Thursday, April 19, 2012


On the very night when I was back from my college I heard this ubiquitously strange deafening noise in my neighbor’s apartment. I knew what it was as it was not something new. Every day since countless ages this had been happening. The same ritual was performed ever night. You would be afraid if for some reason, for some cause this story dint happen. I could see him walking with this drunken limp every night to his house dragging himself slowly over the corridor from the lift. And sometimes I would by chance see the fear, in those small eyes every day when she opened the door for her father. Yes he loved her but then he hated his wife, not because she was not working, not helping their family to survive but because she was the one who solely handled all the earnings of the house. He hated her because every night when he was between his dollop of friends he was the only one whose wife earned more than him. He was the only one who had an intelligent daughter and whose intelligence he knew was not his but hers. This could have ended at some nights when he dropped his friends in their home but then finally there was someone who remarked that even the car was being borne by his wife’s EMIs. But rather than working on finding a way out to support his family or to help himself he everyday got drunk and went back to his home, with gloom and the maddening halo over his head, the halo borne by the other drunken bastards about his lifelessness.
We all others basking in our cysts either acted as if such an aberration never existed or we all were led to beliefs in which this was not an aberration at all but a very much intertwined way of living. It was not only the fault of my parents or the society but mine as well. That whenever such turbulences were met with I initially felt anguished, then bad then only sad and then at times ended up just like a tramp. A tramp who carelessly glances over through others windows and enjoys the show but if caught in the act would suddenly feel guilty and move back as if oblivious to the society as a seasoned criminal. The day could have been the same for me and the night too should have been the one embellished by the same moon since ages.
But then for the first time education gave me a high. This one year of college where I met with women achievers, with intellects of the highest cadre, with people who have set right societies and nations sometimes made me think about the resolves I had taken while listening to such people.

For once I dint sleep by turning my televisions voice on, for once I dint pull the headphones out. For once I dint ask my parents for their approval but walked out straight over to their house.
The battle was a long one. And to add to this yes it was a difficult one. It took me a whole lifetime to just do it. I could hear the serene thuds with which my heart was falling. The outer noises seemed to soften out as a bead of perspiration rolled out off my head. 

Finally I emerged as one benevolent king who as if dabbling on his death bed had used all his lifetime’s energy just to do that final thing. With all my might I pressed the calling bell and pressed it hard. The daughter was the one who opened it. The door was opened and I walked back, back to my room.

This was all that I did, ever. After that sometimes such issues have happened but then such these stories have been rare, these aberrations are rare. You know that just a doorbell helps. Knowing that there are people around helps. That’s what I did.

All my life I had waited when it was just a doorbell that could have helped.
One of the famous and effective campaigns in these areas.Although the ad I found out quite late but then any small thing can help,remember anything can,,,

Everyday thousands of women are facing this so called domestic abuse and the violence involved.
It is high time guys.


The time has come

Sometimes it feels so close. You know you are there any minute. You see yourself flying past through colours, then you are actually flying past through colours. You see Indraneel watching the books gloomily or Rahul again buying you another pack of chips. There was a time when these writers had halos bored or rather engraved on their neck. Anybody who wrote or had written was a semi demon or a full god. I have always been mesmerised by writers and the bug that they so fondly nurture- the writer’s bug. You could always appreciate what they wrote and for sometimes with the miniscule mind we have maybe criticised a bit. But then the onus never fell on me. It was always that someone that heroic gladiator who got brandished for his writings but also went close to the throne which I had created for in my mind. But all these times it always was for that someone, until now. Now I felt suddenly that there was an eerie silence in the room. I tried to foster it so that I could recreate it tomorrow morning for the bunch of my anecdotes which were my idea of heroism. The days are different. Those aliens who lived in faraway fairy lands have disappeared. Those people who conjured up those cackling cacophonies or the wonderful stories are now no more in those faraway places. They have now started becoming real. I can see them thinking, blood slowly filling their forehead, lines appearing as their head accentuates to add one more vein with a thought that would end the chapter perfectly. These people are now at one degrees distance from me. Sometimes I curse my education or my maturity for giving me this kind of exposure for really bringing me close to these centaurs, these Adonis and Samurais. Oh they exist and that too so much in flesh. I have been a coward all my life, one who has been mighty enough to push off my own as well as other’s high expectations of me. But now when I turn back the last cover of books I see people whose education as close as mine. Books which were virgins but went on to collect accolades which even seasoned wine failed to taste. People who could have been easily me and then the storm subsides.
People who could be me or me the one who these people could be.

I think it is high time that I write…

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Bike riding not child play,undertaker play

chap 1
"We need to do this."
Seemed too far fetched a dream at the first instance.But then the words first said are sometimes complete without any need for closure.
Such was the discussion that happened one night between Guruprasad Ramnath a regular maverick and Shripad the new opener in one of the individual rooms at Great lakes Institute of management. The institute which normally prided itself for the handpicked assortment of students never knew what these two souls would have dreamed. This was something that would surely be one more legacy's of the present Spartans batch.
Guru and Shripad although being from diverse disciplines and companies of varying expertise had one thing common. Both hailed from the city which never slept- Bombay which at the present day is Mumbai. This strong connect made the Mumbaikars dream a dream which was fuelled because of their love for Mumbai. to do a biking trip from Chennai to Mumbai. They never knew what they were upto when they had just incubated this 1500 km giant of a ride in their wishlist.
The rest they say is history.

Chap 2
Things well begun is half done.But these were not the regular things and this place too was not one of the regular places. A one year MBA is seriously the giant whom you bravely walk to say judging by only its head stuck out from the water. The goliath hadnt even rubbed its shoulders when the initial plan was done. A dream seen in the second term is too imaginative till the seventh term ends. Every student here loses as well as finds him once he stands tall through a set of 7 semesters of 49 days each with sessions ranging from 0700 hrs to sometimes 0200 at night. Most of the first 3 terms end as a trance for many. After 3 to 11 years in the industry getting back to the study groove was not something that people come fully equipped with, in mind. A simple peaceful delicacy like sitting in front of the giant tower of reflection found its time at 3 at night. In all this rumble still people were strong and this place only fuelled their dreams. Not only the studies made them more clear and stricter to regimes but also people who came there with passion made the biking trip more concentrated.
Birds of the same bush flock together and people of the same push drive together.
Evidence of these came slowly but succinctly as time moved. A lot of bonds were created in this one year time over group assignments, lattitude events, karma yoga visits but the resolved strengthened.
And this was when the dream started taking shape



The world is a stage

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