I proved to be an essential pinch hitter and my luck as a bowler was satisfactory. In fact I enjoyed bowling much better than batting. I still have spurts of fantasies about running down the pitch and bowling 150kmph swings to batsmen. I remember being enterprising and inspiring as a captain even if we lost the game.
Our cricket games used to be followed by brilliant shorts of luko churi in (and sometimes outside -- the cheating continues) our compound.
Rains used to play spoilsport and a day, wasted, would dampen my spirits. Some days we used to play at other fields in the complex and also in front of Arka's house or Butu's house. In the bikels there used to be days of high satisfaction and days when I thought that two matches were too less for the day. But I had to return home eyes on the ground and heart on the field waiting for the next day. Even when private tuitions started in full flow, I used to glance at the field full of swarming passions and leave for a long walk to my coaching class.
Nowadays Kaustav asks me why don't I come down to play the occasional cricket games. The thing is nothing is the same and it's not the same fun anymore. Nowadays, I like watching others play. Occasionally I sit near my living room window and observe a game with intent, excitement -- maybe like how the 12th man would do in a game of cricket.
The crunch !
Brand communication can be very powerful.
ITC has been building hotels and packaging chana masalas, biscuits, matchsticks and agarbattis for years now. Known for its huge span in the market and, at times, under-recognized market value, the poyshadaar company has come with another food product -- this time a potato chips brand -- and is using the communication tool of advertisement well to make us crunch some of the tangy and crispy Bingos.
The recent ad on the TV has tickled the funny bone of viewers, all right. The story is set in a Chinese or Japanese (inventions you know) studio where some shabbily clad bozos create sound effects of talkies by using their feet, a belch, a brush -- and even by munching the crispies.
Over the months, the Bingo ads have appealed to the light and fun loving tastes of the audience...be it the spoof on the Tele Brands commercial (with a cat named Jemima et al) or the pawngo vaango okurango Tamil-edged ad, the Bingo ads are loved by all and I believe that the sales of the potato munchies have shot up too and the ads have been a major contributor to the profits. The commercial in question targets our love for crunchiness and new flavours, which the company has successfully cashed in on.
I believe that the ad could have been a bit shorter and better elements of sound effects could have been introduced. The element of surprise is maintained as a first time watcher cannot gauge that the commercial shall be actually on chips.
After satirising the Tamils and the old doc who certifies a woman as being preggy as she craves for Achari Masti (remember Salaam Namaste), the agency (dunno the name) uses paao wrinkly chinamen to a successful effect.
So much for selling chips,though!
Please, the next time you rip open a pack of Bingo and enjoy the crunch, please don't think about Godzillas romping about or have doubts about your inflated tummy (sip a bit of Gelusil, insted).
Bingo! :-)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Cell-o-dependence
I love music...and it wont be exaggerating to say that the tring trings (actually more of beep beeps and God-knows-whats) of my cell phone is one of the best sounds in the planet. We have all become so very dependent on our mobile phones.
I do take the license to use the word "we". But "I" am really. I cannot imagine my daily life without the blue and white Nokia 1108 (3yrs aagekaar) model with a one-eye lighted display and completely faded keypad. For me, it's the best mobile phone in the world.
Some days back,the rubbery-looking plastic material stuck on the earpiece disappeared. It turned loose many days prior to that and due to my negligence, I had to pay the price. Well, literally, I still have't. I am yet to buy a new facial for my rickety set. Will go for the duplicate maal, which is priced at 90 and 120 rupees instead of the original one, which will set me back by a cool 500rs. But one thing is for sure. I can never throw away this cell phone of mine.
Rusty as it is, it has served me for 3 long and eventful college years. I have a plethora of memories attached to this phone. I hang out with my mobile, carry it to places of worship and the pukurpaarer bazaar; I eat with it by my side and generally keep it in my jeans pocket. Hey I even sleep with my mobile (arre yaar mera bhi number aayega!).
It's as if my friends and relatives peep out of the 150 storage capacity inbox list and with every 'No space for new messages' display my hand involuntarily turns heavy to delete an SMS. It's funny really how even a simple cheez can become your constant companion just because you have got used to it. The SMSes, the phone calls...cant do without them. You can very well call me a dependent maniac (you better don't coz you are one too) but I just cant do without this device.
Oh by the way! This was just an attempt to entertain myself as I was a bit bored. But at the end of the account I am even more bored, the only saving grace being the fact that you too are thoroughly bored by now. Ghum pachche.
I do take the license to use the word "we". But "I" am really. I cannot imagine my daily life without the blue and white Nokia 1108 (3yrs aagekaar) model with a one-eye lighted display and completely faded keypad. For me, it's the best mobile phone in the world.
Some days back,the rubbery-looking plastic material stuck on the earpiece disappeared. It turned loose many days prior to that and due to my negligence, I had to pay the price. Well, literally, I still have't. I am yet to buy a new facial for my rickety set. Will go for the duplicate maal, which is priced at 90 and 120 rupees instead of the original one, which will set me back by a cool 500rs. But one thing is for sure. I can never throw away this cell phone of mine.
Rusty as it is, it has served me for 3 long and eventful college years. I have a plethora of memories attached to this phone. I hang out with my mobile, carry it to places of worship and the pukurpaarer bazaar; I eat with it by my side and generally keep it in my jeans pocket. Hey I even sleep with my mobile (arre yaar mera bhi number aayega!).
It's as if my friends and relatives peep out of the 150 storage capacity inbox list and with every 'No space for new messages' display my hand involuntarily turns heavy to delete an SMS. It's funny really how even a simple cheez can become your constant companion just because you have got used to it. The SMSes, the phone calls...cant do without them. You can very well call me a dependent maniac (you better don't coz you are one too) but I just cant do without this device.
Oh by the way! This was just an attempt to entertain myself as I was a bit bored. But at the end of the account I am even more bored, the only saving grace being the fact that you too are thoroughly bored by now. Ghum pachche.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Of STDs and Missing your partner.
The new Airtel ads are a must watch. Surprising us with the sparkling new combo of R. Madhavan and Vidya Balan, the promos are definitely aired to target our sensitivity and emotions.
The dark setting makes us feel cosy and the hush hush whispering by the (newly?) married couple make us long for our loves by the bedside (wink wink!).
The music is weak -- pathetic,to be frank. Someone bring in the Rahmans of the ad world please.
I find the bedside story better than the lift wala story.
Attractive.
The dark setting makes us feel cosy and the hush hush whispering by the (newly?) married couple make us long for our loves by the bedside (wink wink!).
The music is weak -- pathetic,to be frank. Someone bring in the Rahmans of the ad world please.
I find the bedside story better than the lift wala story.
Attractive.
Getting Started
I have just created a blog and I wish I don't delete it after 5 mins or so as I did previously.
Many a times, impulsiveness has taken the better of me.
Many a times, impulsiveness has taken the better of me.
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