tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-166837622024-03-24T02:50:31.298+09:00Catcher of RayUrban wanderer; a slow learner in a fast world; records of experiences, wishes, ambitions, desires and some blue & happy thoughts.R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-65764580440872963552013-05-26T03:00:00.001+09:002013-05-26T03:02:05.002+09:00Abnormal wishes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It started out as a good day. It felt as if I could
take on the world, that nothing could affect me and I could withstand the
emotional turmoil. To an extent, the day did seem promising too. But as night
fell, it cast its shadow on my emotions as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I wish, I was strong willed, confident and
optimistic. I wish, I could control my mind and cultivate a positive aura around
me. I wish, I could stop my emotions acting like a pendulum and not lurch me in
abyss of darkness. And, I wish I wasn’t such a naivete straight-talker, who
believed in things on their face-value, either. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Each night, I am gripped with fear, fear of being
surrounded by the darkness. There is no escaping the questions and doubts that constantly nag me. My mind is tired of playing out situations, of
recalling the happy times and the unhappy ones as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am struggling to keep faith too.
There should be a guidebook on this. A key to pull out of this maize of misery.
After all, haven’t most of us gone felt it too at some point? I wish…I wish,
for things to become normal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-17548690595361465042013-04-15T02:56:00.000+09:002013-04-15T03:04:01.387+09:00Cracked hope and optimism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The pain was excruciating that evening after you called. In a matter of seconds, I felt I had lost everything; without even taking any risk. Trust was the target and your words hit the bull's eye; it was shattered in several pieces. Anger, sadness, anguish, restlessness, tears, and, finally, emptiness kept me company that night. I was grateful to be alone and yet, I kept calling my parents, to hear their unsuccessful attempts at comforting me. Dawn came but my eyes couldn't stop the tears, I had just experienced my heart break for the very first time. The dark shades that you bought me, was my sole camouflage in appearing normal to the outsiders.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo source: examiner.com</span></i></td></tr>
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Leaving was/is an appealing option, if not for anything else than to punish you. But the thought of not seeing or touching you is unbearable. Why? How? - are the constant questions that plague my mind. But things have progressed; perhaps not entirely the way we wanted. Days have appeared to sooth the raw emotions.<br />
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Now, I want to gather those broken pieces and fix them together, with you. I am still uncertain where we stand. How do we go about mending, nee recreating the past glory, when will the cracked pieces melt into a seamless whole. But I am willing to meet you half way. Won't you? </div>
R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-84568551411653874172012-09-25T16:17:00.001+09:002012-09-25T16:19:51.682+09:00Family time, an extinct notion on weekdays<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">R</span><span style="line-height: 115%;">ecently, my mother informed me about my cousin
getting a job at a BPO. The cousin, who has daughter of about seven years,
wanted to get make into the job market because she feared her two year break
would make her unemployable. The cousin’s work time is from 5.30 pm till 1.30
am and I suspect she works in the administration department of this company.
She will have the weekends off, which tallies well with her kid’s and husband’s
weekend offs. </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Although I am happy for my cousin, I can’t help but
think that the child will be able to see her parents together for a fleeting
time in the morning. After that, she will be with only one parent. This
scenario is neither uncommon nor surprising in most Indian metros. However, it
makes me wonder, has family time during the week become an extinct species? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Joint families are thing of the past in Indian
society now, except in North. In most households, both parents are working and
the child, after school hours, is either looked after by grandparents, crèche
or maids. In many houses, couples bring their parents closer to their house or
apartments, as it becomes convenient for them to pick-up and drop off the child.
So, after raising their own children, the grandparents’ lives revolve around
their grandchildren. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With competitive job market and rising stress
levels, there is hardly any family time during the week (Monday-Friday). The
child is scuttled between coaching classes or extra-curricular activities post
school, the parents, either one or both, come home late at least two or three
days a week due to work demands. So, the only time the whole family – parents
and children – get to spend with each other is during weekend. Everything is
pushed to the weekend. For a story, I had to speak to some parents and I was
told to call them during weekend, as they busy during the week. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is a bit concerning because the child unconsciously
learns that this pattern of working like mad dogs during the week and piling up
your personal life agendas during weekend is an acceptable thing. But even
during weekends are working couples really, 100 per cent free? The arrival of
all these smart phones has made life more tedious than comfortable. Professionals
are constantly checking mails, sending them, calling colleagues based on those
mails, etc. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am not sure what is the solution to this. But the rising trend of ‘weekend family’ isn't doing any good to parents, children or grandparents. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-36492365227938818712012-08-10T02:29:00.004+09:002012-09-25T16:19:44.099+09:00Rendezvous<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">It's always a joy to meet an old friend, especially a classmate. I happened to meet a classmate yesterday in a book talk after seven years. She was the one who noticed me but to avoid any misunderstanding, she sent an sms to confirm if I was attending the same event. I immediately turned back inside the Stein auditorium, frantically trying to spot my friend. Finally, after much straining, I did spot her near close to the auditorium entrance - her getaway card if the event did not pan out to be what she expected.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">After get over the unexpected encounter and hello how do you dos, there was few seconds of silence between us. I don't know about her but I could not think of what else to ask. I convinced her to sit next to me (another friend had accompanied me), we were together. The event went off well with us updating on lives, work and family of the other. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">During the course of evening, I invited her and her husband home and while conversing, she mentioned how we should call another classmate, who also lives in Delhi, as he loved to talk and that way even if we didn't have anything to say, he could fill up the vacuum. Although we continued talking, that statement struck me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Over the years, I have lost in touch with friends, who at some point were very close to me. I am sure this must have been the case with many of you. I can't pinpoint when the distance started creeping up, when we got engrossed with our work. But only with few are you able to pick up the conversation in the same pace as it was in the past. With the rest, after the initial euphoria and </span>excitement<span style="font-size: 100%;"> of seeing each other, there is an </span>awkward feeling. I feel that way about my school friends. As a child, I studied in different schools in different cities (my father had a transferable job). So, I just have handful of school friends in my chat list, and that too from the last school I passed out my Class 10 from. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia;">A few months ago, one of my classmates, who was my best friend in Class 6&7 sent me a friend request in a social media website. Although, I was surprised to view her profile and amazed that she could still remember me, I did not feel the urge to add her. Strange, you might think or is it? I think once you are out of touch with someone, who was very close to you, it is difficult to renew the bond at the same level. Life happens and, as a result, not only you but your once dear friend also change. Our attitude, perspective, style, outlook, everything differs and then you realise you don't have anything common with this person anymore. He/she becomes an acquaintance; someone with whom you share some memorable phase of life with. </span></div>
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R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-85970571743634378572012-08-07T18:03:00.002+09:002012-09-25T16:21:34.755+09:00Rejuvenation of the blog! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: georgia;">My last post on this blog was four years, seven months ago. In fact, I nearly forgot about this - my very first maiden blog. While chatting with a friend in one of my blue moments, I thought it was time to dust the cobwebs and dirt and revive the blog.<br /><br />Between this time, I got married, changed two cities, went from being employed to unemployed (twice now), started freelancing (baby steps), got a little bit more mature, got one (and hopefully, many more) stamp on my passport, learnt a new language, made new friends, lost touch with some old ones, fell in love with cooking, learnt to bear with constant backaches, joined a course and started two more blogs (one of which died within a week of its creation).<br /><br />So yeah! It's good to be back. Thought the restart deserved a blog renovation too. And this time, I don't intend to abandon the blog, although the posts by be a bit erratic. </span></div>
R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-88025369905751793832008-01-29T21:58:00.002+09:002012-09-25T16:22:22.744+09:00Biker tales<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnd4vz5V6cph7cuJp4XePp2XGEO6jvu6g14sGudx2xgpR0Ekg8khe3Bfnhe0ik-bOF3tnNh3hUnvSoG4w4ONYPbxt_hnSSKyu1GBK-OR4fi8ja1E8MwY8UzgqM-L6VY89YYe8KyQ/s1600-h/ride.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Georgia, serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160889779214163186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnd4vz5V6cph7cuJp4XePp2XGEO6jvu6g14sGudx2xgpR0Ekg8khe3Bfnhe0ik-bOF3tnNh3hUnvSoG4w4ONYPbxt_hnSSKyu1GBK-OR4fi8ja1E8MwY8UzgqM-L6VY89YYe8KyQ/s320/ride.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Travelling on a bicycle can be a tiring as well as exhilarating experience. I learnt to ride when I was in Class 6. I was 10 and didn’t have much height to boast of. Hence, touching the ground for balance would often turn out to be a tedious affair, when I were to sit properly on the seat. But need is the mother of innovation or rather adjustments. I quickly learnt to balance my body on toes.<br /><br />I am a slow learner…in about everything. The scenario wasn’t much different in the case of learning to ride as well. Everyday I would call on my neighbour Mr Sarkar and his son Dodoi, who was just a couple of years younger to me but a master in riding…hell! He could ride without holding the handles! The reason why I used to pester him was because he had promised and very enthusiastically (otherwise I wouldn’t have taken the promise seriously) to teach me riding, unlike my father, who didn’t have the time or the inclination then. Anyway, Mr Sarkar, Dodoi, my sister and me would proceed towards the large maidan behind our house in the evening and try to learn how to ride the bicycle. I can vouch for one thing, it was tough and one of the few things that I pursued with dogged determination…even the accident didn’t deter me.<br /><br />The accident put me out of action for couple of months. I don’t remember clearly but by then Mr Sarkar had received his transfer orders and the family had shifted based to Kolkata. It made me very sad because Mr Sarkar really knew how to motivate people and give that extra push. Coming to that fateful evening when this accident occurred, the entire troop had as usual made our way to the ground. Not a single person was on sight besides a couple of schoolchildren making their way home I think. Thankfully, they must have sensed my fear because they walked at the far end of the ground. As usual, I climbed the bike, brought the right side pedle up and took my position. The other two had scampered off to their respective corners to ride their bi-tricycles. Behind Sarkar uncle held the bike. Pushing me slowly ahead, he told me to ride in a straight line, not to lose balance, try to balance my body in such a way that I wouldn’t fall. Slowly, I gathered confidence, the two-week practise was paying off, I felt. I started peddling with some speed. I felt elated. Suddenly, a thought passed by mind…was Sarkar uncle still holding my bike. I turned behind and saw him waving and laughing from a distance, shouting at me to look in front and keep riding. It all happened in a two seconds, I panicked, lost my balance and fell down with my cycle falling on me. Except for a few scratches here and there, nothing major had happened. But as I tried standing up, I felt intense pain shoot from my leg. The side of my right leg, near the ankle had turned red. The pain was unbearable and Sarkar uncle quickly took me home. After an ice bag treatment and an ointment massage, my leg puffed up. Mr Sarkar dismissed it as a sprain and told me not to thing much of it. Yeah! Right, I thought. Easy for you to say, you are not undergoing the pain. I silently cursed him. Next day, with the pain not subsiding, we went to the doctor, who after an x-ray announced that I had sustained a hairline fracture. Next couple of weeks, I walked with a crepe bandage decorating my leg and with a limp.<br /><br />Now, when I think back, I feel that the fall was a blessing in disguise. Maybe, if I hadn’t fallen, I would never have ridden the bike without someone’s assistance…would always have been afraid of falling…most importantly, I would have had to be dependent on Mr Sarkar. Good for me that I didn’t voice my anger then, for I must actually thank Mr Sarkar for helping me get over my fear, getting me interesting in riding the bicycle and most of all making me independent.</span></div>
R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-58293909294822681432007-09-14T22:59:00.002+09:002012-08-10T02:23:43.741+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;">No matter how hard I try to strive to do well, I end up feeling like a loser. No matter with how much force I try to reach the shore, I feel myself drowning. The more I push myself to the peak, I find myself sliding down. Wish I could go somewhere….anywhere, where I didn’t have to…</span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-81750721970079611562007-04-19T01:57:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:24:09.713+09:00<div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Desperation blues</strong><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Desperate times call for desperate actions. And who knows this better than a reporter. Every week, a sense of déjà vu prevails over me, when I see myself frantically hunting for some ‘good’, ‘interesting’ and catering to ‘TA’ story ideas. While I am managing to understand the geography of the locality I have been assigned, I also have the added burden of creating contacts - people who would give me good story ideas. Again, at the end of every week, I rummage through my small list of people, I managed to contact in the hectic work schedule and try to extract whatever little or trivial they can give. My blood pressurise rises a few notches as the time for meeting comes near. I think, this is the day when I will be asked to put in my papers and shown the doors. And yet, another day passes, with my Ed remarking sarcastically on my capability or rather inability to generate good story ideas but brainstorming with me and adding something decent figure of story ideas on my list.<br /><br />Not only do I have to file the stories in a record time within a not-humanely possible deadline, I also have to check myself from making grammatical blunders. However, this is a personal task I have taken upon myself, which I am afraid, is very difficult to watch over. Often, I end up ignoring the grammatical and sentence construction norms and just file in the story. I wonder whether this will affect my writing skills. But again, a journalist is told to keep track of deadlines as they are considered much more important than trying to improve the writing style. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>*****</strong></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Though, I crib a lot about our job, sometimes, I do get to do some interesting stories. Couple of weeks back, I got the opportunity to interview a lady auto driver. Unlike the stereotype that only macho or matronly ladies try their hand in driving public transport vehicles, this auto lady was nothing like it. A simple woman, she has been ply commuters for the past three-four months. To give my article a bit more colour, I happened to meet some of her neighbourhood ladies – her friends. They felt inspired every time they saw her behind the three-wheeler. Even her eight year old son, shyly, said he felt proud seeing his mother drive an auto. I must say, I also felt awfully nice interviewing her. It proves that there is nothing a female cannot do, if she sets her mind to it. Of course, financial desperation is another cause for such women to break the patriarchal barriers and take up something which they otherwise wouldn’t even dream of venturing into.<br /></span><br /></span></div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:100%;color:#ffcccc;"></span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1166599578043615692006-12-20T16:25:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:24:34.144+09:00<span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>How long will Yamuna weep?<br /></strong><br />Children wetting their hand in the black, mucky sewer water as if trying to find some hidden treasures; an old muslim man crying in grief; a paagal baba proclaiming that he would cut his dreadlocks if somebody could prove the garden maintained by the Delhi government was better than the one nurtured by him; These are some of the images that come to mind when I recall <em>Yamuna Gently Weeps</em>, which I had the opportunity to see a couple of weeks ago.<br /><br />The one-hour film, I must say, was quiet thought provoking. Though the last 15 minutes were prolonged and could have been edited, the documentry certainly made its point very clear. The film talks about the eviction of slumdwellers in Delhi’s Yamuna Pushta. But I think the issue is prevalent in every city and therefore urban folks can relate to it (atleast I hope they do). It stresses on how slum rehabilitation is a mere eye-wash and a mass-scale legalized human rights violation takes place during slum clearance. Children loose the security of their make-shift homes, the toiling, grassroot level people have to again build their lives. I am sure it will be quiet frustrating. And what’s more saddening is the fact that the selfish middle-class seems to be oblivious to all this. This does not mean that the better-offs should feel guilty because they are born in financially stable families. But a little empathy and help to the deprived has never harmed anyone.<br /><br />Yes, slums should be erased; they are ugly spots, acnes on the high-rising, developing cities. But if that’s so, why are they allowed to grow in the first place? Why don’t we ban the poor and the have-nots from entering the cities? This is because the rich and those who can afford the luxuries of life require the poor to do the menial, dirty work. We need the kachrawallas, bais, ayahs, richshaw wallahs and so on.<br /><br />The politicians won’t do anything about this because ultimately, they get elected thanks to these ignorant, poor people. Soon after the election, though, the same politicians pick them up like flies fallen in a teacup and thrown them in barren outskirts of the cities, where there’s no electricity, transport or any means of earning a livelihood. Even basic necessary like water and toilets are hard to find.<br /><br />The documentary struck a chord in me. The situation has close resemblence to what happened in Mumbai a couple of years back. However, it was only a headline. I didn’t realise how serious the issue was.<br />After watching the documentary I cam to two conclusions: one, the government should not destroy the present slum because they don’t have any proper plan to rehabilitate them. If they want to stop the slums from growing, they should throttle new slums in their infancy and give those slum dwellers another area to stay in. Second and I don’t know how viable this option will be, but show such kind of documentaries in schools and colleges. Showing it to middle-aged and old people is not going to help. However, screening it to youngsters will at least sow the seeds of a possible change.<br /></span><br /></span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1161615523006824142006-10-23T23:56:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:24:54.609+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong><em>Lage Raho</em>...a bit disappointing</strong><br /><br />Recently, I saw Lage Raho Munnabhai after my friends, relatives, colleagues and even acquaitences, raved about it. Well, it’s had tremendous impact on people of Mumbai; in fact, there has been a sudden spurt of Gandhigiri.<br /><br />I am not against Gandhian principle but frankly, I didn’t like it all that much. I was disappointed because I expected it to be light and if not supercede atleast be at par with the first one. The first movie better as it was on a much more lighter note and kept the emotional scenes to the minimal. It was indeed hilarious!<br /><br />Though Lage Raho…was not bad, it failed to be a light, entertaining movie. The concept was good but I wonder, whether in today’s time, people are so tolerant as to listen to others problems; if they are generous and unselfish. In Mumbai, where builder are know to be cut-throat sharks, I wonder, whether any one of them would be so generous to give up a prime property because his conscience pricks. A highly improbable scenario.<br /><br />I found the film hypothetical (of course it is!) and highly aspring for a utopian world. I mean, newspapers and tv channels flooding us with news about people taking a cue from the film and observing Gandhigiri, I don’t it will last. People will get emotional after seeing the film, maybe think about it for a day or two, and then its life back to the normal world surrounded by lies.<br /><br />However, the film definitely did help youngsters brush up their history listens and made Gandhian principles less boring. I am sure, those who struggled to clear history in their school days, must have thought post Lage Raho, “Damn! If only this movie had been made when I was in Class 6”.<br /><br />The bottomline is that a film can only revive a certain principle or hype it but the film cannot force it on its audience. If some basic principles are inculcated in kids and adults – offer your seat in a bus or train when you see an old man or a woman; don’t spit; don’t use gutters and road sides as your private toilet; don’t think the world is a big garbage bin; and have a little compassion for people who are not as fortunate as you – then I don’t think anyone will need a dose or rather an overdose of Gandhigiri. </span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1152553132669415232006-07-11T02:35:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:25:13.537+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Rainy days are here again</strong><br /><br />With the monsoon, has arrived the season of mosquiotes and houseflies. The dry leaves which looked so dull a few weeks back, now shine with a zest. It looks forward to more such sessions of annual bathing.<br /><br />Ofcourse, with the scenic beauty, one also has to tolerate the irritating flies that make themselves comfortable with almost any object they find in their way. The repeated attempts to destroy them would only lead to the destroyer going nuts and maybe ending up with a high BP. Not to forget, the muddy puddle filled potholes that decorate the roads, which the municiple department swears to having been repaired and in top condition for the rains. Suddenly, from nowhere hundreds of tiny streams emerge on the path swiftly making its way past the stinking garbage, the urinated corners, touching my foot and then carrying on its journey to finally merge into the dirty, greyish black <em>nullah</em>.<br /><br />When I walk on the footpath lined with trees, the leaves shed the raindrops and hit my head like bullets. I can hear the sound ‘tick’, ‘tick’ on my skull and grudgingly looking at the tree. To top it all, the wind that accompanies the rains, makes it impossible to hold the umbrella and avoid being wet. <br /><br />Even if I don’t hate the rains, I don’t have a particular liking for it. I enjoy watching it under the shelter of my home with a piping, hot cup of tea in an earthern cup to sip at, a nice song (perferably Carpenters) playing at the background and an interesting mystrey novel to read. Now, wouldn’t that be lovely.<br /><br />I imagine this and sigh at my desk every time I see the rain sway this way and that through the huge french window at my office. If only I had time…<br /><br />What a paradox…just a month back I was complaining of too much time and now I wearily admit to lack of it. The rains don’t help much either. The cold gust and raindrops brush past my face and I yearns for freedom…to get wet, to stand at the tip of rocks jutting out to the sea, to watch the turbulent grey waters trying to reach the dark sky unleashing lightning at the edge of a hill… <br /><br />I know I am dreamer, but what’s the harm of dreaming these things even if they remain a fiction…or will they?</span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1150021931512447542006-06-11T19:30:00.002+09:002012-08-10T02:25:34.027+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Revived hope</strong><br /><br />I am FINALLY employed. After worrying non-stop for a month, I have got a job. Funny, how your emotions play trick on you. A friend asked me whether I was happy and I told her I did not feel anything. Now, isn’t that weird. I am supposed to feel ecstatic, out of d world. But, I do not feel any such thing. I wonder why?<br /><br />I told my friend, all I wanted right now, was to gain some experience and move on…move on to do the job, I think I am best cut out for – reporting. I think this is reason for why I feel neutral about this whole affair.<br /><br />I am not cribbing. Just apprehensive of whether I would get an opportunity to pursue my passion for reporting. I do not know that but what I know is that I have got a start and I have to manipulate the situation to my advantage. Atleat, I have taken the first step in reaching my goal.<br /><br />I have to improve myself… take one-step at a time to alleviate myself from being moderate to one of the best. I must endeavour to become somebody and not anybody and hope that better things are in store for me…<br /><br />Though, I must say I am relieved and happy to get a job, to get a chance to prove myself. </span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1149613361408133322006-06-07T01:58:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:25:56.839+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;"><strong>Jinxed</strong><br /><br />Its brutal. Hunting for work, when all your friends are getting themselves comfortable in their respective work places.<br /><br />It is futile to cry and despair over my luck but when you have enough time at your disposal, where finish counting every leaf in the mango tree, you cannot help but brood over your fate.<br /><br />Family, relatives, friends keep telling me to hang on, not to loose hope, that perhaps a better job is in store for me. But I think its an optimistic approach. What if there is no job in store for me? Of course that’s silly of me think in those lines and is practically impossible. But, what if I have to leave the profession I dearly love and for which I had to fight with my family because I could not find the any vacancy? Now, that can happen.<br /><br />You always think of being successful in the path you have chosen as your career. And when you see that the industry is not even giving you a chance to showcase your talent, to let you inside, it breaks your heart.<br /><br />The next symptom that quickly follows is self-doubt. You start doubting your own abilities. You start wondering whether you are really cut out for this profession…maybe you made a mistake by taking it. Maybe you did not have an aptitude for it. Your head begins to whirl with these thought till you think your head would burst out any moment, as it cannot take the load anymore.<br /><br />Somebody once told me – A man without hope is as good as dead. I do not want to lose my enthusiasm for life but I do not find any reason to go on with it either. I am losing hope.<br /><br />Maybe I am exaggerating the situation. Maybe I am not. Maybe…</span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1143890926082133812006-04-01T20:22:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:26:16.695+09:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold; ">An idea of FUN</span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;"><br />They looked at me in suspicion. Sniffed me to check who I was and where I came from. Aterall, it was the likes of me –Humans, who were responsible for their present state of condition. And who could blame them, when Humans don’t treat their own kind well, will animals be spared. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB">My friend and I had gone to meet the head of PfA (People for Animals) yesterday. After a tiring journey to Red Hills, which is at the outskirts of Chennai. We reached there at </span><!--?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /--><st1:time hour="17" minute="30"><span lang="EN-GB">5.30 pm.</span></st1:time><span lang="EN-GB"> Reaching there, we were told that the owner would shortly be with us. We didn’t mind as this gave us time to look around the big shelter cum veterinary hospital. The shelter had huge walls and gates but in between the grills one could see the inmates widely roaming about. As we were let in by the workers in the shelter, we found ourselves instantly surrounded by who else but dogs. They were in various breeds, sizes and ages. All having one thing in common – they were orphans. Once pampered and domesticated, these dogs are abondoned by their owners. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;">Now finding some solance in PfA, they do not have to worry about getting nabbed by the Municipal van or to find meal. I was afraid with them roaming around me, ashamed at facing them. As dusk drawn at the shelter, the dogs began howling. Perhaps telling each other that another day had ended. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;">As soon as the owner came in, the dogs rushed towards her, hungry for her attention and affection. I could see that by rescusing these dogs she had won their loyality and faithfulness. Though, there was one particular dog which was oblivious to all this commotion. The black mongrel was curled inside in one corner. It had shed it’s fur (i assume out of depression). As a result, it’s spinal and rib bones were distinctly visible. I instantly felt sad for the dog. What was the future of this dog, how long would it survive...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;">Suddenly, I notice a white mongrel looking at him and barking. It looked sideway to it’s other colleagues and barked at them too. A thought was it telling it’s friends, “Look everybody, a human has come to visit our abode. She is one of them, those cruel humans who have treated us horribly and betrayed our love and affection. And now, she has come to steal our master (the owner of PfA) from us. Lets attack her, lets not leave her. Let’s show her how it feels to be beaten, to be inflicted with physical injury.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;">Though, the dog was not sucessful in its plan of attacking me (and thank god! for that), it made me think how could humans be so barbaric. I think this behaviour came to them naturally. Children were no better. For their sadistic pleasure, they hurled stones at the dogs, pulled their whiskers, poked them with a stick and what not. In respone what the parents did, instead of stopping and scolding their child, they acted as silent spectators to the whole <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">tamashaa</span>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;">What pleasure does one find in causing pain to other living things? When does one’s sensitivity gets numb and killing an animal becomes fun, where one enjoy seeing the animal whither with pain.What kind of fun is this? What kind of joy is this? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; color: rgb(255, 204, 204); font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></p>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1142676462904654012006-03-18T19:05:00.004+09:002012-08-10T02:26:37.959+09:00<p style="font-weight: bold; " class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The lost traveller?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">What should I identify myself with? Should I call myself a <i style="">malayalee</i>, a <i style="">Mumbaikar</i> or better still a “<st1:city><st1:place>Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> malayalee” as my politics prof. calls me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I was born and brought up outside Kerala; even my parents were. Hence, there there is nothing wrong in me associating myself as Mumbaikar. Yet, I am called a “madrasi” (even though I am not a tamilian) in Mumbai and a “Bombaykari” in Kerala. It is very frustrating as I find it hard to associate myself with any one of these categories. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I have no ties with my home land, Kerala; have little knowledge of the customs and traditions and though I speak reasonably good Malayalam, am illiterate (I cannot read and write the language). With no relatives left in Kerala, I visit the place as a tourist rather than as a person coming back to his/her ancestral home or village. I am just a ‘namesake’ Malayalee. It doesn’t hurt but it does not alleviate me either. The feeling is neutral. <span style=""> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Even if we observe the customs and rituals though adulterated due to our influence with other communities, they are forced upon me. My parents and relatives in Mumbai do this to desperately hold on to our roots. But when a person does not feel connected to a certain culture, he/she cannot believe in it even if forced. I correlate with <i style="">Ganesh chaturti</i> and <i style="">gudi padva</i> more than <i style="">onam</i> and <i style="">vishu.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">There are also several malayalee youngsters, just like me, in Mumbai who feel ashamed at calling themselves malayalee. They speak Hindi or English at home and of course there are parents who proudly claim that their children do not speak or have no knowledge of Malayalam. This is sad because in an attempt to be a part of their surrounding community they desperately are trying to cut off from their roots. In the name of fashion, they are getting more entangled in the identity crisis. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">This is not to say that one should adapt to their surroundings in another land so much that they forget there individuality. Rather, be in touch with their roots by atleast learning the language and perhaps reading the literature of our community. Belief and knowing from where one has come from is more important than displaying to the world that “we staunchly practise the customs even though we are not close to our community or state”. In a weird way, I feel my condition is similar to my cousin’s and several other young people who live abroad. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:georgia;">In the end, I still am clueless about my identify…</span></p>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1141308544889037422006-03-02T23:05:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:27:01.398+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Hunting season has begun!<br /><br />So, the course is coming to an end and recruiters are all ready to "pick" us up. Sounds like a pet owner visiting a kennel and picking a dog that suits their fancy. Dear god! i don't mind imagning myself as a dog provided i get a job of my choice.</span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1141305222704079072006-03-02T22:08:00.002+09:002012-08-10T02:28:38.965+09:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><b>Parrot thoughts<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The first time I noticed the parrots was when I was hurriedly going towards the bench to join rest of my classmates for lunch. We had come to the hilly region of Yelagiri as part of our deprivation trip in search of stories. On our way back to <st1:city><st1:place>Vellore</st1:place></st1:city>, we had stopped in this hotel which had outdoor dining area. Thrilled and starved, I rushed towards the dining area to eat lunch under the trees.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The two parrots were walking on the stone embedded path oblivious to the visitors. Their rusty cage was placed on a wooden platform supported by three wooden stands. A strip of green palm leaf covered the stands like creepers would when they found a host. To keep the visitors from harassing the parrots bush fencing surrounded the cage. I found it odd and amazing when I found the cage door was open and the parrots sad there…lost in their parrot world. It didn’t strike me then as hunger had overwhelmed me and I was in a hurry to order lunch. But after my tummy full, I strolled near the cage and saw the parrots walking on the path. I though ‘what brave parrots. They don’t fear humans at all; walking around fearlessly without thinking that maybe somebody would touch them or harm them.’ I thought that unlike other caged birds, they got the freedom to move out of their cage as they pleased. Like a municipal tube light which takes tremendous amount of time to emit light, the thought struck me late; the wings of both the parrots were clipped. I was appalled. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">I knew these things happened all the time but never had impact on me until I saw it with my own eyes. Suddenly I was engulfed by a lot of emotions…I felt pity, sadness and then anger. I enquired with the hotel official on who was responsible for crippling the parrots and he replied it was they had done it so that the parrots would not fly away. I felt like shouting and screaming at them, for telling them what they had reduced the poor creatures to. I again went to look at the parrots now. I wished I could help them somehow. Then I saw one of the parrots proceeding to the cage by slowly climbing the palm strip with the help of their claws and beak. The parrots had learnt to overcome their disability. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The parrots occupied my thoughts even after we left the place. For selfish reasons what had man reduced the birds too. The parrots were supposed to fly in the sky; they were the ariel residents who could not be troubled with the earthly matters. They could fly anywhere they wanted, without any traffic or red light stopping them from their journey. And now all this had ended because some human thought that they would be better as a showpiece. Now all they could do was walk on their small feet and if some one came near run for their lives. The humans had stripped them of their only way of survival; they could not even fly away if a predator came after them. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">As the sun went to sleep, I saw the parrots going inside the cage with a lot of hard work and looking at the world without any emotions.</span></p>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1129629089336644062005-10-18T18:49:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:28:58.045+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;">Am I alone...<br /><br />sorry for the previous incomplete blog... i accidently or out of habit saved the stuff...anyways, i was saying that i have often experienced being left alone by people whom i considered friends. Perhaps i am just blowing mountain out of a mole hill but i couldn't help thinking about it today. I am feeling miserable and don't know how to cheer myself up.<br /><br />Sometimes i think that some of us in the entire population of the world are born to be loners. its unfair but who said life was always fair. Due to my dad's tranferable job, i could never form a permanent friendship. Every two years, it was new locality, new school, new people...err...friends. By the time i got close to a friend, it was time to pack the bags n move on. I hated it...but a kid never has any say on these matters...afterall its my dad's work. Finally, we settled in Bombay (i don't like its present baptised Mumbai so i stick by the old name).I love my city, even though it is overcrowded, filthy, hectic and so on. It has its own charm. So now you would think that at last my travels have come to an end. But the answer is no, negative, nada. Staying in the same surburb, i shifted twice. This also passed on to my college, where i did my junior college in one college and degree from another. After graduation, i felt ok so now there is no chance of me going anywhere. Now i will have be staying in the same house for more than two years and i won't have to again adjust myself to a new environment. But how wrong was i.<br /><br />For my Post Graduation, i got admission in a college in Chennai. I had a choice of taking the admission, but did i reject the admission call... no. After traveling like a nomad for so long, i realised that i have become used to it. Gosh! that was a terrible encounter with the truth. The truth which i denied accepting. I realised that i sort of enjoyed getting away, running away from situations before they became ugly. And then the decision was made to study in chennai for a year. Maybe, this was also influencial in my choosing a career in journalism and my love for traveling and exploring new places.<br />However, this love for traveling comes with a price. The price had to pay and may have to pay for years to come is being alone and become friend of myself...So i have given up hope that i would be able to stay in any place for more than 3 years.</span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16683762.post-1127143529936831052005-09-20T00:13:00.001+09:002012-08-10T02:29:19.812+09:00<span style="font-family:georgia;">After a tiring morning, which was spent trying to remain awake in the Meida Laws and Ethics class, i had to rush off to do my Key issues project. A couple of group mates and me met up at the college lobby and planned on a strategy by which we could cover two settlements of a tribal community called Narikorravars.<br /><br />1 p.m. - I reached the settlement in Kotturpuram, Chennai and spent the next three hours collecting data from the self-appointed head of that community. The place was filthy and their condition was pathetic. I could not believe people lived in such a horrendous condition. After we collected enough information, we left for our next settlement based in Thiruvanmiyur.<br /><br />5 p.m.- we reach the place and ask around to locate the exact place. I was already very tired but had to cover this settlement at all costs, as my group was running out of time. The load would be that much less, if we covered atleast a little bit of the community.<br /><br />This community lives in a much better condition than the previous one. Though they all are poor and live off by selling beads and ragpicking, their settlement is not filthy. The beads they sell are bought from Delhi and are really very pretty. I could not resist myself and bought two of them...</span>R.G.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15112189135555243503noreply@blogger.com0