Free gyan!!

There are just that many people you can make happy in your life. And when I say ‘that many’ I mean just one. I’m sure you’ve figured by now that I mean your own self. It is amazing that when you look back at your life you realize that every time you made someone unhappy or hurt them was when you yourself were unhappy or hurting. So just keep it simple, try and keep yourself happy and you’ll see that happiness spreads infectiously, much like the conjunctivitis my wife is suffering from.

Add to this the special hardship when you are one of a breed of instinctive people. People who make decisions based more on instinct (distinguished from impulse) than on elaborate thought or inspection. Such people when given the gift of introspection fare very poorly. Normally, when you make an instinctive decision and it’s the wrong one, you move on from it to the next instinctual response. But when the mistake is major and leaves someone you care for (apparently) irreparably hurt, you are consumed by the demons of introspection, leaving you clouded in doubt. Suddenly you are left thinking about the decisions you will make, wondering if they will be right or wrong, trying to evaluate the pros and cons – a process that you were hitherto unaware of. Thereby leaving you second guessing yourself; and although the number of right and wrong decisions that you make by either process remains the same the anguish associated with each decision (right or wrong) is significantly elevated (p<0.0001).

So what is the answer? It would be simple – just go back to that instinctive style of yours. But introspection is a gift you cannot return! But it definitely is one you can learn to forget. Till then just go by what makes you happy (at least that way someone is happy) and ignore the guilt that has already built. Along the way you will find you have lost what you have ignored and are at peace with what you have forgotten and that the instincts are back and the people who were unhappy are smiling again.

A day at the Opera!

Posting this from a train.... (how u love technology sometimes!!)

     I love my country, and I love nothing more than it's countryside! In my view, there is no better way to experience it than by undertaking a long distance train journey. Flights miss out on the point completely while road trips require too much attention to the road and very little freedom of thought (in addition to the change (for better or worse) that the touch of a road brings to the countryside).

     So it was fantastic standing at the door, wind blowing your hair back as scene after scene of beauty passed you by. Palm plantations that stood against a lazy morning sky as if painted on a gray canvas, the leaves coloring from a yellowish brown to a deep shade of green as my eyes moved up, blushing like a new bride under an admiring eye. And a farmer who had burnt the undergrowth in his coconut grove set up a sight so spectacular, it was like watching poetry in slow motion from a fast moving train. The smoke curling up slowly held from it's escape by the foliage, forming snaky wisps brilliantly lit by the morning sun, providing the background on which the dreamy smoke extended it's arms welcoming you to an embrace that would hide you from all the worries that last night you went to bed with.

     The sun as the day progressed worked overtime as conductor of an orchestra played by undulating green fields, by banana trees standing in row, by hilltops dressed in brown and green, by little shanties standing proud and by big cities whose sudden discordant notes jarred you back to reality, but without which the composition would be incomplete. Oh! What fun it is when lunch is followed by a shimmering lake caressed by a strong wind, its touch visibly leaving the lake aroused with passion, and yet in her arousal she welcomed like her own children the little birds that landed and took off leaving behind a trail of ripples that the brilliance of the conductor in the sky so subtly highlighted.

     All this on the backdrop of a sky that changed all day long, so subtly that you never noticed it until the encore when suddenly the rage of red and the fire of orange blossomed and the sun decided to be more than just the conductor and took over the playing of the final piece. Filling out the stage with his fiery presence, dominating the colors of the new bride, of the passionate lake and it's homecoming children, taking the pride as well as the embarrassment of the city and filling it with a color that dominated your senses such that you could for a while taste the fire within, hear the heartbeat of passion, smell a forbidden yearning and reach out and touch a bit of paradise.

     And as you reached out your hand in love you saw the sky blush to a rosy pink and as you pulled your hand back there was the violet of jealousy and eventually the darkness indicating the end of the best opera you could have asked for. Then just as you began to smile at the thought of how your heart was left a churning pot of emotions you realized that it was not over yet. Because the sky had handed over it's brilliant blazing gold coin to the night in exchange for a purse full of silver ornaments so she may win your heart all over again! (to continue...I hope!)

Chequered Knights!!

This is one continues from where "World Champions of College Cricket" left off!!


(contd.).........and the tall, languid coach (Abhijit ‘Gary’ Kasture) who with his book and pen (didn’t then have his now omnipresent laptop) always had the most accurate statistics and tips at the end of the day’s play.Well I call him Gary not just in relation to the South African of the same name but also the Russian, for besides cricket there was one other passionate sport we played – chess.
     The closer to the exams we got the more time we spent indoors, the more chess we played and on the night before some exams I think we played more chess than we read our books. Two rooms in our hostel were always open for party irrespective of the occassion or of the presence of their owners. One was 90 (that was Amit's and mine) and the other was 75 (Dharmya and Swapnil), and chess we played. Played as if we were addicted to it, we couldn't stop, couldn't walk away, no matter how tired, no matter how important a job we had, no matter if we had an exam the next day - we played.
     Lets first name the addicts – there was the GM (Subir Roy) undisputed King of chess in the college, an eccentric fat guy whose logic though brilliant was always off-centre. Then there was the Mukesh loving, Anil Kapoor fan (Abhijeet Shinde) who would die if ever he was caught doing anything that was the norm. From reading only the most obscure textbooks for his exams to sleeping more often at the dhaba than in his room to never being seen in class, this guy was one specimen. Then there was Gopal "Ashwin" Borkar, the fellow who refused to waste his time playing before the exams. So he sat studying in the same room we were playing in and probably knew every move being made better than anyone else. Gary Kasture, singing Swapnil and myself completed the rest.
     Now let me tell you something about chess – it is not a 2 player game, atleast not when we played it. It was a 6 player (could be more) game always. Even though only 2 people sat at a game at a time, every move was debated, dissected and discussed by everyone and then often changed by majority consensus (Subir had veto powers, I should add). One game lasted for hours and could only be interrupted for a snack from Bhagwanta, who like his name was God when hunger struck at midnight.
     There are many memories that come from these chess marathons, one in particular involves an unfortunate junior (Bagate, I think) who while on an errand had the audacity to say chess was his ‘hobby’ and then looking at Subir felt he could beat him easily in no time. He spent the whole night playing chess and the only thing he beat that night was his head on the wall in regret. There was one game in particular where I think we had 5 queens to his none by the time we beat him, and whenever he asked for a break I think he sat at the window forlornly staring at the ladies’ hostel and laughing out to himself.
     Most of these chess sprees were in room no. 75, for in my room lived the great leveler, the batting genius (Amit Hartalkar) who never played chess but could end any game of chess in a draw. One swell blow when everyone was at the height of their frenzy trying to come up with a miracle move and he would scatter the board with a smile that only he could get away with. Of course we could have set the board up again exactly the way it was but the guy on the losing side of the board would never agree, would he?
     What happened in those exams and what the results were I do not wish to comment upon but it would suffice to say that each one of the people aforementioned are doctors today doing good work somewhere, hoping that they could one more time walk out onto that field or spend an entire night playing chess or just be a bunch of kids with wide eyes and big ideals again!

World Champions of College Cricket!

Its cricket fever everywhere, more like lambast-your-team fever actually, so I did the same. “Out with the Duncan” (sounds so much like the way Mr. Sawant, my school P.T. teacher called us ‘donkey’) on social network and added how he had taken a world champion side and made it resemble my college cricket team. Not too much thought was actually put into the comparison but now that I think of it some common patterns do emerge. Ours too was a team that revolved around one man’s batting (Amit Hartalkar).
     A man who, when he batted, even the opposition couldn’t help but admire. A man who set records that were impossible then and seem improbable even now. A man whose legend eclipses all others before or after him. A man who told his batting partner (yours truly) that he would hit Sudeep’s first ball for a six and indeed deposited said delivery onto the boys’ hostel terrace. When he fell cheaply then we fell cheaply (except that one final where the middle and lower order pulled its weight). This man generally would come in after a swashbuckling opener (Pradnyesh ‘Sallu” Gorad) had lived by the sword and died by it too. A maverick who was as thrilling as he was exasperating. I am sure Swappy feels the same way about Sehwag as he did about Gorad in those days.

     Talking of Swapnil, he was one of the 2 bowlers we had. Of course we had others but the long and the short of our bowling attack were these 2 fellas. Iqbal, the “Malegaon Express” was just that – express fast, making the batsmen hop everytime he put his wrist into the action. The other (Swapnil Sonar) made the ball ‘sing’ like he sang in the canteen, line and length and movement on a tennis ball that you had to see to believe! But he came with a confidence that was like an icicle in the sun. Unplayable when ‘on-song’ he just needed a quiet word of encouragement when he wasn’t.
     Unfortunately the words of encouragement he got were never quiet. They came from a loud-mouthed oaf  (yours truly) who was probably the most frustrating wicket-keeper batsmen around. A batsman whom everyone had hopes from, who generally batted well in non-consequential friendly matches but not once in 5 years came up with an innings of worth when it mattered. When it came to wicket-keeping though, he was everywhere, most often in the oppositions’ faces, timing his abuses and insults so that his loud voice was not more than a foot away from the batsman’s ear when the choice word was uttered. His need for chatter made up for any lack of entertainment if the chip-chip-chip man (Dharmraj ‘Rajput’) was not manning the mic. 

     There were others in the team who should forgive me for not being able to mention them in detail – the left arm spinner (Sulabh Bhamare) who decimated the opposition in one series and then got banged all over the park in the next, the left-arm quick (Gopal 'Ashwin' Borkar) who probably played one match where he bowled one unplayable over due to his unerring angle and accuracy and another unplayable one because all the balls were wides, the excruciating middle order (Harshal, Durga, Gads) that knocked about runs one day and folded up the other, the complete team-man who fielded everywhere (Vijay Patil), wherever it may be never complaining once. The inexplicable left handed batsman (Nipam) who never needed a fielder on the off-side and the tall, languid coach (Abhijit ‘Gary’ Kasture) who with his book and pen (didn’t then have his now omnipresent laptop) always had the most accurate statistics and tips at the end of the day’s play.

Well I call him Gary not just in relation to the South African of the same name but also the Russian, for besides cricket there was one other passionate sport we played – chess..... (to be contd.)

Flight

Here's one more...night duties have their side effects...


Flight 

Let me take you to the ceiling of the world
Where we can sing a song of love.
Let me take you beneath the seas
Where we can find everlasting peace.
Let me lead your wings to the open sky
Where we can meet without goodbye.
Let me bridge this river wide
And lose to you my hollow pride.

And

Let me take with me your smile
When 'last I run my final mile!! 

Distance

Sometimes the teenager in me wakes up from slumber and then out comes some cheesy romantic poetry that once could have gotten me a lovely evening away from the solitude of my hostel room...today I just use it to put something on a blog that has been neglected for long...


Distance

I cannot bear to hear your voice some days
Because it reminds me in so many ways
Of all the words you didn't say
Of memories wilting in May
Of caresses and kisses so sweet
They never really were complete
No, I cannot bear to hear your voice
Talk to me and mesmerize
When the distance that my heart can leap
My eyes can only see and weep
So let the silence tonight prevail
When words we know are bound to fail.

Keeping tabs

I hate generalizations, but the following is after much observation and many conversations with others who've observed similarly.

A bunch of friends (females) go out for a dutch party, they eat, they drink, they have a great time; and when the bill comes they calculate neatly what whose share is according to what they had and split the bill. If they make a mistake in their calculations they call each other up the next day and sort it out.

A bunch of friends (males) go out for a dutch party, they eat, they drink, they have a great time; and when the bill comes they split it up approximately and fish out the money. Someone says he is a little short, another just pays up and so on and the bill is settled. The next day no one really remembers who paid what and don’t even care.

Now, what this makes me wonder here is – is it the same in relationships?

River

I don’t know how many of you have filled out those pretty lame autograph books in your last year in school or junior college. It was an exercise that I generally found tiresome and most often answered with wise-cracks that on reflection today don’t seem so wise. Little books filled with all kinds of stupid questions and somehow you had all 60 people having ones that looked different and hence the pressure to come up with something different to write in each one of them.  But one question that I still remember clearly was – which force of nature do you think you resemble the most? I answered instinctively ‘fire’ and even quoted Billy Joel. But once the spotlight was off of me, the swirling waters of introspection soon quenched those burning embers and I believe I settled on the river as being the force of nature I most resembled. I still believe that to be true, let me add. 

When I say that, I mean a river that is still charting its course, that still hasn’t met the sea and that flows on relentlessly taking along with itself all it encounters, gold or garbage, making no differentiation and along the way dumping that which wouldn’t willingly come along, again with no partiality to gold or garbage. A river that doesn’t plan before it flows but flows where it pleases or where the opportunity presents itself. A river that once it encounters an immovable force does not budge and puts all its weight against said force until it makes a way for itself; but then as opposing force after force weakens it, takes the smarter, if longer, way around them. Mind you it has not failed nor given up, for as it meanders around its obstacle, presenting an illusion of defeat, it continues to work against it until it finds a way through, leaving behind the legacy of a lake, often useful, sometimes beautiful too. This river isn’t averse to meeting new streams, joining with them and flowing along as one, or of others leaving to form new channels and paths to the one ultimate fate. A river that along its path nourishes all it touches, sometimes floods and often destroys in its fury too; that washes the dirt and the sins but may leave behind a stain too. Where this river may further head and how long and how powerful will it flow before it inevitably meets the sea is a secret time alone holds.

So what is it that reminded me of this river and of those silly little autograph books that, mind you, I still have in safe-keeping? Well, life is strange, and some comments that bear no reflection upon your life, made in earnest by another, break open the dams that have so long held back the flow….

Pujo II

Dasera was a always a sad day for me!! I talk of a time when life was simple, there was no computer let alone internet, there was one TV channel and that too played 1-2 hrs of entertainment per day max. A time when a cold-drink needed a special occasion, a chocolate was a celebration and ice cream was more often made at home than bought. A time when every piece of clothing I owned I knew when, where and why it was bought. A time when sweaters were knitted at home and were actually needed during pujo. This is the time when pujo was 5 days of pure magic, a time when everything seemed golden; when discipline was not paramount, fun was; when I saw my parents for a while be what life otherwise didnt let them be - carefree.

For 4 days: afternoons meant drawing competitions, fun games, khichoori (khichdi) bhog, cold drinks and ice creams without reason, haathkhorcha (pocket-money) from ma, baba, kaka, kakima, jetha, mama etc etc, while evenings meant running around unsupervised, hide and seek, pakda-pakdi, adda-golpo, biryani, more ice creams, mishti, and late nights; movie screenings that started at 12, a time when projector reels on white curtains still drew in the crowds, plays and dance dramas where kakas and kakimas became superstars; a time when everyone gathered in expectation to listen live to a maestro because you weren't bombarded by his voice incessantly over a thousand media. A time of playing late into the night until tiredness brought sleep and not the toll of a watch or the deadline on the morrow; of riding back home, 4 ppl on a scooter, making groups of such scooters headed in the same direction so as to prevent ambush by chor-dakaat (dacoit). Yes, it was a magical time!

2 complete sets of new clothes everyday for 4 days, planned well in advance to the tiniest detail, some friends whom u met only on those 4 days but were never awkward with, the dadas and didis who always seemed to like me, the girls - some that i liked, others that liked me -,the guys that competed - and lost - the flirting and the fights, the snobbery and the confidence. It was a time when nothing mattered, nothing bothered you, when eating out was the norm and having fun the only rule.

And late on navami, when the feet refused to move anymore, and the voice was hoarse and gone, when the eyelids couldn't stop from meeting each other - u said goodbye for the first time in those 4 days (all other times it was just a temporary break) and went home to wake up on Dasera. It was always a sad day, a day when all my neighbours were celebrating and I had a heavy heart. Ma was going away but that wasn't
what really made me sad. It was the end of a golden time, a magic that no other time in life has given. Yet i knew it would be back next year and I couldn't help but look forward to it.

And as the years flowed, the projector disappeared, the scooter became a car, the games reduced, the adda - and the flirting - increased, but the magic remained until finally the flock flew away. Today I see a bunch of new kids with the glint of magic in their eyes, the nights though end at 11 and a lot of the fun is not exclusive to pujo as it once was for us.

And most of my dadas and didis and the girls and the competitors are gone, some south, others north, some across the oceans and maybe some across the skies too but I am sure wherever they are every sharadiyo sashti or ashtami they atleast once remember that ground in Pimpri (dunno what stands there today)!

And Dasera is still a sad day for me, even if all I did in those 4 days of pujo this time around was work, because Dasera still is the exclamation mark at the end of magic!

Bimaar Yaad

was reading raat pashmine ki by gulzarsaab...this one stood up and said hi!!


ek yaad badi bimaar thi kal,
kal saari raat uske maathe par,
barf se thande chand ki patti rakh rakh kar-
ek ek boond dilaasa de kar,
azhad koshish ki usko zinda rakhne ki!
pau fatne se pehle lekin ---
aakhri hichki lekar woh khamosh hui!!
                      - gulzar