I had never been at ease with myself and with the surroundings for such a long period as I have been now. (Keeping in mind that ‘such a long period’ is thoroughly subjective especially happiness and peace are concerned) It’s like the tranquil happiness of a hermit meditating in his abode. I prefer staying cut off from the outer world and want to shun all modes of communication. I can’t allow anybody to play spoilsport by being reckless with words and disturb my peace. Yet, I know that it may get shattered at any moment for no obvious reason. Indeed, obvious to the outer world, not to me, for I can see him.
He is there, supine with his left leg folded supporting his right foot, that is with his right ankle on his left knee. He pretends that he is reading, but I can see him glancing at me every now and then. He just wants to ensure that my happiness is being built, brick by brick. And once the monument is over he will pull it down. Anyway, he will have the last laugh. It’s just a matter of time.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Forgotten PIN
It’s noon. The sun is pretty hot. I walked to the ATM, a good 500mtrs +away. All I’ve is an old, red 20 rupees note. Salary must have credited. And finally when I reached the ATM, I came to know that I’ve forgotten the PIN. Angry, sad and confused, I stand there in front of the ATM trying to recollect the PIN. I walked back, defeated. While having lunch I thought about the number. (Yes, in this part of the globe you can still get a good meal for Rs.12 or even Rs.10) I stored it in my memory as a pretty decent score (I was a great fan of test cricket, yes I WAS. For the SBT Card all I do is to remember the number 12. It’s effective; I do remember things in this manner. I break up a friend’s mobile number in this fashion: 98953; common, 69; summer of 69, 711; date of London bombing.) So again I go there, entered in to the ATM cabin, keyed in the number. Since the system asked me ‘what I wanted’, I thought I’ve made it. But when I pressed ‘Balance Inquiry’, the response was ‘Invalid PIN’. I thought there would be an alarm following with the arrival of the Police at the ‘crime scene to nab the burglar’. Nothing of that kind happened. The moment I reached the office I started to google, ‘forgot the PIN what to do’? There came pages of information. And I found a tip pretty interesting, that one’s date of birth might have used to form one’s PIN. EUREKAAAAAAAA… and it’s a pretty decent score too. Now, as I key in this, I’m just eager to go there and key in the ‘new’ PIN. But still, it’s all a guess. I’m not sure whether it’s correct. Neither I know the envelope contains the PIN handed over by the Bank Official is with me any more. If it’s not the right PIN that I am thinking about at the moment, it will sure going to be tough times ahead.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Two tales of a continent
The first one induced in me a likeness for African literature. It was set on such a huge canvas that sprawled across 200 years, many generations and two continents. I was there when Kunta Kinte shrilled for the first time and the year was 1750. He grew up with me. It was superb watching him at close quarters. I revelled with him in his childhood and a part of his teen years. When he went to manhood training, his parents and siblings were not supposed to be with him there. But I paid a visit. No, not just a visit, I stayed with him through out the period. He had great plans and ambitions. All thwarted when he was captured by the toubobs. And thus he was:
“Stolen from Africa
Brought to America
Fighting on arrival
Fighting for survival…”
It was a real tome running close to 700 pages. But it was so intense except for a few chapters. I felt like the loser I am when I finished reading ‘Roots’. Thank you Ranjeetha, thanks a lot.
Comparing to ‘Roots’ ‘Things Fall Apart’ is a smaller volume. All of 187 pages, it disappointed me in the beginning. I was still under the influence of the world Alex Halley had shown to me. Comparing to the people in Juffure, those at Umuofia were less sophisticated. Okonkwo was short tempered and a couple of times he beat his wife mercilessly. He was a warrior and a great wrestler who earned much fame when he over powered the champion wrestler of his time. He loathed his father for he was too lazy and left nothing for his son but a pile of debts. Okonkwo was a self made man and one cannot expect a self made man showing too much sophistication. He was afraid of becoming lazy and coward. He despised anyone who showed a hint of his father’s character. He struggled not to be like his father, never ever, and he succeeded in that. He amassed wealth and earned titles. His barn was always full with yams. But when his gun accidentally fired killing a fellow tribe man during a funeral he was forced to go exile and lived at his mother’s village for the next seven years. He too had great plans about being a great member of the tribe. And when he came back the scene was quite different. Even when he was at his mother’s village his son Nwoye had been converted to the new religion introduced by the white people. Things were really falling apart at his own village. Their faith had been questioned and insulted. Okonkwo and his fellow men were captured and humiliated. And he knew that his people were not willing to wage a war. He killed a messenger, a representative of the invaders, and then killed himself. Only to be brought down from the tree on which he hung himself by the whites and to be buried without honours.
And it was in the last paragraph the only time the author intervened to tell what had in the mind of the District Commissioner. Satirical it was. He would write a book with an interesting paragraph or two if not a whole chapter, narrating the incidents that led to the suicide of Okonkwo. And the name he chose for his work was: The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.
“Stolen from Africa
Brought to America
Fighting on arrival
Fighting for survival…”
It was a real tome running close to 700 pages. But it was so intense except for a few chapters. I felt like the loser I am when I finished reading ‘Roots’. Thank you Ranjeetha, thanks a lot.
Comparing to ‘Roots’ ‘Things Fall Apart’ is a smaller volume. All of 187 pages, it disappointed me in the beginning. I was still under the influence of the world Alex Halley had shown to me. Comparing to the people in Juffure, those at Umuofia were less sophisticated. Okonkwo was short tempered and a couple of times he beat his wife mercilessly. He was a warrior and a great wrestler who earned much fame when he over powered the champion wrestler of his time. He loathed his father for he was too lazy and left nothing for his son but a pile of debts. Okonkwo was a self made man and one cannot expect a self made man showing too much sophistication. He was afraid of becoming lazy and coward. He despised anyone who showed a hint of his father’s character. He struggled not to be like his father, never ever, and he succeeded in that. He amassed wealth and earned titles. His barn was always full with yams. But when his gun accidentally fired killing a fellow tribe man during a funeral he was forced to go exile and lived at his mother’s village for the next seven years. He too had great plans about being a great member of the tribe. And when he came back the scene was quite different. Even when he was at his mother’s village his son Nwoye had been converted to the new religion introduced by the white people. Things were really falling apart at his own village. Their faith had been questioned and insulted. Okonkwo and his fellow men were captured and humiliated. And he knew that his people were not willing to wage a war. He killed a messenger, a representative of the invaders, and then killed himself. Only to be brought down from the tree on which he hung himself by the whites and to be buried without honours.
And it was in the last paragraph the only time the author intervened to tell what had in the mind of the District Commissioner. Satirical it was. He would write a book with an interesting paragraph or two if not a whole chapter, narrating the incidents that led to the suicide of Okonkwo. And the name he chose for his work was: The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
It’s yet another phase in life.
Just another.
No ADJECTIVES.
I’m staying with people
who watch WWF wrestling mania,
the moment they are out of bed.
It embarrasses me.
And once when I was reading,
someone breathed down my neck and asked
“Is that a storybook?”
“Yes”, I replied.
“What does it deal with”?
Again I muttered something in reply
and he guffawed.
“Oh, old story that’s before 1947”.
“Even before that…” I protested.
Just another.
No ADJECTIVES.
I’m staying with people
who watch WWF wrestling mania,
the moment they are out of bed.
It embarrasses me.
And once when I was reading,
someone breathed down my neck and asked
“Is that a storybook?”
“Yes”, I replied.
“What does it deal with”?
Again I muttered something in reply
and he guffawed.
“Oh, old story that’s before 1947”.
“Even before that…” I protested.
Friday, April 4, 2008
You wanna headline?Gimme a deadline?
Yup, for some one destined to eke out a living by writing Ads, demands pouring in from everywhere (for client service executives may come from any direction) for a headline a.k.a caption. I know you frown (assuming that some hapless soul would go through this) thinking headlines are all about newspaper headlines. But you know I got this bloody obsession with rhyming. I’m ready to spend a fortune if I can make something really rhyme like this one:
“Johnny Johnny yes papa
Fucking gals yes papa
Wearing condoms no papa
Getting aids ha ha ha”
Oh! As usual again I mess around. It’s not about rhyming neither it’s anything to do with advertising. It’s about my inability to work until and unless I’m cornered with a tightening deadline. So if some one doesn’t mention the D day (most often D time, as if
I’m making bulls eye) I’ll read a hell lot of beautifully written blogs and asks myself “hey you wretched creature still you wanna keep blogging”? What to do I’m goddamn hedonistic (Swayam bloganandan).
I love you deadline. I love you immensely. Hover over my head as the sword of Damocles and help me do something.
“Johnny Johnny yes papa
Fucking gals yes papa
Wearing condoms no papa
Getting aids ha ha ha”
Oh! As usual again I mess around. It’s not about rhyming neither it’s anything to do with advertising. It’s about my inability to work until and unless I’m cornered with a tightening deadline. So if some one doesn’t mention the D day (most often D time, as if
I’m making bulls eye) I’ll read a hell lot of beautifully written blogs and asks myself “hey you wretched creature still you wanna keep blogging”? What to do I’m goddamn hedonistic (Swayam bloganandan).
I love you deadline. I love you immensely. Hover over my head as the sword of Damocles and help me do something.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
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