Ache-sistence

Sound is energy – the root energy from which all other energies are derived. Light is a higher vibration of sound. So high that it passes through all other vibrations, hindered only by the lower vibrations of what it passes through. The Universal Parabrahman is the highest form of light, and is becoming lighter and lighter constantly. The Dark Forces are the lowest form of light in which the vibration levels are very low.

What is a low vibration level is a gross body, a higher vibration level is a light body – and the numerous variations within. When a soul is created, it has to pass through the various levels of vibration until it can go back to it’s original light source. This is essentially The Wheel of Life in which the soul is created from Pure Light – is sent to utter darkness, and then has to work its way back into the light for realizing the Divinity that it is made of.

A soul in a human body is considered to be a mature soul. Of course, there are groups, sub groups, and sub sub groups within this as well. This explains why some adults are childish and some children are really mature for their age. From books, we know that the levels of evolution are crystal, then plant, then animal, and finally human. Science teaches us that opposites attract and like repel. Energy Theory tells us that like energies attract, opposite energies repel. This is based on the principle of resonating sound. Similar sounds will vibrate harmoniously together, while discordant sounds will sound chaotic. Similar vibrations – and by that I mean all of life – will gravitate towards one another, while dissimilar ones will move apart as far as energetically possible.

It’s believed that a soul with a human incarnation has already passed through the animal, vegetable and mineral incarnations. The higher the maturity of the soul, the greater the test or burden it must face in it’s life. That’s why human existences are often miserable and troublesome. Animals have a much freer and relaxed existence. They are themselves with others of their kind. Humans are at odd within themselves, let alone other human beings. Let’s not even get into the dynamics of human-human relationships within families, neighbourhoods, towns, cities and so forth.

When it comes to consuming food, the principle of resonating energy follows the law of paradoxes. Human beings don’t eat other human beings – at least not in “civilized” society. They consume animals and vegetables. Here, the resonating sounds of flesh within flesh creates a grosser resonance. This is because the energy bodies of mature souls (speaking from a simple evolutionary perspective only) have grosser bodies to handle. The older the pupil, the tougher the syllabus. Vegetables and minerals have cleaner energy bodies compared to humans and animals. When a human eats an animal, the overall vibration frequency of the human decreases. However, when vegetables are eaten, the average vibrations don’t vary all that much. Why then don’t we eat minerals? This is because that particular frequency does not match with the human frequency anymore. It’s on the other side of the spectrum. Just as most humans can’t survive on air alone, they can’t survive on rocks and sand. Every being operates within its level of vibration.

Speaking of vibrations, the Universe was created by sound. The Word, as it is called in the Bible. The Word in this timeframe is Om. It’s a very energetic and high frequency word. Most of us can’t handle it’s frequencies for prolonged periods without suffering side effects. Our gross bodies are just not capable of vibrating at the frequency that Om exists at. It’s easier to chant Om from the throat than from the palate or through the nose. When chanting from the throat, it creates a pleasant vibration in the head and body. When chanting from the nose or palate, it causes shortness of breath and lightheadedness. The palate and nose are positioned higher than the throat. They operate at a higher frequency within the human range. That’s why, for gross bodies, a throaty chant is simpler. The overall energy quality of a throaty Om is lower than that of a pitched one, but it’s still much higher than the gross energy of a physical body. For beginners, chanting Om from the throat will gradually increase their frequency and they will be able to chant from their nose and palate with more comfort gradually.

Frequency is another aspect of life. We may wonder why we have to go through incarnation after incarnation just to learn lessons for our Higher Soul. Why must the incarnated souls go through this tedium? This reason can be traced back to the Parabrahman Itself.

In the beginning, there was only the Parabrahman as a thought. No energy. No matter. No existence. Nothing. It wanted to know what It was, what it was capable of. It wanted to realize itself. And so, it created existence. From thought came energy. Sound energy. Om. The Big Bang. From energy came matter. The universe and all that is within it. Interestingly, Universe can be broken down into Uni and Verse, or One Verse. The One Verse could very well be referring to Om.

Once the Parabrahman manifested it’s thought by exerting energies into creating matter, various things were made real. Creation extended into positive infinity and negative infinity – concepts which we are unable to fathom, but for the Parabrahman’s self realization quest it was a necessity. As we are part of a universe, that is part of a greater chain of universes and so forth. Similarly, we carry entire universes within us. Our bodies are composed of atoms, which are further subdivided into the nucleus and orbits. The nuclei are also broken down into smaller and smaller levels ad infinitum.

One of the created objects are souls. A class of light beings charged with awareness and entrusted with the task of understanding what created reality is. The higher souls sent off a portion of their light bodies into physical reality from time to time to experience living on that plane of existence. As the tenure of the incarnated soul drew to a close, it returned to the higher soul and shared it’s experience and learning. Each such sharing increased the average vibration of the higher soul. As more lessons were required to be learned for understanding the Parabrahman’s creations, more and more incarnations were made by the higher souls for greater understanding. Remember, the Parabrahman began this entire exercise to realize itself. Any action conducted by us – the incarnated souls – is a learning experience for our higher soul, and in turn, the Parabrahman. This does not mean that we can go around doing whatever we want under the garb of gathering all kinds of knowledge for the Parabrahman. We have to vibrate harmoniously with our fellow incarnated souls. If we disharmonize ourselves, we will be moved into a setting where we meet like vibrations, with greater volume. Something which we might not find very pleasant at all. The Laws of Karma operate on this principle. Then again, the concept of pleasant and unpleasant is something which only the incarnated souls experience. It’s in our best interest that we stick to our created concepts of pleasantness for our sake and strive to lead lives in which we attract pleasant vibrations. The principles of Loving Kindness, Non-Violence and Non-injury are guidelines to help us stay within the Laws of Karma and remain in harmony with incarnated reality.

After each and every portion of the higher soul’s light body has attained knowledge, it starts vibrating at a higher frequency. This might be called Attaining Nirvana from this plane. The higher soul then moves on to higher and higher planes, attaining Nirvana at each level. When all the planes have been covered and the overall frequency of the higher soul is close to that of the Parabrahman, it moves into God Realization and starts resonating with the Parabrahman itself. It then merges with the White Light and becomes One with God.

I've been thinking a bit.

Eye think. Eye go.

Do you know of the phrase "Aham Brahmasmi"? It means "I am Brahman". Mind you, this is not the Brahmin of the caste system, but the Brahman of Oneness. The word-root for Brahmanda, which means Universe.

Brahman, quite literally, is everything. It is where everything comes from. When someone says "Aham Brahmasmi", he actually means that he is everything because he originates from Brahman. Don't confuse Brahman with God. According to religious concepts, God is good while the Devil is bad. Brahman is everything. How can everything be wholly good or wholly bad? It just is. And everything arises from Brahman.

The word "Ahamkar" means arrogance or pride. The ego. Masters say that the Ego is fuelled by things we think, say and do. If the word Ahamkar is split, then you get Aham (which means I am) and Kara, which I suppose would mean "doing". Logically then, Ahamkara arises by what I am doing. And Ahamkar arises from myself.

Karma. The result of all our actions, good and bad. By action it doesn't necessarily mean what you do, but what you think and say as well. So basically, there are consequences for every action you take. And if you have an Ego, then it adds to your laundrypile of results to bear. And Karma arises from my actions.

The Ego is the "I" factor. If the Brahmanda is about everything, then "I" am about myself only. And the only way I can exist is if I am aware of the differences between myself and everything else. But if everything, including myself, IS Brahman, then why have Ego in the first place? It exists because we have been taught "every man for himself". We have to create an identity for ourselves or get sucked into the large mire of being like everything else. That is why we have created an I v/s Everything else situation in our heads.

But if you ARE everything, then where does the boundary line arise? How exactly are you, YOU? What makes you, you? Are you your body? No, that can't be right because you just said "My" body. What is ME, then? Are you your mind? Or your thoughts? Or just your soul? Are you any of these things individually? Possibly not, because one can't exist without the other. It's all these things combined that comprises you. And you are Brahman.

So there really isn't a you and me situation. Everything is a part of everything else. The concept of Maya isn't all that wrong either. We are trained to believe only what we see. Somewhere down the line, conveniently being unable to explain optical illusions or mirages which are blatant examples that everything that we see isn't really there.

Maybe then a Visionary is one who sees things for what they truly are. Or see things as they are not.. because they aren't real. Human beings can perceive up to seven colours - the vibgyor. What about ultra violent and infra red? What about the radiations higher up and lower down? Gamma rays and radio waves? What would happen if our eyes could perceive every bit of those rays? Imagine seeing telephone tower rays penetrating through you every living second. You really wouldn't want that kind of vision, would you? Most of us wouldn't know how to handle it. We wouldn't want it. We would be happy seeing only what we have seen so far and be happy with it, shutting out the incredible larger picture in favour of the comfortable smaller one.

And that's where the boundary lines come up. The larger outside and the smaller I. Is it any wonder that I believe what eye see?

Maybe it's just time for the ego to go. I don't know. I can't see where this is going. And that's very self fulfilling in itself...

25 things

This be a Facebook tag, where you're supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits or goals about you. But since I haven't yet figured out how to use the application even with detailed instructions, getting it done over here. Besides, I've suddenly become comment hungry.

So here goes..


1) My Dad plays the Sitar, so my earliest childhood memory is waking up to the sounds of rich music. In fact, this influenced me so much that till age 5 I used to sit on the stairs, embrace the banister like a Sitar and strum the railing. Since no sound came out, I would say "pao pao" imitating the instrument.

2) As I kid I was dreadfully afraid of two things: people and poo. In nursery school, I would quietly stand at the corner of the playground while all the other kids were running around. For some reason, the teachers would find this extremely cute. And they named me chubby cheeks..

3) The poo paranoia was so huge that I refused to take a dump. Used to think that this was something dirty, smelly and yucky. So I used to suppress it with all my might whenever I needed to crap. This led to constipation and the good doctor gave my very patient Mother a pill to shove up my ass. I remember how good it felt when I shat for 30 minutes at a stretch. I was 7 then.

4) The previous experience gave me the ability to control my bowel movements. Now I can go for a max of three without relieving myself. Comes in handy when I'm traveling and the arrangements are shitty. Erm..

5) My accent changes automatically depending on who I am talking to. This happens mostly when I'm conversing with clients. The South-East Asians think I'm making fun of them. The Americans introduce me to their wives.

6) I lose my cool very easily... and cool down even quicker. When I get angry, I can lift up dining tables to hurl them. If I'm getting angry on the phone, I change my voice to the Christian "Batman" Bale growl.

7) I pace while talking on the phone. At home, I've got this route - verandah, bed, dresser, bed, verandah. Whenever I've paced the verandah, I've often caught the neighbouring marwaris in various states of undress. They prance to the windows and draw the curtains shut. Every time. Which is another reason I detest them.

8) I don't tell people some very basic information about myself even if I've been close friends with them for more than 2 years. You know.. the whole "let the mystery be there" kinda thing.

9) I use too many I's in my sentences.

10) There's this desire to be in the limelight almost all the time. Maybe it's because I used to be the playground recluse as a kid, which is why I'm making up for it now.

11) I chew my lower lip when I'm thinking. My two front teeth are at right angles to each other because of that. When I'm concentrating on something really hard, but making no headway, I talk to the problem... have a conversation with it. This used to happen when I painted as a kid.

12) My G.I. Joe and He-Man action figures are collecting dust in the cupboard for the last three years. I can't bring myself to dust them clean because I don't want to start playing with them again. My friends walked in on me once when I was executing a Cobra counter strike, with the toys placed strategically on my bed, window sill and an upturned biscuit tin.

13) Sentimental movie and TV scenes make me cry. That's one reason why I stopped watching those home makeover shows on Discovery Travel and Living.

14) I am chewing my lower lip right now. (12:54 pm | February 14 2009)

15) I have a sweet tooth. If there are no sweets in the house, I'll make do with sugar. Or kishmish. Or throat lozenges. Or cough tablets.

16) I used to swing from the bathroom door curtains when I was 5. You know, knot the lower ends into a seat, sit down and go weeeeeeee. This stopped when the curtain tore and I hurt my bum. They just don't make strong curtains nowadays..

17) After my left collarbone broke, it didn't set perfectly. I take morbid pleasure in showing people the droop in the shoulder and detaching the upper arm from the collarbone as far as it can go without hurting. :D

18) While cleaning my room, if I find an old magazine or book, I'll start reading it. Cleaning be damned.

19) I take offence at minor things easily and don't forget them for a long time to come. And I won't tell the people concerned why I'm offended either. But after I've cooled down, I'll start behaving normally with them. This confuses them and they don't know how to react to me. I like this.

20) I love hearing good things about me, but don't know how to handle compliments. Usually I'll make a smartass remark which makes people regret saying something in the first place. Then I follow up with double meaninged sentences.

21) I can bench press up to a 100 kgs, but can't push my way through in a crowd.

22) I love matchmaking between friends. Then reminding them that I brought them together in the first place. :D And then feel rotten when it doesn't work out so I guess the matchmaking isn't exactly a good idea...

23) I am very surprised that I haven't used the straight face smiley even once yet :|

24) While walking, I avoid stepping on the shadows of people's heads. Unless the persons concerned are peeing. Then I pass comments.

25) When travelling alone by public transport, I make it a point to look someone in the eye until he or she looks away. Neighbouring taxi drivers are most susceptible to this.


And in this post I tag you. That's cos I am terrible at remembering names.

The profusion of confusion

One month since the flood of bombs left their mark on Bombay. Bombay. Mumbai. It's the same city, just numerologically different. Personally, I've never been fond of the renaming craze, but considering our Government's rather stoic and effeminate silence, perhaps the name Mum-bai is totally applicable. The media was busy coining new phrases for putting forward the indomitable spirit of the city in between it's frequent splashes of live  exclusivity, glossing over the fact that the city thrives on a "chalta hai" attitude. The reason why we all bounce back faster after a tragedy is because of ever increasing amounts of apathy.

If the above line didn't affect you, you know you're affected.

Live death telecast. Interesting. Exclusive mass telecast. Intriguing. The same thing said over and over. Insipid.

In our hurry to push our self stamped envelopes of mass appeal, we sometimes forget that we are putting the moron in oxymoron. So in times like these it's best to sit back and laugh at ourselves at the things we say.

Take that chewing gum ad for instance. The one where the cow has beautiful teeths. Cows have udders I know, but teeths? And milk white teeths at that? Maybe this is an in-joke about doctors leaving impressions (dents in this case) on their patients at a very deep level. It could also be a McBethian reference to the milk of human kindness. After a literal bongland translation it becomes "Mamata-r dudu". Considering the considerable swaying powers (politically only please!) of that particular sample of humanity, you wouldn't wonder for long why she calls the red reign a bunch of cow-ards.

While on the topic of cows, I saw a few miserable ones being led away to their slaughter on a bloody recent religious celebration. And not just the cows, many people got themselves goats as well. After the black sheep celebrations were over, a different BA BA swooped down with its luggage problems. The world will fight, animals will be feasted on and flights will keep losing luggage. Things keep changing, but the one constant now is the getting publicity out of everything. Pubic attention is a huge motivator. Ask Britney and the rest of her friends who check into detox centres when they can't get their regular fix.

Speaking of fixing, we really should do something about our pronunciations. Each of the wrongly said ones become painful sentences in their own right. Sometime back, I saw a  venerable *snigger* Marwari gentleman being served a Chicken Quickie by a gleeful waitress who didn't care about correcting his Quiche. Or the shoe salesman who was only too happy to sell an expensive Woodlund to a drooping shopper.

Sex sells. Making fun of sex sells even more. The recent spate of stay at home homosexual comedies are a good examples innuendo in your endo. But it sounds infinitely better when the press proudly proclaims that audiences are no longer confused and coming out of the closet. So that's buy bi to confusion. Slightly literal when you think of the biPhone. There's still a fair amount of debate whether it's for the "hard-core" business user or a sleek entertainment plaything.

Asking too many questions will never get answers, only add to the profusion of the confusion. It's that much more desirable to go with the flow and lap up commercials as the absolute truth. 

But the season to get our jollies has only just begun. Cake companies are advertising their indigenous versions of the portly figure from the North Pole and inviting us to dig in. Never mind the obesity.. go anonymousse while desserting. After all, Shanta's got her claws ready too.

Alphabet Soup

Tagged by Macavity. I'd hyperlink her name, but can't remember the tags, so she gets a lovely hue of red instead.


A- Alhambra. Something to do with pigs and pokers. Ron suggested the marriage of Islam with Lingerie.

B - Byakaron. Grammar in Bengali. Twisted Ron more like it.

C - Caantinue. Something my Mallu friends say. Some of them are slightly ahem oriented. Some of them are likesized.

D - Dodell. Making mouse marks on laptops..

E - Ellefaint. You know, those size zero models on that magazine cover.

F - Fushkuri. Fokla. Fishfish.

G - Globspot. Hmm.. frozen limbs dot glob spot.

H - Heh. The only response to heart cancer. This does not include frantic responses inquiring about Ron's health.

I - Ishkabon. Calling a spade a spade. Nothing to do with Issssh's sister, jungle or the both thereof.

J - Jibanu. Bong for microbes. Sounds like Anu's tongue.

K- Khunti. Khichuri. Khisti. I claim parentage of Khisti. You can't take that away from me.

L - Lebu. French ghosts. Sometimes seen playing water football in Lebur Pool.

M - Monsieur. My pig. Hmm.. sounds a bit like Mamata Banerjee.

N - Negro Nishidaak. Donald's and Daffy's nocturnal counterpart. Has a problem with his 31,000 knees growing ununiformly.

O - Orkut. Brazilian for genius programmer. Reverse bong for piece. Finnish for orgasm.

P - Padre. Please fart. Precedes PPP. PPP stands for Pre Poop Pee.

Q - Quetzalcoatl. The missing bit from ikir mikir cham chikir's dowar.

R - Rondhon. Cooking something that belongs to Ron, without which Ron would not be Ron. Or perhaps Rochonaboli.. literary sacrifices. Gee.. He wondered why my dhon is stuck on Ron...

S - Sheikh's Pear. The real reason English speaking nations are well lubricated.

T - Tora tora tora. Broke broke broke.

U - Umbilical cord. Comes linked amniotic fluid.

V - Vidya. She'll kill me when she reads this. Or die laughing.

W - Wonky. A lonely house key.

X - a residual current that still sends sparks flying.

Y - Yahweh. Heh's divine creator.

Z - Zarathustra. Pushing a little harder.



I tag my semi existent reader base. Especially Ron, Riju and Gaurav.

Spikeology

We leave bits of us behind. Our thoughts, words and actions. Leaving a mark on the world immediately around us. No, I’m not talking about shedded skin and nail trimmings.

There are a variety of roles to play and a number of masks to wear. You never quite know which mask you are wearing until it becomes a part of your regular face. Then it becomes difficult to actually open up. Tell anybody, “You are wearing a mask. This is not the real you” and chances are you are on your way to roadside astrology fame and fortune. Either that or some sluggish stagehand superglued your current expression – wood, paint et al.

Many of us walk with smiles so frozen it’s a wonder the temperature doesn’t drop to sub arctic levels. Or with tempers so flaring, your goose is cooked for the next few weeks. Then there are the lifestylists, radiating more joy than a lampshade will cover. Hmm… I can imagine quite a few people who’d look better with a lampshade on.

Sometimes it’s easier to wear a mask than to actually be yourself. Of course, it’s easier to talk to strangers than to real life people. Now you know the reason behind the success of gossip columns. Only now they are called “Survival strategies”, “Life’s lessons”, or “How to freeze your mother in law with a K look”. No, seriously, it’s much easier to open up to a random person imagining your anonymity preserved than to pour your heart out to the people who truly can make a difference. What difference can a few bits of advice or concern make? Pun intended.

So we discuss everything under the sun with our netizens. Those cyberians who “connect” to life with their yard long wires dangling out of their hardware. Some of them are wireless. In real life too.

And then one fine day you realize that your online existence has crawled into your offline one. Some of us just log in to the net. Most of us live there. We spend our time chatting up folks, talking into the wee hours of the morning or the pee hours of the night, playing games and hearing tales of woe until you realize your own life has become nothing more than the page of a gossip column. Your every move discussed threadbare. Your every thought processed by a billion minds, or worse, stored in a search engine server. And a malicious pleasure in trying to get inside someone’s mindspace. Whatever happened to trying to get into somebody’s pants in real life?!

We are so empty of true human contact that we resort to emptying our already depleted bowels of emotion over these wireless lines, not realizing that the person or persons to whom we are venting to get affected. They absorb our personalities to such an extent that they can almost predict our next thought. Then we get scared and move back. And find some other pot to put our steam into.

Life needs the milk of human kindness. Too bad it’s processed and packaged these days. Fat free.

Pounce upon a time

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived many happy people. They worked hard for survival, hunted in packs, ate together - always watching each others' backs. They had each other for company. They lived on whatever Nature provided them with. And then Jamie Uys made a movie on them and called it "The Gods Must be Crazy".

Many years later, WulffMorgenthaler came up with this strip.

So after a main course of despair and sarcasm, side dish of hopelessness and a drink of disappointment (on the rocks, stoned), it's time to say thank you. This effectively means you grimace like a rabid dog, hiss like a viper, squeal "thanks" in a Justin Timberlakish octave and try not to throttle anyone in the next nine yards. The nine yards is a reference to sarees. Chances are if you are already squeaking you have been possessed by the spirit of Duh-shasana. Make that Krishna - he could give Hefner stiff competition. Oh God.

So thank you God.

Our father who smarts in Heaven
Helloed be thy name
Thy kingdom come, thy Will be done
As you continue screwing the heathen..
Give us this day our daily mead,
Forgive us our long tresses
As we furtively make passes to those around us.
And lead us not into umkemptation
Butt make deliveries really painless.
For thine is the bureaucracy, democracy and CBI queries for ever and ever.
Amen.
With lots of women.


Come to think of it (no pun intended), we've given God a pretty hard time (pun intended). For those that don't believe in monotheism, we've given the gods, goddesses, godlets, nymphs, fauns and pole dancers (I mean apsaras) a tough deal. Right from drawing contorted figures of them on rocks to writing leg-ends about their powers and prowess.

Take the deal about Gods not blinking because they are ever watchful over the earth. Protecting us with their benevolent gaze. Thanks very much, but blinkers on when I'm in the loo please. Also when playacting in the bedroom. Those are really private moments. And God, (goddess, godlet, etc) You need to sleep a bit. Think of those strained rods and cones. Think of the bloodshot eyes. Think of the cataract problems you might develop later on. Those windows to the soul need to have shutters down a little bit. No offense if anyone's been saying God's blind. They should realize that You've given them that privacy.

If You created us in Your own image then there's something really wonky about the ten hands and four heads business. If babies are born like that today, then they are possibly:
a) constantly exposed to radiation
b) a US government project
c) marwaris.
Many of the marwaris I know have two bellies, four ears, no eyes, a dewlap and immortal. (They lie like heck about their age. Men AND women.) Hmmm.. this means the marus are God. No wonder people say "Good heavens!" while dealing with them.


Moving on to divine strength and speed. Balancing mountains on little fingers and walking on water is all very fine, but You realize how badly the physicists' happiness is getting screwed? Forget center of gravity and fluid dynamics, You need a chiropractor. Gods have the guts to do lots of things (not accounting for digestive systems) but their backs are most likely busted. Think of engineers, accountants and managers. Poor blokes wind up their backsides flipping numberburgers and oiling up the boss stove.


No, we humans have given the Gods a really bad deal. We take googillions of things for granted, but never thought of according them to the divine. And we won't even take the initiative to help them out. Life insurance for instance. "Sir, you are all powerful and all knowing and all that.. but you're immortal. We can't sell you a policy because you'll never die. There's no provision in the rule book." Speaking of rule books, we mortals have our wrongs and rights written down somewhere. The god in charge of this library has to work around the clock, take no breaks, and keep scribbling. You do realize that this means God doesn't get a chance to have coffee, pee, flirt with colleagues or belong to a union.


Being God must be pretty thankless. Now I know what Holy Shit means Goddammit.

A knell in the coughing

No story is more bitter than the story never told. Some stories cannot be told - literature doesn't have the equipment. Besides, words are grunts we use to confuse ourselves. Any idea why "sentences" mean both communication and punishment?

Some sentences are spoken by little voices hawking "fresh" strawberries in jammed traffic. This jam comes in carbon dioxide flavour...not your usual razzberry. Other, older voices silence those squeaky voices with their gruff admonishing. There are other carefree voices that enjoy the casual banter of camaraderie. Some hushed voices professing a fearful love. The same voices later cursing telecom companies in not-so-hushed tinklings. Some speaking because they need the exorcise.

In far more silent auditoriums the only speech is that of instruments. No questions have been asked, no answers have been offered - only two instruments speaking to each other. A flute and a sitar. No lyrics here, no words to confound us with their innuendo or suggestiveness. A rippling river of strings over which the stone of a note skips across. The punctuation of percussions marking the query. A few teary eyes that reflect a very dusty inner mirror. Questions without answers. We've stopped questioning ourselves long ago. But others are answerable to us...?

Long after all the voices have faded away. Long after sticks and stones have broken our bones and words have hurt us. Long after one of those little voices stop their feeble whispers of a happy new year...there will still be voices too frozen to tell tales.















The warrior at dusk. Or the worrier?
















Creations that make voices go "oooh"















And crowds that say "aah"..
















..especially after instruments have rendered everyone speechless















The sound of bleating horns in thigh deep water















Sights which make you silent




















Unless silence is natural.
















Or if you are too scared to blow your own trumpet.















Perhaps simply scared...















You raised a voice in protest as others zoomed by















Although it needn't take only voices to scream out for attention















Because certain colours speak of hunger















Until the only sound you hear are chomps















There isn't much sound in whisperings of sweet nothings.















That's when you speak silently to someone higher Above















Apologize for the mistakes you will commit again





















And hear the voices within.

Tagged

My big toe is not blue, frozen or dead. The nail has grown a bit, but that's ignorable. Why is there a tag dangling from it? And it's not even carrying vital statistics. All this tag says is:

1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.

It also carries the name of the tagger.


Tan-da-da-tra-da-da-da-trickychowchowchowchow

* Game show host voice *


>If someone says "Is this okay?" you say:
Impossible [Kanye West]

>What do you like in a guy/girl?
Kaun [Indian Ocean]

>How do you feel today?
Becoming insane [Infected Mushrooms]

>What is your life's purpose?
Death whispered a lullaby [Opeth]

>What is your motto?
Piano smasher [Blue Man Group]

>How do you feel today?
Oil and water [Incubus]

>What do your friends think of you?
Supermassive black hole [Muse]

>What do you think of your parents?
Indian flute [Timbaland]

>What do you think about very often?
Aquatic dance [Vangelis]

>What is "2+2"?
Send me an angel [Gregorian]

>Do you think of your best friend?
Different names for the same thing [Death cab for cutie]

>What do you think of the person you like?
Hotel costes [Buddha bar]

>What is your life story?
Conquest of paradise [Vangelis]

>What do you want to be when you grow up?
Song pong [Infected mushrooms]

>What do you think when you see the person you like?
Concerto No. 3 in F "L'autun [Vivaldi]

>What do your parents think of you?
Vampires [Godsmack]

>What will you dance to at your wedding?
Hawaiian guitar [Jesse Cook]

>What will they play at your funeral?
Aaja Mahiya [Udit Narayan]

>What is your hobby/ interest?
Braveheart [John Williams]

>What is your biggest secret?
Blashphemous rumours [Gregorian]

>What do you think of your friends?
Desert Rose [Sting w. Cheb Mami]

>What should you post this as?
Shut your mouth [Pain and prodigy]


So that was the tagged post. No commercial breaks. No audience applause. No sponsorships. No celebrity host. Just pure mindless boggling blogging. Too bad my Hindustani Classical music collection didn't figure. Oh well, let the fingering commence anyway...

Who you gonna call?

And I'm back in the waiting room again. This particular hospital smells of phenyl and mothballs. The smell might have something to do with the 4pm visiting time - evening cleaning hour. Either that or it's my jacket which I've pulled out after 9 months of being stuffed. The receptionist is pretty. They must be pretty for a reason. The hospital temple (yeah it's kinda mandatory) houses a grinning Lord Krishna and a gleeful Radha draped on his arm. They both have Marwari features. They are carved out of marble. Hmmmm.......

So there are Bongs and Gujjus and Sindhis and Biharis and Oriyas all rushing into a Maru hospital. Maybe not the Sindhis. They are a class apart. They outdo the Marus too. Loads of stereotypes. Loads of differences. Something you'd see everyday in real life. Something you wouldn't think thrice about if you were in front of a PC (or a Laptop/Mac/Macbook/PDA/Cellphone). The internet has its own share of friends (frandz?) and stereotypes. So here's a tribute to those millions who make being online everyday worthwhile.

And free from hospital smells too..


The Agony Aunt - She's your best friend. It's a bit one sided though. You don't think twice about buzzing her and engulfing her with your tale of woe. If you're more of a beast, you engulf her with your tail of whoa! The knocking on her chat handle and spewing all venom is a (self imposed) given. The knocking her up you can't imagine. She's the shoulder you lean upon, disagree with, and can't do without. Over a period of time she is known to ask you to go to bed if you are up late.

The Agony Uncle - The male version of the aunt. Not necessarily married to her. In fact, this is highly undesirable. The agony uncles have a wild side of their own. You come to agony uncles for advice on friends, love, matters of the heart, matters of the fart - if you are close enough emotionally and far apart geographically. Agony uncles write out excellent reality checks. You lose your bounce a bit, but that's what he is good for. Their sentences are liberally interspersed with profanities which walk the range between mildly creative to boss-abuseworthy. They generally hate their day jobs.

The Sighnature - This is probably you. Even agony auntcles turn into sighnatures. Every other sentence is marked with a mental sigh. Your job isn't good enough, your parents are stifling, your significant other is a bother, your siblings are successful and you probably haven't gotten laid yet. Sighnaturists have dark circles (under their eyes) and puffy cheeks.

The EMA - This is the Extra Marital Affair. Enough said? Not really. They know you inside out. No pun intended. This is mostly your doing since you choose to regale your EMA with the nitty gritties of everyday life. While the agony couple gets the bad parts, your EMA gets all the highlights of the day. EMAs have tremendous control over your mood being able to make you happy in an instant or Sighnaturist in another. Known to be emotional and fond of ascribing animal names to mundane issues. Hugging emoticons, anybody?

The Emotivator - You've been smiley bombed. A chat window will pop up at any point of the day with a smiley. Oh grin, wink, smile, stick your tongue out, cry, thpbbbbt - the emotivator is guaranteed to cheer you up. That's probably because they have an emoticon for every mood. They also motivate you to hit the ~x( keys on your instant messenger if you are busy. They motivate you to learn creative new ways of expressing yourself. Social networking sites have received numerous complaints from the emotivators about not having enough emotiis. Known to cause potentially embarrassing situations with the kiss smiley. Especially if you are at work.

The Exclaim Artist - WTF!! Generally female, the exclaim artist *hold your breath* exclaims! The shift and 1 keys are overused! Very useful for sharing gossip! Equally useful for spreading rumours! Doesn't like being spoken about! LOL! A bit shifty too!!!!111

The LOLita - the grandmother of internet lingo, the LOLita laughs his/her/its way in and out of any position. You can judge the funniness of your statement by the capitalization, exclamation marks and delay in appearance of next chat. This may be due to slow reactions or a wonky internet connection too, but LOLitas have a very cheerful disposition. A word of warning though - most of them appear to be dumb blondes. Most of them are.

The CaPiTalISt - Yeah teenagers. Not only is it difficult to understand what you are reading, but after you have attained your diploma in hieroglyphics it turns out that the message wasn't meant for you in the first place. OpsSS SoRReeY seNt 2 dA WrngPerSN bY MisTKK LOL! Teenage girls usually type this way. Some middle aged men exhibit this trait too.

The Hmmbug - Usually always busy, the Hmmbug will politely hear you out and forget about your existence. Note the use of exactly two M's in the hmm. If unusually moved or free, you might elicit a Mmmmm. Curiosity and excitement is represented by a Hmm? and Hmm! respectively. A Capitalist will never chat with a Hmmbug. ReAlLyY!

The Blogged Nose - Ah yes! The blogger spends time by roaming blogspots around IP addresses. This is a good person to chat with. Life turns into a Shakesperean drama with the computer a stage and us doing our bits. Pun intended. You glean a lot of knowledge, come across different points of view. You also decide that your own vocabulary skills are inadequate and contemplate various means of ending your life. You are also strongly influenced to download obscure softwares, blogroll random people and quote their writings in parties. (And as a blogger buddy pointed out: software ka plural, is software.) See what I mean by vocabullying?

The Techie - Smart, full of enthusiasm and your guru for troubleshooting. Gives fast solutions to any and all problems. The one drawback is you can never get them online for more than 5 minutes. The other drawback is you can't understand their rapid-action techtips. Never ask the techie his/her salary. You might end up with permanent greenback damage or a badly messed up computer. Usually possesses a 12th dimensional sense of humour.

The Bathroom Humorist - You'll talk shit with this one. And feel just as refreshed after you are done. Don't wash your hands off this one in a hurry. His/her one-liners earn you brownie points during chats. Either that or it's no donut for you. Things take a turd for the better if your face is flushed. Enjoy your afternoons taking pot-shots at each other. Go on a date if you can. You'll be exclaiming "goodness gaseous me!" in no time.

The Inslut - A glutton for punishment. The Inslut loves making off topic remarks. Any comebacks get hastily deleted. Return comebacks are targeted at your background, upbringing and length of nasal hair. Insluts think many things are overrated. They are best handled by Pwndits.

The Pwndit - Brash, rude and has an opinion about everything. Could be your long lost brother/sister/other at some Kumbh Mela. Could also be your boss in disguise. The pwndit has good command over the queen's language. You might find your head shoved up your rear entry just to get to know yourself from deep within. Making an ass of yourself is inevitable. Chances are you are viewing your own after your head has been twisted around and jammed into place.

The Mystery Cat - Lurks in cavities. You'll never find out what this person really knows. His/ her name, location, even sex is hard to find. Hell, you won't even know it exists until it makes itself visible to you. Unless you are a lurker.

The Lurker - The lurker knows almost everything about you. You also end up knowing a lot about the Lurker because he/she cannot keep his/her trap shut. A lurker buddy will find out whatever you ask. The cons involve emotional blackmail because they fall really badly for tricks and privacy attempts.

The Sex Kitten - Puns intended to stun, the Sex Kitten has an amorous reference in humour. You'll never get to bed with her, but the chat is quite stimulating. Your ROFL might be a ROBL and you'll realize that your nursery rhymes were actually attempts at perverting your innocent minds. Don't get too hooked to the Sex Kitten. The chance to unhook will, alas, be out of reach you C.

The Envirowmentalist - Frustrated species. You need them to understand how lucky you really are. If you see one, run/ignore/block/permanently invisible like hell! Identifying strains are questions about Man's purpose and existence, responsibilities and how your near and dear ones are. They normally don't have a Danger sign written on their forehead. If you are searching for one it was nice knowing you.

The Librarunian - Library knowledge about all things Linda Goodman. Has a psychic connection with all things unbalanced. Offers solid advice, is modest and talks a bit too much. Talks a lot actually. Calls at weird hours. Will hear you out patiently and recommend patent advice. Known to be Harry Potter fanatics.

The Dock - Quack quack! This particular one echoes even in valleys. Tremendously accident prone and a potential donour to the Smithsonian, the good doctor believes in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a foot. You'll find the doc in the hospital. Being studied. Well grounded, the doc is usually in the dock too, staying close to his/her roots.

The Best Friend - He/ she is always around. A phone call away, this person knows your nickname when you were three. They know why you don't like being teased about something. They will stay online for hours just to give you a wake up call at 5am. You feel uneasy if the best friend isn't online. Sometimes, it's a group of friends who collectively becomes a single best friend. Be it calling to ask how your father is or to bash a sighnaturist, they are just there. And when you pronounce a sentence, you have their word.


There are more.. some less said the better. Some for whom you can't say enough. And some are alphabets in an online existence proving just how crazy the damned gods are. Now who sculpted that maru Krishna I wonder.

Frenetic filosophy and foam

Life doesn't have an orchestra playing in the background. If it did, every event would have resembled the movies. Life doesn't have action replays either. If it did, we would've relived very many moments a la soap operas.
Life is fired upon us point blank. Life is one day at a time.

Life stops. Randomly.


Suppose you were on your way to a bookstore. You'd just gotten off the subway. Let's say the map was something like this:

Subway > Hospital > Mall > Bookstore

We need a setting, say, dusk. There aren't many people in this set. Only you, a few cabbies idling their Sunday dusk away, and a guy lying on the road. For dramatic effect, he's having a fit, there's foam frothing from his mouth. And he's convulsing just outside the hospital gates.

Let's now say that you've spotted this chap. No one else has seen him. You run to the cabbies. You ask them for help in carrying him to the hospital. Smart world-wise people that they are, they ask you to bring a stretcher from the hospital. Naturally, you rush in. Then what? Then you spot an ambulance and two attendants. You ask them for their empty stretcher and assistance, right? What do you do when they tell you that they don't have any? You look at them in disbelief, don't you?

But you need to do something. There's a foamy chap writhing in the dust. So you rush into the hospital. You see two burly guards massaging their bellies. You ask them for help. They're from the police, they are meant to help. But they politely tell you that it's not their job to pick up people from the street. You scream at them for increasing their fat bellies perhaps? Maybe you shout at their callousness. But there's a man outside in the grip of a seizure.

So you rush in to the emergency ward. There are three doctors filling prescriptions. A few patients paying bills. You're excited. You're angry. You're stammering. You ask the doctor to please send two boys with stretchers. You're expecting help. You get a polite refusal. It's a
Sunday evening after all. People have more important things to do other than saving lives. They need to increase their wallets, don't they? The doctors are here to do their job. You know, the saving lives bit. You might have had the orchestra playing high beats and a rapid violin piece at this point. But this is life. There's no music. It's just you screaming your lungs out asking for life savers to save lives. You are not pleasant to hear. You are screeching like a banshee.

This means you rush outside again. You need help to bring this chap in. He looks like he's having an epileptic fit. Yes, his limbs are rigid and shaking and the froth is flowing fast. You convince one of those previous cabbies to help you save a life. The both of you hoist the chap up. You are supporting his spine and cradling his head. The froth dribbles over your shirt. The cabbie holds his legs. You two jog into the emergency ward. Remember the ambulance attendants and guards? They are looking bemusedly at you. But you don't care. You need to get this chap to the doctors so that they can save his life.

But the doctors are earning money. They grunt at you to set the patient down in a corner. You do that. Then you ask them to conduct their miracles. You pant at them. There's not much breath left in your lungs. Of course, you're sounding like a dog now. Who listens to dogs? Not doctors, oh no.... they've got money to make, prescriptions to fill. Who wants to attend to a dusty, dirty ragamuffin having a fit on the road. He probably won't have any money. Let him be.

You're also a hot-headed idiot prone to violent anger. You want to see some action. You scream at the doctors to stop and come do something. All you get is a young intern who wags his stethoscope in your face and asks you what's wrong with the bloke. You yell at him for being an idiot. You have another intern. A female who tells you that they have handled far worse cases than an ordinary epileptic patient. Now remember, these are just doctors. You shouldn't be angry with them. They're just supposed to make money while saving lives. The female intern receives an earful from you along the lines of being a pathetic show of idiocy. The male is standing stock still, unsure of what to do. He probably has never had a stranger from the street tell him he's incompetent and inhuman for not saving lives. He saves lives on a daily basis. How dare you tell him that he's a sick fag who doesn't have basic humanity and ethics?

That's when the politerefusal doctor brings his toolkit out. Toolkit? That's supposed to be a first aid box. Just ignore the rust. Yes, he wipes the foam away. The patient has stopped convulsing. Maybe he's dead. You didn't notice. You were too busy yelling. Oh, the interns have started reanimating his hands. The female is massaging his feet. The male is checking the blood pressure. Someone grabs your shoulder and requests you to stop yelling. You rudely inform him that as long as doctors refuse to save lives and policemen refuse to take risks you will keep raving. Everyone is looking at you. Maybe it's you who need help. Is there an insane asylum nearby? No... people are just money mad. There's no asylum for that. Everyone's got this disease.

You stumble out. It's become darker. The cabbie just drives off, away from the whole scene. There's a drama unfolding inside the emergency room. You hope that the chap makes it. He didn't look more than 25 when you lifted him off the dirt.

The orchestra stopped playing long ago. The only sound I heard was my heart thumping as I walked to the bookstore.

Must-ache

Moustaches are excellent for hiding long nose hair. They are also great for getting food stuck in them until your upper lip resembles the starry night sky. That's assuming you have a thick one. If you don't, shave it off. Mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, non possessors of the growth will alternately mention how mature or young you look.

In my case, growing the bristle added a few years to my face. My grandmother was all praise. "Having a moustache at this age is very manly. You look just like your grandfather did when he was your age."
* Sudden rush of pride *
My sister was less enthusiastic. "Ewwwwwwwwwwww!"
Mom and Dad took one look at me, then returned to their paperwork.
* Sudden rush of short-lived pride *

Three weeks and two inches later, my symbol of manhood came off. Symbol of manhood. Read properly. I looked like some misplaced descendant of Genghis Khan, damn his spelling. It was longer on one side, shorter on the other. No, now shorter on that side, longer than the other. It's difficult being a well balanced person.

I missed the moustache today though. Them bristles are considered regal. You'll rarely see a bus driver, rickshaw puller or (my personal favourite) cabbies without their filament. It gives additional character to personalities. Note that I don't mention politicians, businessmen or movie people. That's because it's our drivers who take the country forward, contribute to wolf whistles in movie theatres and complain about pot holes. No self-respecting politician will complain about potholes. No businessman will take a national onus. No actor will whistle in a theater.

So back to moustaches. They are important when you want to cow someone. That's why I missed it, really. Thing is, we've got a Marwari infestation. They live in colonies in groups of four-five families scattered all over Lake Town. This particular infestation resides just behind my house.

It's a five storeyed apartment. The second storey is getting a boob job. You get the simile. They've got masons, electricians and marble cutters working in there 7 days a week. The masons and electricians are fine. The marble cutters are not. A marble cutting machine makes a high pitched whining sound, then cuts into the slab. Imagine a mixie trying to blend iron filings on Dolby Digital Sound and it gives you an approximate idea of what a treat to the ears it is. Our infestation is considerate. They work only on Sunday afternoons. That's when a peaceable retirement community like Lake Town sleeps. It sleeps at other times too, but that's not important now.

It takes two to operate the cutting machine - one to guide the instrument, another to hold the slab in place. At 2 pm, our dynamic duo got to their sound engineering. Cutter and squatter assumed their positions, drill in hand, marble between legs. Electricity flowed, sparks flew and the moans and groans started. All innuendo apart, I wasn't in any mood for afternoon shenanigans. Marched to my balcony (it overlooks their backyard), and hollered for them to stop. They looked up.

"Oi! Stop! How many more times will I ask you people to not work on Sunday afternoons?!"
"Just one slab more bhaiyya. 15 minutes."
"The last time you said 15 minutes it went on for 3 hours. Nothing doing. Stop!"

They looked at each other and continued. Me too.

"Look fellas, I know you have work to do. Do it over the week when it's time to work. You can't expect an entire locality of senior citizens to stay up just because your Marwaris want a different shade of marble."

More blank stares.

"All right people! I'll continue shouting at you. The older ladies and gentlemen will never raise their voices! But tell me, do you want to have their silent curses on your head? You who by doing your work destroyed their few snatched moments of well earned peace? You who have no consideration? Will you be prepared to live the rest of your life under those curses? I'll still be screaming, but you two will have an indelible blot on your existence! You'll go to hell for disturbing their peace!"

I've never seen anyone pack up and leave so fast.

And that's when I missed my moustache. It would've been so satisfying to give it a twirl. And no, twirling long nose hair isn't half as satisfying.

26 in 24

The heading refers to the number or letters to the number of hours. It's beyond mathematics, common sense, spoiled cheese and any coherent flow.

15.10

0500
Finished b/s with B and S. Exchanged music. G thought that I was down with L. Clarified any misconceptions. He shouldn't cry at random. V's gonna kill me on seeing the time.

0700:
Mom woke me up. Gotta accompany Dad to the clinic. I might have grunted. Ate a quick breakfast. Got into the car, drove off for south Cal. Driver was late. Grumble.

0745:
Doctor's appointment scheduled at 0800. Doctor scheduled to arrive at 0845. Waited in the rain with soggy newspapers. Clinic not open.

0810:
Clinic opened. Dustmen on watch cleaned the place. Watchmen on dust placed their cleans.

0830:
Waiting room again. One unattractive receptionist. Two hippo sized marwari ladies. Ladies? The TV looked more interesting.

0840:
TV very uninteresting. Journos with 15 seconds of fame and 15 mm of IQ were gushing about rain and it's effect on terracota plastic models. Go figure. Literally.

0900:
Doctor arrived. Dad trudged off to get whatever tests done.

1000:
Bone marrow samples, tissue samples, other unidentified samples bundled into a piece of plastic. Needed to get them to pathological labs to get further tests done. Smiled at unattractive receptionist hoping to get her to do her job. She smiled back. Yellow teeth. Dad went home.

1100:
Park Street. Lots of posters claiming justice against the red lettered litterers. Rushed to Lab 1. Lots of people. Confusion in tense already. Asked attractive receptionist about tissue sampling procedures and queues.

1140:
Got photocopies of prescriptions done. Pathologist smelt the formaldehyde sample of my dad's hip blood. He must have been Igor in some previous avatar. Little boy in waiting room screamed. Not at Igor. Waiting room again.

1200:
Park Street - Chowringhee crossing. Raining cats, dogs and socialites. Need to get second sample to Lab 2 before -
a) Lab closes
b) Blood sample loses freshness
c) I pass out of hunger

1230:
Panic call to family. Can't locate lab.

1315:
Located lab. Semi attractive receptionist. Requires full payment before samples can be sent for analysis. Annoying sub-receptionist. Very effeminate. Looked me over. Not sure if I should have been repulsed. Attractive receptionist smiled nicely. Misshapen teeth.

1400:
Hurried lunch at Park Street crossing. Note to reader: If you're still here, don't ever eat a hot chicken patty with cold mango juice. Fibres don't do wonders for your smile, stature or gas.

1600:
Last two hours spent travelling from Lab 1 to Lab 2. Some more pending work. Reached home in a smelly metro. Bald bugger waltzed into my seat. Gave him a ghastly grimace hoping to scare him out of my seat. He grimaced back. No teeth.


And the next day being the conclusion to my college life, it should have merited a post. But that was postponed thanks to lesser events. Like falling asleep in the middle of studying. The dreams were good though. Two attractive receptiontits. And such teeths too.

Hospitality

Waiting rooms smell pretty good - if you don't mind the body odours of fellow waiters. Or waitresses. Of course, it becomes a different smell when you're in a hospital waiting room. That's when you wrinkle your nose and look at the people around you.

Everyone looks tense. Arms folded, legs crossed, lips pursed. They're unobtrusively observing everyone else observing them unobtrusively. Some are talking amongst themselves. Some are gazing vacantly into the distance, faces expressionless. Some are there waiting just to peddle some new wonder drug to the doctor. These are the people who are juggling notes hoping to make that all important sales pitch as if their life depends on it. For the others who are in the waiting room - someone else's life depends...


So, what am I doing in the waiting room?

My Dad's been admitted to the hospital. Nothing much, just a few routine tests. The usual ECGs and X-Rays and CT Scans and blood tests. And this little thing called a "Lymphoma". What's a lymphoma? It's a cancer of the lymph nodes. What are lymph nodes? They are filters or traps for foreign particles and contain white blood cells. What are foreign bodies and white blood cells? Read up on 5th grade biology.

It's visiting hour. People are queuing up outside the lift. There are the usual shoves and pushes that are a part of lift travel. No one's aggressive here though. No annoyed mutterings, no angry glares. Everyone wants to get off at their respective floors and visit the whitewashed room that cages their loved one. The whitewashed room on the sixth floor where my father is.

He's doing fine. He was groggy from the general anaesthesia yesterday when the doctors performed the biopsy. And in his own words, he was talking too much. People do that when they're traumatized. Some go silent, most talk. Some mumble gratitude, most rave. It's the state of the innermost feelings of the mind when the drug exposes the mind's web to the doctor's gentle questions. It's a dissociative anaesthesia that makes the patient walk away from human existence for as long as it's required for the whitecoats to slice off whatever tissue they need for their tests.

The tests which show that Dad has Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma.

This is a statement of mixed relief. The cancer is non-lethal, but it's aggressive. Chemotherapy will start and change our lives. There will be upheavals - physical, emotional and many other als. He's taking it remarkably well. He knows exactly what's wrong with him and how bad it may be. I'm supposed to be prepared for every eventuality. This is one of those moments in which you become suddenly interested in the view outside the window. Dad's room overlooks a noiseless thoroughfare. This is Calcutta - there's no such thing as a noiseless thoroughfare. The 70foot elevation takes care of whatever stray sounds. The only noise is the rush of blood from thumping hearts in that room. And my father is extremely composed. He knows that he will be cured even at the stage he's in. He knows that there's no eventuality that needs to be prepared for other than the impending treatment. But he's thought everything ahead. Dad's name translates into "sober". It's that sobriety personified right now. There are no hushed voices. He's sick and he's telling us to take care of ourselves!!

Visiting hour is over. The ward boys knock. Dad's coming home tomorrow.

Dinner. Dad's having continental cuisine at the hospital. It's funny when you read the number of good words that begin with C: continental, cuisine, courage, character, calm, confidence, curable. And then comes the Big C. Throws things a bit out of gear. But things will be fine. It will be rocky, but obviously curable. I'm looking at Dad's seat at the dinner table.

It's not a place I'll fit into.

A few lessons learnt

Lessons learnt in the Design Yatra, presented in the Goaing, going, gone way. But this must have some witty comment to prove how smart I am. The thoughts within quotes aren't mine, the hyphenated ones aren't either. But just because I'm nice, it's getting credit here.


"Everything I do always comes back to me"
- Life must be a boomerang

"Trying to look good limits my life"
- Hobos are in

"Everybody thinks they are right"
- Lefties feel so left out

"Helping other people helps me"
- Two helpings of each then

"Over time I get used to everything and take it for granted"
- Try living in a vacuum

"Complaining is silly - either I act or I forget"
- This must be for whining and dining

"Worrying solves nothing"
- I'm tensed about the outcome of this statement

"Everybody who is honest is interesting"
- Dishonest people are interesting too. Check their bank balances.

"Assuming is stifling"
- Oxygen is a lack of assumptions?

"Material luxuries are best enjoyed in small doses"
- Bring out the caviar and Coney Island people

"Thinking life will be better in the future is stupid - I have to live now"
- Yeah, 4 feet of water is so conducive to the good life

"Being not truthful works against me"
- Umm... about the money... er.. forget it. Nothing!

"Money does not make me happy"
- Something else does, but we're civilized here

"Having guts always works out for me"
- Chicken guts works out too

"Low expectations are a good strategy"
- I should have learnt this for my maths exam

"Actually doing the thing I set out to do increases my overall level of satisfaction"
- Civilized society, civilized society, civilized society...

"In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act"
- Move over Guevara, Egoman is here

"The only thing you really have is what you give away"
- Nobody look at my commode

"Tom Cruise doesn't like the colour Red"
- And that's why the Mission: Impossible text is blue tinted


in fine print: Stefan Sagmeister
Neville Brody
Wally Orlins
Michael Johnson
Kyle Cooper

Lights. Chimera. Action.

I untangled my headphones. The thrum of digital music wasn't for this setting. The white dog looked expectantly at my hand. It's tongue had run faster than it had, hoping to bite into my burger. Or whatever was left of it. I threw the last piece of meaty bread onto the sandy beach and licked my fingers clean.

Goa.

I'd been here two days already. A rushed preparation, some anxious moments for reserving tickets, a lot of pent up frustration. The place was worth every second of waiting in smoky AC rooms hoping to get a seat in the Design Yatra 2007 conference.

There was this international creativity conference happening in Goa. The who's who of design were going to showcase their work. The mailer said it was a place "where creatives meet". I was interested. I had no chance of going. My notice period in the old workplace was over. There was just no way my ex-boss would sponsor my presence among all the old colleagues. The ex-officio Dark Stallion had bitten the dust. But here I was, walking in the sand.


I wasn't just bitter, I was angry. Angry at the way the last job ended. Angry at the fact that all my friends were out of station. Angry at the fact that I didn't have the energy or inclination to keep in touch with a single one. And in true movie style, I needed to vent. There, this post has gotten so many "I-s" already.

"Ma, I want to go to Goa. The office is gonna be there for 3-4 days. I plan to show up. There's also this design conference happening. I can get a student discount. Need some money."

"The word 'please' and 'may I' seems to have disappeared from your vocabulary."

"Let's not talk about it Ma. I need a break..."

Ma and Dad paid for my tickets. It was a vengeance visit. I wanted to prove to the ex-boss that I could jolly well show up wherever he was and have just as much fun, and learn just as much, and network with just as many, and I didn't need his help. If there was an ophthalmologist then, I'd have gotten an instant prescription for acute short sightedness. I'm also gleaning over a lot of details here. Details make postings unnecessarily big.

24 hours and 20k later, I was sitting in Mumbai Airport. My male ego was pounding it's gorillaic chest. I'd managed to shock my ex-colleagues by showing up. It's a different thing that my back was throbbing from three days of zero sleep and endless hours of anticipation. Goa was only an hour away. By flight that is. The check-in and boarding added a tidy 4 hour wait before that one hour came my way.

The organizing committee had made reservations at the Alor Grande, Candolim. My friends were in more posh hotels around Goa. The point is, I had come. The nearest hotel, La Calypso, was on Baga beach. It was about Rs. 100 away. Another taxi driver buddy and business card later, I was back to socializing with the old gang. This sounds more and more like a memory journal. It probably is.

I finally managed to meet a colleague who sat in Mumbai. We chatted, joked, got inspired and annoyed the ex-boss together. The fact that I was present there was annoying in itself, but to have dinner with everyone and get away with smart alecky comments was a bit too much. Every dinner with the old group was accompanied by Port Wine. Lots of it. Shark fin steak, seafood platter, beefsteak sizzlers and chocolate mousses were lost in the revelry and thick atmosphere of sarcasm. Someone dropped a glass of wine. It seeped towards the boss. I offered him a napkin.

"Here, use this to stem your flow."

I wasn't part of it. It felt good to be rude and in-your-face. I was also beginning to loathe myself.

"Lake Town? 10 rupaye zyaada dena hoga."

"Theek hai, chalo."

I'd have to pay 10 bucks more for the taxi ride home. It was raining and empty cabs were few and far between. The extra tenner was worth an hour's waiting, or worse, haggling.

We drove off the Park Street Flury's crossing. Traffic wasn't sparse. It was 9:00 pm and the rain swept homecoming office crowd was looking for a dry journey. I looked around, snug in my seat. The howling wind was conducting the rain orchestra.

The taxi reached the Park Circus bridge. A grizzled man with a jovial grin, the driver guided the car through the sea of vehicles and water. The grin was more of a grimace - road rage runs high with cloistered spaces and reduced visibility.

"What idiots! Why are they all in such a tearing hurry!"

I wasn't in a mood to reply. It had been a long day and I'd rather take a nap in the one hour ride home. The driver turned around to look at me. I grunted a non-committal reply.

"Yeah... everyone needs to get home."

"They do, but that doesn't mean you do it at others' expense. Think about the blessings of science that have enabled people to drive instead of walk. This doesn't mean that they zoom through like blood in arteries."

The analogy was interesting. I leaned forward from my splat-on-the-seat position. He continued talking. The conversation that followed was entirely in Hindi.

"I was listening to the news on the radio, babu. It's delhi ka fm. Sometimes it tunes itself here. I listen to it every day and read the papers too." A neatly folded copy of Sanmarg was resting behind the fare meter. "They said that a robot has been bought by doctors in Delhi - for the first time in Asia - that will be able to do biosurgery. A doctor will guide it and it will perform the finest of operations and surgeries without any errors. Just think babu, how we have progressed. A machine to operate on human beings."

"Yeah, it's amazing. Science is making progress."

"And not just progress babu, it's moving forward at a tremendous speed. Where are we going?"

I was piqued. The cabbie wasn't just passing on information he'd heard or read about. He had given it some thought.

"In the satyug, you only had to imagine yourself in one place and you would be there. In the dwapara you had to work by physical labour. And after that it's been a downhill ride. We now travel in mechanical monsters. But we are making progress. It takes two hours on a plane now instead of an instant compared to thousands of years ago."

The car had reached the ITC Shonar Bangla by now. All plans of napping forgotten, I was leaning forward intently. I was desperate to show off my two bits of knowledge in front of this illiterate, uneducated man. My philosophical bantering tends towards non-materialism and non-wealth.

"At the end of your life, it doesn't matter how much you've earned or what name you've made. What really matters is whether you've been able to make somebody happy. Anybody."

"You are right babu. The Gita says -"

"Karmanye Vadhikaraste Ma Phaleshu Kadachana,
Ma Karma Phala Hetur Bhurmatey Sangostva Akarmani"

"- yes babu. Do your duty and not expect outcomes. Don't do the job for results but for the pleasure of getting the job done..."

I stopped. This man clearly knew what he was talking about and was more than your tobacco chewing, khaini spitting, passenger refusing Nana Shaw. Nana Shaw is a stereotype of the typical Calcutta taxi driver - leaves his mark on the city and on the mind of passengers by refusing them.

"Why did you become a taxi driver?", I asked completely oblivious of how I said it.

"I've got a school in my village. I'm from Hazaribagh, Jharkhand. I make enough foodgrains to last my entire family, and my brothers. And also run a school there. This taxi is just for my freedom. The 20 odd thousand Rupees I save every month goes into making the school. I started off my brother with teaching. He took the school forward. I plan to open a library for students. They walk 11 kilometres to buy books. My house in Kasba needs to be fixed. The shingles are falling in on the mud walls. But it's all for the children, babu. You said na that you need to make somebody happy?"

"Yes..... a thousand people..."

His statements weren't as random as my typing. I couldn't digest the information. This man had started a school for the village children. And not just any school, this institute had a thousand students on its roll with 13 qualified teachers registered under the State Higher Secondary Board. A man who drove someone else's cab for a living had a farm, a secondary school and burning ambition to his name. He might have been bluffing. I wouldn't know. His statements were crisp and purposeful. His voice was hard - accustomed to toil and turmoil. His message was soft. If you need to do something with life, contribute to science's robotic surgeries, make a school, make people happy - start with yourself.

The taxi had reached Lake Town.

"Bhaiyya, aap change rakh lo..." Keep the change.