It was a strange feeling, being a guest inside my own house. Visiting for a few days and then returning. 'Feel at home', they said jokingly- but I'm not sure I did.

Sure, it was beautiful- a little slice of heaven, set in the woods, with a brook and large screen tv. My new permanent address.
Except there was nothing permanent about it.

While my sisters pretended to sleep, I sat out in the back and sipped orange coke. Soon it would be time to hit the road again.

Those who travel are always guests. And everywhere is home.

A Fresh Start

Last night's promises
lie in splinters near the door;
Each one glinting
in the morning sun.
Step quietly over them,
And start afresh.

Last night's kisses
have attached themselves to the wall
in single file;
Each one folding
into an upturned smile.
Step slowly around them,
And start afresh.

Last night's dreams
lie strewn across the floor;
Each one like old clothing
devoid of meaning.
Step gently through them,
And start afresh.

Last night's emptiness
filled you up,
Despair dripped from out of a paper cup
and formed pools of loathing
that gathered by your bed.
Step softly beside them,
And start afresh.

Outside the window
a new day awaits-
like virgin snow.

Step lightly into it,
And start afresh.

Singleton Park

I cross from the light into the dark
to this place where I come to drown
out the sounds, alone in Singleton Park.

Outside, the evening rituals of the town
take place without a thought
for those who wander on their own.

I was a child when I first brought
myself here and stopped to nuzzle
the moon and all ambition came to naught.

Returning since then like a dog on a muzzle
to watch countless mysteries unfold
and search for pieces of the puzzle.

Words, like memories, mean nothing I am told
But here the silence is something to behold.

LADYBIRD

A thought arrives like a ladybird,
From out of nowhere, without a word
Softly landing on an unfurled palm,
Crawling up an outstretched arm
The slightest movement will scare it away-
Instead, let it stay and watch it play.
When tiny feet brush against collar bone,
Do not claim it as your own.
Just sit still and marvel at the way
It chose to spend part of its day.
And whether it stays or leaves matters not much
If you are subtly changed for having felt its touch.

SPRING / spriη / noun, verb


The season between winter and summer
As in, ‘The spring flowers are in bloom.’

A thing for which you would ring a plumber
Not as in, ‘Hello, yes, could you spring a leak in my room?’

Someone who is full of annoyingly good cheer
As in, ‘She’s always got a spring in her step.’

To suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, appear
(Used for dramatic/poetic effect)
As in, ‘Oh, the tears would spring to her eyes as he slept.’

A place where water is bottled and sold
(The mountain spring)
As in, ‘Full of vitamins, Sir, and even cures a cold.’

Something you weren’t expecting to be told
As in, ‘I’m sorry to spring this on you, but this just isn’t real gold.’

A quick sudden jump, upwards or straight ahead
As in, ‘With a spring, the cat got the cream.’

To free a prisoner, before he’s actually dead
(He’s going to spring me, he said.)
Not as in, ‘No Sir, you’re in for life, you’ve just had a bad dream.’


Spring clean / Spring for beer / Spring green / Spring is here.

Chocolate Santa

For nearly a month now you've stood
silently overlooking
my desk,
with a crinkled smile
that never left your face.

You watched as I unearthed
stories of birth
and death,
slaved over
endless drafts of haibun and englyn,
and when they were done you seemed to nod
in mute appreciation,
giving me the non-critical approval
that I so craved.

For three months you stood on the shelf in Tesco
somehow surviving
the Christmas frenzy.

And then enduring the shame
of being marked down
ten per cent each week,
until the final humiliation:
‘Clearance!’ it said, in big dismissive letters
when they had no more use for you.

That's where I found you.
Or did you find me?

Did you think you would still be here,
past the New Year
approaching Easter,
long after the trees came down,
and the fairly lights were packed away,
finding a new life
as a reluctant muse?

A strange turn of fate it was
that brought us together.

You, chocolate santa; and me,
with nothing in common,
save an expiry date.

In faded black and white photos we first saw you, a little boy in shorts and curls, blissfully unaware of your own genius.

And then eighteen years ago, older but with the same unruly mop, looking like a slightly skinnier Maradona, you walked onto the ground and into our imagination and we embraced you as one.

We winced when you were hit on the head in that first match against Pakistan, our hearts soared higher with each six in Sharjah, we wept with you at the World Cup when you raised your bat to the memory of your late father.

We put up posters of you on our walls; we built shrines in your name. We prayed in turn for your shoulder, elbow, and back.

And above all, we watched.

We watched as a boy became a man and a man became a legend. We watched like it was a dream that we hoped would never end. But of course we knew it would have to, eventually.

And last week it did, as we watched you walk away while a group of Bangladeshi players danced in your wake. They were just boys, those players who danced. Like you were, eighteen years ago.

You began on zero and ended on zero. What happened in between changed our lives and made us believe we could be so much greater than ourselves. But it’s time to let it go.

Those old pictures of you with a bat in your hand and a smile on your face seem like a distant memory for us, as they must do for you.

The posters have come off the walls now, and in time the shrines will have new resident deities. But before that, perhaps one last prayer will be offered up:

Walk on, Sachin. Walk On.

Team India

Even before it has properly begun, Team India finds itself out of the World Cup. Predictably, stones have been thrown, posters have been burnt and some of us have sworn never to watch again. But once the tournament is over and our feelings of anger and frustration have blown over, life will soon return to normal.

The Indian Cricket Fan is not one to lose hope so easily. So ok are we with losing, and yet so desperate for something to be proud about, that we will once again sit glued to our television sets the next time the team takes the field, be it against Bermuda or Bosnia.

For some unfathomable reason, for a majority of us Indians (myself included) it is eleven men in blue who truly represent us, who carry our collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders, who define us, even. And so we watch; game after game, expecting everything and nothing at the same time. What to do, we are like this only.

Too many articles by far more knowledgeable people have been written for me to even attempt another one. You can read one of these about the fascinating ‘Desi Fan’ here.

PS: A class of fifth graders were discussing their father’s jobs. Each one took turns to say ‘Doctor’, ‘Engineer’, and so on until finally it was Vivek’s turn. ‘My father works in a gay club’, said the little boy. ‘He takes his clothes off in front of strangers and dances for money.’ Shocked but slightly curious, the teacher took him aside and asked if this was true. ‘No Miss’, went Vivek, ‘he plays for the Indian cricket team but I was too embarrassed to say that.’

Goodbye Uncle George

When I first met Uncle George in Belfast about five years ago, I could not have known then what an important part of my life he would become.

That evening, having heard of my fear of flying from my parents, he took me aside and proceeded to explain how a few simple relaxation techniques would no doubt cure my completely. Although initially sceptical, I decided to go along with it. There was something about his gentle voice and calm demeanour that appealed to me and put me instantly at ease. But what struck me the most was his confidence, his almost child-like conviction that I would overcome my phobia, and fly without fear.

One week later I flew to London and Uncle was overjoyed to hear that I had had a good flight. A couple of months later I flew back to Belfast and he was at the airport, running through the crowded terminal and hugging me as I arrived. It was a moment I will never forget.

Since then, there have been good flights and bad flights, but it was Uncle George’s voice that has always been in the background, pushing and prodding me on. At Chicago airport two years ago, he spoke, prayed, and even sang into the phone as I prepared for take-off. When I finally landed at Mumbai twenty hours later, I wept not because of my air-sickness but because I felt I had let him down.

But Uncle George never gave up hope. Finally last year as I prepared to come to London, he decided it was time to settle the issue once and for all. He went on to call me every night for three weeks, and on the final night before my flight he prayed and after a few moments of silence said “I will wait to see you here, mone”

The flight the next day was the best one of my life.

Perhaps it was the thought of Uncle waiting at the airport, like he did five years ago, when he hugged me and made me believe that everything was possible once more. Perhaps. And even now though he is gone, for me he will always be waiting at the end of every flight, waiting with a wide smile on his face.

Ever since I met him, I was always unsure about whether to call him Doctor George or Uncle George; to me he was always both, providing me with the advice of a physician and the affection of a family member.

While trying to make me relax, he would often ask me to go to my ‘happy place’ and then ask me to describe it to him. It was all a bit amusing back then, but at this time of deep sorrow perhaps we can draw some comfort in the knowledge that he is now in his happy place, united at last with the one whom he loved and served so well.

Thank You Uncle.

It's been an eventful Cricket World Cup so far.
India loses to a bunch of Bangladeshi teenagers, Pakistan get thrashed by an Irish pub side.
And the 58-year-old coach of the Pakistani team is found dead in his hotel room.

A few of the big teams may soon be on early flights home but surely the first to leave was Perspective.

An Indian passenger named Anantharaman Subbaraman arrived at Jeddah airport. At immigration he waited for nearly two hours for the authorities to call him. Finally running out of patience, the man confronted the officer and demanded to know why they hadn't called his name.

The officer replied that they had been calling him for the last hour and a half and were wondering why he hadn't responded. All was clear when a voice announced his name again over the microphone: 'Anotherman Superman' to counter number five please.

........and we're back!

After a couple of months of being frustratingly locked out of Blogger (apparantly something to do with the New and Improved version: Is it New or is it Improved?) I am finally back to regular posting (of course, here that means once every two weeks but I'm working on that) The promised Ad Absurdum Make-Over is underway, and even though I am tempted to stick with the name, if someone suggests a better one I might just change it. A couple of suggestions did arrive for which I am grateful but I must politely decline, at least for now.

And so moving on...The story goes that Julius Caesar was warned by a seer to be wary of some great peril on the 15th day of March which the Romans called the Ides. When the day had come Caesar happened to meet the seer on his way to the Senate and greeted him with a sneer (sneered at the seer, you might say) and said: "Well, the Ides of March are come," to which the seer replied softly: "Ay, they are come, but they are not gone." Minutes later Caesar was dead, killed by his own senators.

So now that the Ides Of March are behind us, it is time to march on. And with bright sunshine streaming through my window, a month-long Easter vacation approaching and a Cricket World Cup in progress, what possible cause could there be for complaint?

So, friends,(and Romans and countrymen) onwards and upwards!

Ladies and Gentlemen

Eight months ago a little blog arrived kicking and screaming into the world. For the first two months it was cute and cuddly, it cooed in its sleep and smelt nice. Every time it got a little restless I’d feed it a couple of words and it would go back to bed, content in its own little way. However, the blog has, as it should I suppose, grown up. Now it stays up half the night and throws its food around on the floor. It screams from time to time. And it is teething. I realised with some dismay that a couple of words now and then were no longer enough; it had turned into a hungry little monster and was demanding to be fed. I panicked, like any reluctant parent would, when the thing they have created takes on a life of its own.

But what's done is done. I cannot ask it to go back to where it came from, that would be stupid. I considered putting it up for adoption, but that would be inhumane. For better or worse, this blog is mine; it is a part of me. For all its faults I know it is merely trying to make something of itself. Often with little ones it can get so exasperating that you wish they would die, but when you see them later, asleep alone in their beds looking like little angels you feel more love than you thought you were capable of feeling. And you hate yourself for having felt the way you did. Of course, I cannot know for sure if this is true with real children but I imagine so.

And so, my little blog will from now on be showered with a little more affection. I intend to buy it some new clothes and a rocking horse. I may even change its name. Ad Absurdum sounded cute in a pretentious sort of way when it was smaller, but now I fear that other blogs with cleverer names will pick on it. (Ideas for names will be welcome.) I will occasionally take it for walks and we might take pictures. I will attempt to pass on my meagre knowledge about the way things are. I will talk to it about music, movies and sports and will tell it some good jokes when I think of them. I will introduce it to other little blogs and big sites that we happen to meet along the way. And most of all I will watch it grow because we can never really know how they will turn out, can we? I suspect it will make me proud some day but even if it doesn't I will love it all the same.

To those who have been its friends over the past few months, thank you. Thanks especially to my cousin Rachel for being its bestest friend. And as for you, if you by chance see it on the street, please smile and wave if you can. It’s a bit shy, my little blog, and not very good with real people, but it's not its fault. I am told it's a spitting image of me.

That is all for now. It’s time for its nap.

Woof!

All I heard were shuffling feet,
As I stood beside the bar,
I was sliding into an empty seat,
When I spied her from afar:
My eyes were rooted to the floor,
As she bought her rum and coke;
She was close enough to know the score,
But I waited till she spoke.
'This seat taken?' she softly posed,
With lips of reddest red,
Down she sat but then arose,
To pat me on the head:
And now you’re going ‘Shut it please, wouldja?’
Bet you didn’t guess ’twas a dog though, didja?

Going Home

This was written by one of my classmates. I thought it was beautiful.

Homesickness has little to do with home and everything to do with love.
When I am not happily in love I long for home where love waits hanging
on tree branches outside the house, and seeped into furniture fabric and the fuzz and fur of old blankets and missed pets. Sitting silently in memory and invisible to eyes that behold it in person, the home love is ideal.
It does not hurt or ask questions and it is forever steadfast; held eternally, and holding you back, in the mind’s eye. That’s why it’s so easy to leave it for the tangible brand of love, the kind you can touch without a twinge of sadness,
because you’re not sick for the old love
and the new love won’t make you sick, yet.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1833

Ode to the Pod

plugged in, he turns into one of those he till recently despised.
white wires protrude from shirt collar, leading out from the soul,
sucking it dry of all emotion.
He walks on, doesn’t look back
music on max, the world on mute,
He pretends he can’t hear her
homo habilis with opposable thumb, scrolling to the edge of the world.
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
jaded, battle-weary faces,
Seems embarrassed to be there
unblinking eyes, staring into nothingness,
Oh think twice, it’s another day for
You and me in paradise
an alien on life support

In the Park

It's deceptively bright today. I had set out wearing just a light jacket; you'd think I would have known better. Still, the brightness makes up for the lack of feeling in my fingers. On other days the park has been sour and depressed, the tower slides looking like the ancient ruins of an older, more playful civilisation. A park is a disappointed playground, Joyce might have said. Today it looks a lot happier. I make my way past the swings and see-saws, shining yellow and red in the sun. Two children dangle from the monkey bars. Just beyond them a group of eager boys take turns trying to dunk a basketball. A frisbee hovers over the grass for a few moments before touching down.

On the lake, ducks clamour for the breadcrumbs that an old woman lobs at them. Sunshine glints off their beaks. A little girl squeals in delight, asks her mother whether she can have a go. I remember the ducks we used to have in the park near our home. One of them got slightly carried away on one occasion and had picked off, along with the slice of bread on offer, a sizeable chunk of a child's hand. They were all gone the next day, we never found out where.

scurrying to safety
two squirrels
I retreat, defeated

The shadows lengthen. In an hour the curtain will come down on another day. The old woman tosses the last of the crumbs into the lake, heads home while she still can. The streetlights come on, burning orange at first, like the setting sun. I dust my pants and watch it disappear. Overhead, a plane unzips the sky.

string of fairy lights
in a window
christmas hangover

Year of the Pig

And so it was that in all the celebration, in all the hubbub of noise and excitement, there were two figures who stood silent and still...

And though every single human in the stands or in the commentary boxes was at a complete loss for words, the man who in his life had uttered fewer words than any of them knew exactly what to say.

"That'll do, Pig.
That'll do."

Does anyone else really really like this film?

India- Tales from the Hinterland

Rustic transcript of speech by local Member of Parliament (c. 2004)
On a whistle-stop tour of the world’s largest democracy:

Namaste, bhaiyo aur behno[1]!

Please to be giving your vote to me,
I will be much obliged;
Roti, kapdaa aur makaan[2], tho-
I will personally provide.

Roads to your home will be best quality,
24 hours light will be there;
Excess of water for every person,
No need even to share.

Best schools for all the bachaas[3],
Medicine will be all free,
To all who be voting, I will give-
Fully new colour teevee.

I know I’m promising all this before,
But, really, erm…what to say?
See, five years seem long time to you,
In politiks, is like a day.

No fear; I be making your village,
Whole total duniya ki shaan[4];
So press down those thumbs, bhaiyo aur behno,
Mera Bharat Mahaan[5]!

Thanking You.


[1] Greetings, brothers and sisters! (a standard opening line)
[2] Food, clothing and shelter; three words with which many an Indian election is won and lost.
[3] children
[4] Pride of the whole world, a largely elusive concept
[5] My India is great!

Two hours to Kottayam

I stare out the window
as we cross the border.
Brown earth slowly turns to green.

I reach for my notebook;
This is what being ‘moved to poetry’ is like.

For so long she’s hoped for my return,
She’s waited patiently,
The wait’s over, and she’s preparing now-
To warmly welcome me.

Wind-blown and wide-eyed,
Sticking out like driftwood,
A tourist in the land of his birth.

But this is a land of a billion sons,
And each minute more are born,
How will she possibly welcome me back,
When she doesn’t know I’ve been gone?

I breathe in the smells,
Coffee, cocoa, a hint of pepper,
Boats float like dead fish on water.

Coconut palms line the tracks.
Beauty, too heavy to be contained,
Falls like invisible rain.

A child waves from beside the lake.
I wave back-
He grins and tells his brother.

A tiny leaf lands on my palm.
Fragile and so full of promise,
Like the land itself.

No, no red carpet awaits me,
I’m just a face in the teeming crowd;
But she will hear about me somehow,
And for a fleeting moment she’ll be proud.

I close my eyes.
It smells like home.

Song for the New Year

As for 2006, so for 2007...

Another year is marching through the door,
I do not have the weapons for war,
I've never felt so unprepared before,
As I stumble on.

So many years I've left in my wake,
So many chances I've failed to take,
What difference then will one more make,
As I stumble on?

Happy New Year, it's almost here,
But I feel no gladness; only fear,
I'm just waiting now for the smoke to clear,
As I stumble on.

But then that voice- soft yet clear,
"I will heal each wound and dry each tear,
Stick with Me son, you'll have nothing to fear,
I will lead you on."

"You've stumbled your way through life before,
You don't have to stumble anymore,
Don't worry about the battles, I've won the war,
And I will lead you on."

Happy New Year 2007

Tonight

As a child I believed
you could hear the sea in a shell;
Now a cupped hand does the job
just as well-
it’s too cold to venture out tonight.

Tonight
everything seems de-romanticized,
I stand stripped of wonder.
The more you know, the more you wish
you didn't.

Snap crackle pop
words stop
to make way for a passing thought.

Tonight
my pine scented candle burns down,
mixes with cheap potpourri,
teases my throbbing sinuses.
A painful reminder of a careless late shower.

Darkness encroaches on the flame
a little sputter,
a final wheeze,
and then it’s gone.
The shadows die a silent death.

Tonight
I pine for my family.
Ten thousand miles away
my mum sneezes.

In the stillness the phone rings
three times.
I pick it up, put it down and draw the blinds
Tonight is for silence.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who is easily impressed.
A heart that feels like it's about to explode with all the beauty in the world.
So much beauty.
A heart of someone so happy to be alive and tired at the same time.
Jaded.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who can never find the right word.
So many thoughts die before they're even born.
A heart of someone who knows that nothing is as it seems-
but wishes it was.

I walk with the heavy heart of someone who's aware that gifts that are so easily given-
Are just as easily taken away.
A heart of someone who realises he's just another face
In the Crowd.

Full Circle (prelude to the music album)

While we're on this little journey,
The road is often hard and long,
And it sometimes seems to lead away,
From the place where you belong.

And every time the road leads off,
To a place I do not know,
I think back to the places,
That I passed through long ago.

That's when the thought occurs to me,
(I realize it's a little strange)
But these places aren't so different,
I'm the one that's changed.

And then I look back and recall,
My journey from Boy to Man (?),
And reflect on how I made it back,
To where it all began.

I do not know where it goes from here,
But I hope to God I'm strong,
And wherever it takes me, one thing's clear-
That's where I'll belong.

Week 3 of the course and it was time for Haiku. If you just went "Haik-who?" (or, more accurately, "Haik-wha..?") you are not alone. As it turns out, these three-line poems are a major form of Japanese verse. Hai, meaning amusement + ku meaning sentence, which roughly translates into English as 'Poetry for folks with Attention Deficit Disorder'.

After much deliberation and discussion, here is my feeble attempt: *drum roll*

warm clothes strewn about,
I gather
you've left me

staring into my coffee
as I drink
Sunrise in a cup

he rakes the leaves
recently shed,
the Fall Collection

When one blog dies, another has to take its place, so here goes:

Introducing myself has often been a struggle since I arrived. While most people would get past the first obvious hurdle -that of pronouncing my name- they would inevitably stumble at the second. This of course would be the point at which I have just answered their question: "So where you from, Ajay?" Their vacant stares would be my cue to launch into my orientation speech, which I can now rattle off in my sleep. "In the west of the country, three hours drive from Bombay, about the same distance between Swansea and London..."

Lately, however, this process has become a lot easier, thanks to a certain Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. "Poona?" they ask me now, a flicker of recognition already passing across their faces.

"Yeah," I begin, "In the west of the country, three hours drive from..."
"I've heard of it, that's where Brangelina are, innit?" "Shooting a movie, yeah?"
"Yup," I say, "that’s the one."
"That's wicked man."
"Yup."

So, thanks are in order, I guess. To 'Brangelina' and the hundreds of paparazzi that have followed them all the way to my little hometown, three hours drive from Bombay. Alas, soon they will head off to Ulaanbataar or some equally random place, and Poona will go back to being the place no-one has heard of.

And I have to go back to cringing each time someone goes "Pooh...Nah?"

Yeah. Wicked, man.

The smell of freshly baked pies. Even now I can conjure up that smell just by thinking about it. They were sometimes apple pies, sometimes pumpkin, sometimes some other thing I had never heard of. But they all smelt the same to me. I think that made it all the more exciting, the thrill of not knowing what was in them, of finding out. It was all very magical, the way she pulled them out of their brown paper bags every evening. Like rabbits from a hat. Magicians did that a lot, I saw it on tv. I thought about what a great job she must have, going away every morning and returning with these wonderful treats she had made. A ‘baker’. That’s what she told me she was; and from that day on that’s all I wanted to be. She taught me English too. One new word every day.

*****
It always amused me, the look on his face when I got back from the bakery and handed him the bag with a few crusty old pies. I was only allowed to take them home because they’d gone past the sell by date, but he always thought I made them just for him. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He had the same look on his face when I taught him a new word; he would bite into it like he did with the pies, and then roll it around in his mouth, his eyes full of wonderment. He called me a magician once, I’m not sure why. But I felt like one sometimes, unlocking his sense of taste and language, and watching him play with both.

Room 1.1 (E Block)

Finding accommodation at the University was always going to be a problem; I was told two months before the course had begun that it was full-up. So it was quite a surprise to learn that there was one room left in Ty Beck, the 'poshest' halls of residence. There was a catch though; well, two catches really: it was a small room, and I couldn't see it before I signed the contract. Not one to make impulsive decisions, I hesitated. And tried to buy time. “How small?” I asked, followed by “can I see a photo at least?” The lady smiled kindly and then said No firmly. There were two people in line behind me, supposedly for the same room in question, so I was faced with a curiously tricky dilemma. I could sign for the room and move into what might well turn out to be a medium sized cupboard, or I could refuse, spend the rest of the month walking in and out of private accommodation, and feel like a prize idiot.
So I signed.

Any relief I felt at this uncharacteristic display of decisiveness quickly evaporated when I reached the accommodation office to pick up my keys. “Ah, Mr Jacob” said the caretaker, who seemed incredulous that I had not just agreed to take the room but actually seemed quite pleased with myself for doing so. “You do know it's small, don't you?” I gulped. I hadn't even been 24 hours in this place, and I was already being scammed. By the Welsh. With a binding 12 month contract to boot. “Well, it's liveable,” he offered helpfully, “as long as you hang from the ceiling.” I smiled weakly, the humour completely lost on me.

As it turns out, the Welsh are great at Exaggeration. And Reverse-Psychology. So there I was, completely resigned to the possibility that I'd be spending the next one year sleeping upright, so that when I finally walked into Room 1.1, I couldn't help but laugh. It was a beautiful, well-equipped little room. There was a table, a wardrobe, two sets of shelves and a sink. And a poster above the almost-double bed that said simply- 'Welcome to Swansea.'

My Friend

I can see that you are in love,
Though you say it isn't so,
Not surprising: for when push came to shove-
You were often the last to know.

I'm sure she's completely sweet,
In a way you cannot express,
You worship the ground beneath her feet,
And feel no more loneliness.

But your best friend's eye is on her,
And his feelings are just as strong,
Who's to say he cannot love her?
Who decides the right from wrong?

And if they end up with each other,
As they most probably will,
You'll find that you are now a brother-
And must learn to love her still.

For Mother

The floor looks faded,
The ceiling seems jaded,
Everything is bare but the walls;

The sun is setting,
The stillness is upsetting,
Until footsteps echo in the halls.

There's no room for slack,
There's no turning back,
What's begun must be seen through;

But the thrill of arriving,
Is offset by the pain of leaving,
And all i can think of is You.

I am off to Wales tomorrow.
Swansea Bay, glistening in the sun, awaits.

The Road goes ever on and on,
Down from the door where it began,
Now far ahead the Road has gone-
And i must follow, if i can.

Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many path and errands meet-
And whither then? I cannot say.

JRR Tolkien

Lately, i have been having two recurring thoughts.

It is important to have an end to journey towards,
But it is the journey that's important, in the end.

A man travels the world in search of what he needs,
and then returns home to find it.

Nuff Said.

Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don't know where it goes
But it's home to me and I walk alone

I walk this empty street
On the Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Where the city sleeps
and I'm the only one and I walk alone

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me
My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me
'Til then I walk alone...

- Billie Joe Armstrong

Blue Suede Shoes

I felt a hand brush my back pocket. Instinctively I reached for my wallet, making sure it was still there before turning around to see who the hand belonged to. As it turned out, it was a little boy trying to get my attention, reaching for my pocket only because that was as high as his little hands could go. He was dressed in full-length pyjamas that made him look younger than he might actually have been. The little bag that hung on his shoulder contained a shoe brush and tins of polish in assorted colors.

"Bhaiya jootein polish karoon?" I smiled, began to explain that polishing blue suede might not be the best idea, and then stopped mid-way to pull out a 10 rupee note and hand it to him. He smiled back - a wide boy-smile - and accepted gratefully, but did not disappear. Instead, he offered me a suggestion: "Dho leta hoon na bhaiya, paani se. Ekdum naiye jaise lagenge" (I will wash them with water, they'll be good as new) Once again, I declined his offer. Finally, in a voice so sincere that I almost choked, he said: "Please dho leta hoon na bhaiya, nahi to bheek ho jayega." (please let me wash them, otherwise you'll be giving me alms.") Lessons in dignity and perseverance from a six year old. Right at that moment, I wanted to hug him.

"Bheek nahi hain, thofa hain" was all I could manage. It was a gift, and he should accept it. He smiled his boy-smile again, much wider this time. "Phir to theek hoga", he said. "Thank you bhaiya", and he was gone, shuffling along with his bag and his brush and his tins of polish.

Theek Hoga. Everything will be ok.

Intimations of Mortality

In the last one week, I've watched a cat being mauled to death, a dog being run over by a car, and a college professor being beaten by his own students till he eventually died of a cardiac arrest, the last one on live television. I had no connection with the cat, the dog, or indeed the professor. And yet, in all three cases I was left with a gnawing pain, somewhere between the heart and the rib cage. Helplessnes, rage, sadness, all rolled into a ball. Imagine how God must feel.

Tomorrow I am going to write about something happy.
IamIamIamIam.

Promise.

Of Loss and Longing

Finally, after 6 months of using my I pod, I've had my first Apple nightmare. I guess it was bound to happen at some point. I am by now quite used to the Microsoft Windows nightmares that I am subjected to on an almost daily basis, when, for no apparent reason my computer decides to re-start at the precise moment at which I'm saving a 32 page document.

This latest one, however, snuck up on me. Even now, as I try and re-create the sequence of events in my head, I am still not sure what happened. All I know for sure is that 15000 songs were deleted in less than 2 seconds. It was all over before I even knew it had begun, so fast that my head still spins just thinking about it.

15000 songs. Collected over 6 months, each one bought, borrowed, stolen, and then lovingly saved, copied, sorted, and tagged. All gone at the click of a mouse. I was left feeling bereft, hurt, violated. Empty as a shell. I tried feebly to remember those songs, where they came from, would I find them again, could I, piece by piece, note by fractured note, put my collection back together once more?

How easily, I remember thinking, the things we love are taken away from us. Just when we start thinking that perhaps we might hold onto them for ever, they're snuffed out. Our stories and our songs. Our hopes and our dreams. Everything we hold dear sinks without a trace and inevitably leaves us clutching at memories, seeking comfort in the vaguely familiar fragments of a life that once was. Like the tune of a song we know we've heard somewhere but can't quite place.

On Leaving

The close-out plans have been laid,
The final changes have been made;
The lights in the office have begun to fade,
'What then?' whispered the voices in his head, 'What then?'

The last tasks have been assigned,
The remaining text boxes have been aligned,
His head's exploding, but he doesn't mind,
'What then?' is all he hears, 'What then?'

All his nightmares have come true -
Flak and criticism is all he drew,
Credit's never given where credit's due,
‘But what then?' asked the ghost again. 'But what then?'

The work is done, grown old he thought,
A jinxed project to near-perfection brought,
The wars of sleep and dissatisfaction have been fought,
But louder sang that ghost,‘What then?'

Inspired by 'What then?' by W.B Yeats

Soliloquy of a Seed

"Something tells me
To surrender all I am
And hope to be;
And to descend
The dark of earth
To be transformed
Into a tree.

But to go up
Dare I go down;
And think a tree
Can fit in me?"

Thank You, Father Paulson

My Train Journey from Hell

I boarded the train from Bangalore with two bags and a smile, only to find that my ticket was for the previous day. Although I’ve been late for trains before, at twenty-four hours, this was comfortably a new record...

And so, after two weeks of living in four and five star accommodation, I found myself standing in a train compartment unlike any other I had seen up to that point. I was going to travel unreserved.

I placed my bags behind the door and surveyed the area half-heartedly for a place to sit. Surprisingly, many of the berths were vacant and for a few fleeting moments I had visions of myself sleeping comfortably till we reached Pune, while others jostled for space to rest at least half their backsides on the custom made wooden seats.

However, the minute I got within a few meters of one of these empty berths, huge hairy men began to leap from nowhere at me, their eyes conveying what I already feared- these berths were taken. Like lions defending their territory, the men were prowling the compartment, making sure other skinnier, impertinent males wouldn’t dare take over the places they had either reserved for themselves, or were planning to sell for money. I slinked back to my corner with my tail tucked in firmly between my legs, and the law of the jungle prevailed. This was clearly the survival of the fittest.

It had now become adequately clear that I would have to spend the next twenty hours crouched in the space between the main door and the sink. As I attempted to come to terms with the thought, I realized that there was another more pressing problem. One of the toilet doors was jammed. Lucky me. I now had a room with a view. And a smell.

I sat down and glanced at my watch. The time was 2:30 pm. There were exactly eighteen hours to go. I watched the trees and fields whiz past and took strange comfort from the fact that with each passing moment I was a little bit closer to home.

I soon noticed that the sink above my head was blocked and had now become a little pond, the water stained red with paan that people were spitting into it at regular intervals. I also noticed the looks of pleasure on their faces when the contents of their mouths made a splashing sound as it hit the water. Cheap thrills. Empty cigarette packs floated on the surface like dead fish. Pretty soon someone was going to have to put their hands in and unblock it, or the floor, which was already dirty, would soon be dirty and wet. I couldn’t believe things could get any worse.

Meanwhile the train kept moving, thankfully, at a decent speed and we had no lengthy hold-ups on the way, as is often the norm on these long journeys. About every hour or so we arrived at a station and I jumped out of my cramped space, eager to move my already aching muscles and to allow the blood to flow again.

But soon even this periodic exercise would prove futile as my body refused to make the change from five-star-bed to minus-ten-star-floor. By 6:00 pm I was starting to feel dizzy and I felt as if I had lost sensation in my left leg. A wave of panic rose inside me. I was twenty-four years old with no history of medical conditions. But for the first time that day, I wondered whether I would survive.

It was then that I noticed the little boy. It is strange how someone else’s suffering makes you realize how insignificant your own minor discomfort is. He must have been about twelve, but his eyes were those of an old man’s. I stared at them, those windows to his soul, and wondered at what they had seen. I glimpsed sadness in the one eye and defiance in the other as he pulled his tattered shirt off his back and began to sweep the floor. People shifted first their feet, then their faces, as he slowly swept the rubbish from under each seat, before stopping for the briefest moment beside each passenger to beg for some change. A few dropped coins into his grubby hands while others, as if on cue, began to tie and untie their shoelaces. The boy shuffled on, bent over by hunger and a deepening sense of resignation. His shirt was not the most effective broom, but when it is your only possession, what else can you use?

Watching the boy renewed my strength and resolve. I was going to make it after all, what was I complaining about? I looked out of the train, and felt the wind in my hair. It was then that we pulled into Raichur.

Now I’m not sure exactly what the population of this sleepy little town is, but it seemed to me as if every single resident was waiting to board the general compartment. They appeared to be fleeing, en masse, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. The train hadn’t even come to a halt before two of the more enterprising fugitives climbed over my head and got in. Minutes later, it was chaos.

Men, women, and children of all ages began to pour in, all yelling and screaming in a language that I probably would have understood if someone wasn’t standing on my ears. I just about managed to get out of the way as the crowds continued to appear out of thin air. I was sitting right under the sink now, and it was threatening to overflow any minute. The feeling of panic came back to me; after the briefest of interludes, my nightmare had resumed.

The most remarkable thing about those five minutes of madness was that while an entire city seemed to board our compartment, not one person got off. Not even one.

Just a thought: Do people know that you are allowed to get off the train at these stations? Did they think it was illegal to (shudder) disembark? Perhaps, I thought, if notices assuring them it was ok were put up in our compartments, the days of crowded trains would be behind us once and for all. I smiled at my own warped logic; I was losing my mind.

Meanwhile, I continued to sit under the sink, with my heart sinking down into my shoes. I realized that I had never seen the underside of a sink before. But the thought did nothing to improve my mood. In fact, for the first time, I contemplated getting off at the next station (to show people that it can be done) and walking the rest of the way. It can’t be that far, I would reach in a week. As soon as I managed to get rid of that crazy idea, the visions started up again. This time it was of me being carried away in an ambulance at Pune station, frozen stiff in the position I was sitting in now. They would strap on an oxygen mask onto my mouth and try to massage the life back into my lifeless limbs...

All my steely resolve was gone; I was going to die, in a general compartment of all places, sitting beside a drunken old man, and underneath an overflowing sink.

When I woke up, the sun was up, the old man was gone and the sink was empty. The train pulled in to Pune station at exactly eight am. The dirty platforms of the station had never looked as good as they did that morning. Wiping the grime from my face, I blinked in the sun. I was home.

I had slept for about twenty-five minutes through the entire journey and just the thought of my warm bed and soft pillow sent an intense rush of pleasure (or was it pain?) through my body. After twenty hours of wishing I were dead, it felt great to be alive. I got to my feet, half expecting to fall. I didn’t. I laughed out loud, mindful of the stares that the other passengers were directing at me. I didn’t care. The nightmare was over.

As I walked out into a waiting auto rickshaw it occurred to me that unless the fates conspire again, I would never have to endure such an ordeal again. Soon this will be just a slowly fading memory; another story to tell friends about, with more details added each time I told it.

But what of those for whom the ordeal never ends? Those countless millions for whom everyday is a recurring nightmare, from which they will never wake. For whom the entire world is a general compartment. And the end of one journey is merely the beginning of another.

I closed my eyes and went to sleep...I was too tired to think.

"There are three principal means of acquiring knowledge available to us: observation of nature, reflection, and experimentation. Observation collects facts; reflection combines them; experimentation verifies the result of that combination.

Our observation of nature must be diligent, our reflection profound, and our experiments exact. We rarely see these three means combined; and for this reason, creative geniuses are not common."

The Boy Who Never Grew Up

There was once a little boy,
He grew up a little slow,
He didn’t do much thinking,
He just went with the flow.
And just what the fuss was all about,
He could never really know.

He didn’t bother with the details,
It wasn’t quite his style,
He would stop and listen though,
Every once in a while,
And looking at the world around him,
Would always make him smile.

He found it quite hilarious,
The way they went about,
“It isn’t worth it, people” he was tempted to shout,
Being Grown Up was just no fun,
Of that he had no doubt.

So when the people around him scurried,
And when the world around went wild,
When his Grown Up friends worried,
As the Grown Up problems piled,
Our little friend just stood and stared,
With the wonder of a child.

Part 2

That little boy I used to know,
He Grew Up after a while,
He slowly lost the ‘wonder’
And eventually, lost his smile.

He wasn’t like he used to be,
Being all Grown Up now,
He had quietly gone from boy to Almost Man,
But couldn’t remember how.

His heart had fallen silent now,
He listened only to his head,
He no longer lived for the moment,
But planned twenty years ahead.

He once was made of simple parts,
Which concealed a simple soul;
It was as if those parts had now combined,
To form a complicated whole.

I still look out for that little boy,
But I keep seeing this imposter instead,
And although I wish he was still around,
In my Heart I know he’s dead.

The Cup of Hope (2002)

When you're twenty years old and living in India, it's difficult to feel optimistic about life. The future (and indeed, the present) seems about as bright as India's chances of winning the FIFA World Cup. In 2006. And every time an Ayodhya flares up and a Gujarat burns, slowly, bit-by-bit, our collective faith is reduced to ashes.

It is one of the great ironies of our times that when we lose life and property, we lose it in full public view; but when hope is lost, it is lost quietly, without the fanfare. But it is without doubt the greatest loss of all.

Which is why seemingly non-descript events like the one that took place last week on a bus from Pune to Bombay assume significance. As with most buses across our vast land, this one too proved hopelessly inadequate to accommodate the large numbers that thronged to make the four-hour journey. As they jostled in the aisles and wedged themselves into whatever space was available, I whispered thanks for my seat and leaned back into it. It was going to be a long ride.

Twenty minutes later I was almost asleep when the elderly woman seated next to me slowly got to her feet. She then motioned to one of the women standing to take her seat, which she gratefully accepted. “I'm still strong”, the elderly woman then told me, smiling. “And when we help others, God makes us stronger.” I nodded dumbly, unsure of how to deal with the unexpectedly awkward moment. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what happened next.

Inspired by the woman's gesture, people all over the bus began standing up and offering their seats to those closest to them. Transfixed, I watched this strange pantomime playing out in front of me; one set of people sitting down and another taking their place in the aisles. I finally got to my feet, as if compelled by some invisible force, and kept standing till we reached our stop.

As I got off the bus and watched it disappear into the distance, I could not help but smile, despite my aching feet. This was no historic event that I had just witnessed; and yet, standing by the side of the road that night, I had found faith again. I knew that fuelled by our own belief, a spark could still burst into flame. And in the dying embers of our disillusionment, there might still be a flicker of hope.

When you're twenty years old and living in India, that's worth a whole lot more than an elusive World Cup.

All Ye Who Sleep Tonight

All ye who sleep tonight,
Far from the ones you love;
With no-one to left or right,
And emptiness above;

Know that you are not alone,
The whole world shares your tears;
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

- Vikram Seth, All Ye Who Sleep Tonight

Kochumon

"There are lambs in my house, you can take photos of them too" was the first thing he said when he spotted me with my camera. It was only later that I found out that Kochumon helped around my uncle's house, doing odd jobs in order to support his mother and younger sister. He was now about seventeen years old, and having spent most of his childhood with my uncle and aunt, was practically a member of the family. Despite his relative poverty, and the rather unfortunate burden of being called Kochumon (meaning 'small boy') well into his teens, he had a wide smile which now grew even wider as I agreed to accompany him to his home.

It was a small house, dwarfed further by its proximity to the sprawling structure in which my uncle and aunt lived. Kochumon led me into the front yard, excitedly informing his sister that I was there to photograph the lambs. His mother hurried into the house, and emerged with a plate of biscuits. The two lambs were then promptly dragged out of their shed and lined up for the camera. They were followed by chickens, a pair of rabbits, and one very cute kitten. All the while Kochumon never stopped smiling, his eyes glowing with pride as little sections of his private universe were slowly committed to film.

I reached the end of the roll with the picture of the kitten, but Kochumon wasn't finished. He now led me inside his home, and began to re-arrange the furniture; dragging the two chairs, the little tv, his stereo system and his speakers (which he made himself, his mother proudly told me) all to the centre of the tiny room. He then called his mother and asked her to sit in one of the chairs while he knelt beside her with his arm across her shoulder. "'It's ok if you don't get me, but get my mother and the speakers", he said. I nodded, knowing I wouldn't get any of them but lacking the heart to tell him. I positioned the camera and pressed the Off button.

Days later, as I flipped through pictures of lambs, rabbits, and kittens, I realised that the picture I remembered most vividly was the one that I wasn't able to take. Kochumon, kneeling beside his mother, his little tv, and his hand-made speakers. And a smile that conveyed everything and nothing all at once.

For H

Draw the shades over your face,
Throw a sheet across the bed;
Dim the lights inside your eyes,
And hush the voices in your head.

Dream happy technicolor dreams
And dry that lonely tear,
Because for the moment, when you wake,
I will still be here.

And what do I wish for myself?

To love. To be loved. To never forget my own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away.

And never, never to forget.

- Arundhati Roy

Being a Giant

To be a Giant.

This has always been our passion, this desire to be a Giant.

Not to stand on one's shoulders or have one for a friend.

Those may be fortunate things.

But to be one.

Because Gaints step over barriers that seem never-ending.

They conquer mountains that appear insurmountable.

Giants rise above fear.

Triumph over pain.

Push themselves and inspire others.

To be a Giant.

Do Giant things.

To take Giant steps.

To move the world forward.

Confessions of an Unemployed Youth

It is hard to describe how it felt to be working at the age of 22. Although slightly proud that i had landed a decent job, managed to hold on to it, and earned quite a bit of money while at it, i couldn't shake the feeling that there were a thousand other things that i should have been doing instead. As a result, i spent most my working life in a state of conflict. In the end it was a compelling mix of fatigue and boredom that finally led me to give it up. Throw in the towel. Retire even. And so it was, that in the summer of 2006, i was finally out.

In the months following my astonishingly decisive decision to throw away what seemed like a perfectly good career, i continued to remain in the aforementioned state of conflict. i missed my job, but only in the way a dog would miss being being kicked in the balls by his master, which, by the dog's reasoning, must surely be the master's way of showing affection. In later years the dog would perhaps recall some of these kicks and wonder with appalled fascination at how much they meant to him. He might even reminisce with his pups, if he managed to have any, about the Good Times. But enough about the dog.

My problem was slightly more complicated. Even though I managed to convince myself that the job was surely not that good, and the pay was surely not that great, i found that i still missed it. So what was it that i missed?

For starters, it was Something To Do. Before you dismiss that as a uselessly unconvincing reason to hold on to a job, i must point out that there is something softly re-assuring about going to bed at night knowing exactly what it is you are going to be doing the next day. It might be a completely horrific, mind-numbing, please-get-me-out-of-here-before-i-kill-myself job, but it was still Something To Do. There were no surprises. You woke up, got ready, walked right into your worst nightmare, and actually managed to feel good about it. Because like dogs, you see, we humans are slaves to routine. The painful monotony of a job that takes up almost all our waking hours is, in fact, something most of us crave. The drudgery offers us security. I hate to sound philosophical, but it is what provides us with Order in a World of Chaos. Without that, you're left with Choices. You end up lying awake at night wondering whether you should watch tv in the morning, or go for a jog, or perhaps it might be a good day to take up para-gliding. Before long you are debating the pros and cons of each of these choices and you find yourself desending into a black hole of meaninglessness, an endless void from which the light of no star could hope to escape. But this, as i pointed out, was merely for starters.

At this point i will refrain from listing the other reasons why i missed my job because if i dwell on them any further i may lose my mind. So i will instead list out reasons why i DON'T miss my job. (Writers Note: In today's high-stress environment, it is important to maintain a balance as i have just done. Insanity is never that far away.)

One the reasons i looked forward to my new-found freedom was that i would now finally have the time to do the things i always wanted. Yes, i'll admit there is some satisfaction in being able to choose how you spend your day, but to my surprise i found that i was now busier than i was when i was actually working. This seemed so inexplicable that i resolved to spend some time thinking about it. What was all this stuff that i was doing without even realising that i was doing it? Where was all my Free Time going, time that i was supposed to have spent reading, writing, and watching TV?

Ah, yes. Writing. This was one of the things i always wanted to do. My lack of work, i reasoned, would give me all the time i wanted to write. So i decided to get cracking. Writing, however, as much as i'd like to argue otherwise, is not, evidently, considered a Job. And so when people asked me what i was doing and i said 'writing', they would give me disappointingly vacant stares. I felt myself falling so fast in their estimation of me that i was almost dizzy. Writer? I could not have been Wronger.

I soon realized that for some reason, writing is seen as something you did in your Free Time (which i now had) as a respite from Work (which i now didn't have). Unless of course I was Salman Rushdie (whom I wasn’t, and thank Allah for that). The plain truth was that I would never be considered a writer because all my time was now Free Time. As a result, now when i am asked the same question, i respond with "I am planning to study writing." This particular answer is received well by the Adults (at 24 i am still at that age where i'm never sure whether i'm a Young Man or an Adult. I prefer to think that i am both, and this has its perks which i will elaborate on later) and they nod their heads in approval. "Yes, yes, writing these days is a very popular thing. Everyone seems to be writing in their Free Time. Indian writers are now becoming world famous, you must study well and write properly," they tell me solemnly, "Once you find a Job." It is now my turn to nod in agreement. It is a purely instinctive nod, however, and comes from years of pretending to listen to what Adults had to say about my future. My brain prefers not to interfere in these matters.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"No Arithmetic?", is invariably the response when I tell people that I now spend most of my time Reading and Writing. Two months without a job and suddenly everyone's a stand-up comedian. If I had a rupee for everytime I hear this particular joke, I wouldn't have to bother looking for another job. Which, I must point out, I'm not doing in any case. I think the whole Unemployed look is starting to grow on me.

I think it was Mark Twain who said - 'Man is faced with a curious dilemma- he must choose between his work and daytime television.' Since I've never really had the opportunity to put this particular theory to the test, it has been, up to this point, just a clever thing to say to people. However, having now gained a deeper understanding of daytime television over the past few weeks, it is clear that Mr. Twain had a point.

In order to place this next piece of information in context, you must know that I did actually spend some time thinking about where all my New-Found Free Time was going, as I had resolved earlier to do. Surprisingly, a lot of it was spent approximately 2 feet away from the television. Even more surprisingly, the time spent in this particular activity was significantly more than I had initially estimated. Upon closer analysis, I found that Newton's third law of Cable Relativity explains this phenomenon. According to Newton, in the world of Cable TV time is calculated in units (where 1 unit is equal to 30 mins: the length of the average sitcom) Therefore, when one watches 4 successive re-runs, one is likely to consider this as merely 4 units wheras the actual time spent was in fact 4 x 30 = 120, i.e, 2 hours, out of a possible 16 hours that one spends awake. Which, in my case, immediately becomes 2 out of a possible 12 hours spent awake, what with my theory that as humans we are designed to sleep for exactly half the duration of each day.

Which brings me back to Mr Twain and the quality of programming itself. The results of my careful research are revealing: There are, at any given point in the day between 10 am and 5 pm, only three main types of shows to choose from. I will now list these in no particular order of suckiness.

1. The Psychotherapic Talk Show

Guest: Oh, it was horrible, i was this young skinny kid and i had, like, pimples, you know?

Mature Audience: (sharp intake of breath)

Host: And how did that make you feel?

2. The Hyper-Exciting Nature Show

Voiceover: As you can see, the majestic lion just twitched his tail. This is absolutely incredible. He will now spend the next three hours contemplating his prey and will then, if we're lucky, start to make a move towards it. The spotted deer, meanwhile, visibly ages in anticipation of its imminent death. It's almost as if it knows that it will not roam these grasslands for much longer. A week, at the most. Stay Tuned.

3. The Tele-Marketing Show

Voiceover: And welcome back to Asian Sky Shop. Here now is our all-time-best offer, much better than the all-time-best offer that we told you about this very morning. Introducing...(drum roll) The Super Duper Sauna Belt. Yes, it's true! For the astonishingly low price of 500 rupees, you get a product that is actually worth 10,000 rupees in Croatia. And you get free gifts worth another 10,000 rupees. And you get a handbook worth 1000 rupees which explains how you use the free gifts worth 10,000 rupees. And the first 10 people to order this fantastic product get a surprise gift worth more than all these free gifts put together! Order now!

Model (who's a housewife, no surprises there): Trust me this is truly works! I am used the Super Duper Sauna Belt and i lost 20 kilos while i was peeling the potatoes. Thanks You to Asian Sky Shop.

Voiceover: So, what are you waiting for? Grab the phone and order your Super Duper Sauna Belt NOW, exclusive to Asian Sky Shop! Postage is FREE! And even if it isn't, and you don't get actually get any free gifts, and the product isn't worth even 10 bucks, don't bother trying to find us because we're in the Sky, remember?

Stopping by Woods on a Sleepy Evening

Woods are lovely but mostly fake,
And I have so many naps to take,
And hours to go before I wake,
Hours to go before I wake.

Childhood Recollections

One of the few incidents I remember from my largely uneventful childhood took place when I was about twelve. It was July and that usually meant that one set of cousins was going to pay us a visit from abroad. I still remember how we would wake up bright and early and tidy up the house, making sure that every last thing was in place for these relatives from distant lands. And when the time would finally come to pick them up from the airport, we would wear our smartest clothes and hop into the car. That year it was the turn of the US cousins to visit. (When you’re twelve, it’s easier to describe them that way: US cousins, UK uncle, and so on). I still remember the youngest kid getting into the car, obviously drained from the flight. He fell asleep almost as soon as we set off, while his older brother struggled valiantly to keep his eyes open, and make polite conversation with his 'Indian' cousins, as his mother had taught him to do throughout the 15-hour flight.

About 10 minutes into the ride home, the younger kid woke up and looked out the window, only to see a couple of cows standing lazily in the middle of the road. I noticed that the look his face was a strange mix of fear and confusion. He then turned to his mother and whispered 'excuse me' (this was another thing his mother had taught him: when we're with your Indian cousins, always say 'excuse me' before you interrupt someone, ok?)

'What is it son?' 'Um, Mum, how long till we reach the city?', he asked softly. I held my breath, this was it, the moment was here, the young boy's first brush with reality, his first lessons on India, a land he knew nothing about, and felt no connection with. I turned to his mother, smiling behind her pink designer glasses. Here it comes, I thought.

To him: 'What's the matter son, the cows scaring you?'

To us: 'The poor child, he's not used to seeing animals on the road.'

To him again: 'Isn't that great son? Remember how we saw cows once on a farm on our way to Kansas? Would you like a chocolate?'

And yet, it never happened. The moment never arrived. My aunt slowly wiped the hair from his face, and said 'Son, this IS the city.' I smiled. Yes it was. It was the city.

Our city.

At the time, I wasn't sure why his mother didn't bother seizing the opportunity to educate her little American son about his motherland. And I wasn't sure whether my cousin thought it normal for cows to be standing in the middle of the road in a real city. But looking back, it didn't really matter. It was the city. And that was enough.

One day I hope that my cousin will return to India with his own little children, and I hope that I will be around to drive my own kids to the airport to receive them. And maybe one of the little boys will turn to his dad and say 'Excuse me dad, how long till we get home?' And perhaps his father will smile and say 'Son, this IS home.' Yes, this was home.

And that was enough.

India- Tales from the City

The woman at the traffic light
Oblivious of her child's plight;
Empties her lungs into a balloon
That she will sell for two rupees.

Sooner or later she will run out of air
Sooner than later no-one will care;
And she will lie there surrounded by balloons
As lifeless and deflated as she is.

Meanwhile...

The little girl in the mid-day heat
Does handstands to the sound of a drumbeat;
Her innocence seems to keep the despair away
As she bravely chases a dream.

Her skills belie her tender age
She believes the whole world's a stage;
But soon there will be no-one to watch
And she will know that things aren't as they seem.

Growing Up

At twenty-five i was dumbfounded afresh
By my ignorance of the simplest things.

- Ted Hughes, Fulbright Scholars

There was a time when I was sure of myself, when every decision I made was calculated, and borne out of careful and rational thought. It was a time when I was simple, life was simple, and the world itself was a largely uncomplicated place. That time now seems like a long time ago. Someone once told me: how simple it is to be Happy, but how hard to be simple. I think now, after all these years, that is quite true.

Age has brought with her a large group of friends. Doubt, Regret, Cynicism, all of them have made my head their home. They are constant companions now, and are a part of every decision I make. They each have something to say. They color my perception, lacing my thoughts with their various hues, diluting facts and obscuring reason, till I no longer know what is the truth. I wish it weren't so, I wish I could be rid of them, but it seems hard now. So Hard to be Simple.

I miss my old friends, those happy, one-dimensional friends of my youth. Somewhere along the way we lost touch, and now they don't return my calls.

And so every once in a while I find myself looking back, with Regret sitting by my side, wishing that Hope was still around. I think sometimes about how different Life might have been if I had never grown up, if I was still a Boy, with dreams in his eyes. But just then, Cynicism reminds me that the Boy is long gone, I was now a Man, with new friends, a new Life, and perhaps, a new World. It might be hard to be simple again, but it was still simple to be Happy. And maybe that was enough.

Experience, who's been sitting quietly in the corner, nods his head in agreement. Doubt, on the other hand, merely smiles...

Common Sense and Sensibility

'We have seen God- he bats at Number 4 for India' screamed the poster, held up by an adoring fan, speaking for an adoring nation. Minutes later, the unthinkable happened. He was out, gone for one run, it was impossible, this wasn't supposed to happen, what kind of game was this, what kind of cruel cosmic joke? About five seconds of stunned silence later, adulation turned to rage as the crowd proceeded to boo India's greatest batsman off his home ground. While the English supporters exchanged bemused glances, others, like me, could only gape in astonishment at what must surely rank as one of the most disgraceful moments in our utterly disgraceful sporting history.

To begin with, however, let's state the obvious. Or, for the benefit of the guy holding up the poster, the not-so-obvious. Sachin Tendulkar may be worshipped by a sizable population of this country, but he is not God. There is no evidence to suggest that God does actually bat at number 4 for any side, or even plays the game. And even if he did, I would think he'd be more of a bowler than a batsman. For someone who routinely sends down thunderbolts from the skies, there's no saying what he'd do with a little red ball. (Right arm, around the sun, please) But I digress.

There are a lot of lessons to be learned here. Yes, the mob can be fickle, and the public's memory is often short. It is perhaps also a reminder that Glory, like Fame and almost everything else, is fleeting. But above all, it is a testament to our collective ignorance. How else do you explain the crowd's behavior towards one of their own?

It is true; there is a palpable sense of expectancy every time he walks out to the middle. We wait, with bated breath, like children at a magic show. We hope, fervently, for something special to distract us momentarily from the dull routine of our everyday lives. Across the country, people of all ages fall sick. Exams, work, dinner, it can all wait, Sachin was on strike.

But what is it based on, this adoration? Was it merely our own selfish desire to be entertained? Do we raise our heroes merely to watch them fall? In ancient Rome, spectators cheered while gladiators clubbed helpless slaves to death, and then laughed when they in turn got mauled by lions. It is an indication of how little has changed when a man - feted and glorified across the world - gets ridiculed on his own turf. All because the paying public didn’t get their 250 rupees worth. For a nation that celebrates one bronze at the Olympics, we are surprisingly unforgiving.

What is it that makes us refuse to acknowledge greatness? Is genius just a passing fancy; are we temporarily impressed and then, just as easily, bored? Or are we so foolish as to believe that perhaps we are all the same? Ashes and dust we may all be, but every once in a while someone special comes along and performs superhuman acts that the rest of us only dream of, and few hope to achieve. Sachin Tendulkar is one such man. For eighteen years he has brought us joy, fuelled our dreams. Yes, he is only human, at times painfully so. But even so, we need to feel blessed to witness the precious gift he possesses. Instead of mocking him, we need to stand in awe of his greatness. If for nothing else, at least because such people make us believe that we can be great too.