Musings of a Greeker!

Walking To A Fish Market Near You…

2009-04-15T05:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve lived in Doha for three years and I hadn’t followed my mother’s advice… until today morning, that is.

She’s always told me that the best times to buy fish were in the early mornings. I’ve rewound in my head a million times those journeys, where I accompanied my mother to that market near my house, to buy fresh fish, never later than 5am on each occasion.

As to why I never did the same in Doha, it was because I’d given up on cooking (The best I could do was coffee anyway).

And then ‘Big Chief Eagle Eye’, my newly christened Canon, came into my life and changed everything. I arrived at the market at 3am and didn’t leave until about four hours later.

At 3am, the market was still asleep. People lay curled wherever they could, catching on a few last moments of shut-eye, before the hectic day that would unfurl before them.

At 3.30am, the first few people began to stir and the market slowly began coming to life. Different vehicles reversed softly to a stop next to the common market ground. Fishes of all sizes and shapes were carefully unloaded while a radio somewhere belted out an old Hindi track. A stooped man, holding many cups of steaming black tea, went around waking his mates to the glorious new fish-ey day!

At 4am, groans of wakefulness gave way to alert eyes everywhere. Wheelbarrows were readied, huge blocks of ice to spread atop fresh fishes were shattered, knives and pencils were sharpened, tiny little notebooks were brought out and brooms arrived to swiftly clean the marketplace…

At 4.30am, more trucks started rolling in and innumerable people suddenly materialised out of nowhere. The faint murmur of the crowd gradually rose a notch higher as bidding parties took their designated places. The prayer call from a nearby mosque stilled the crowd for a moment. They respectfully waited for it to end and…

…by 5am, all hell broke loose. People were everywhere, screaming at the top of their voices. One man – the bid organiser – cupped his hands to his ears and shouted in rapid Arabic while others agreed, argued or walked away from him. People strolled atop fish boxes, just like they would in a park, ever so careful to never tread on the fish itself…

By 5.30am, the crowd began moving inward, towards the centre of the wide hall, as each batch of fresh fish was auctioned off. Different trawlers spent multiple days on the open seas to take this catch off nature’s lap. When auctions came to a close, there weren’t a single sad face in the crowd… everyone had made a bargain or the other that day…

By 6am, the outer auction area went back to being deserted. A faint hubbub, of excited voices of the fish resellers, floated through from deep within the bowels of the huge concrete market building. Their day had just begun…

Walking The Souq…

2008-12-26T12:37:00.000-08:00

Doha’s Souq Waqif is a five-minute walk away from where I live. Yet, it took me close to three years to cover the distance. And when I did, a slice of Qatar’s history unfurled before my very eyes...

It was like going starting at the beginning of time, to the time when Qatar was still very much an idea, in the corner of a thousand minds. It was like turning the pages of the book of history, swiftly from left to right, in breathtaking seconds of sudden realisations...

Mud brown brick buildings rose to kiss the sky, along the two sides of the stone-sown path. Well rounded pieces of teakwood played intricate games of hide and seek with the mud and brick structures. Candle lights, thinly veiled by multi-coloured glasses, painted the evening with different hues of faint colour.

The sky blushed a deep red of evening, reflecting off coloured sheesha glasses. Sweet scents of peaches and myrrh gathered form as wispy plumes of faint white smoke, rising and dissolving into the cold wintry evening. A thousand sandaled feet made rhythmic music on the stone paths, even as a hundred tongues spoke a multitude of languages, selling wares, dreams and more…

Cheeks touched cheeks and noses, noses, in the familiar routine of Middle Eastern familiarity. The faint aura of universal brotherhood hung in the Souq’s air…

When I woke from my trance, I found myself sitting amidst history, watching tradition blend seamlessly with modernity. People smoked scented hookahs, turned their heads, and surfed the World Wide Web. They sipped strong black teas, brewed together with centuries of knowledge, and conquered the distance barrier by speaking into their mobile phones…

How long does it take for a person to cover 300 metres? For me, it was almost three years. But if that was the price I had to pay for getting my first romantic feel of Doha’s Souq Waqif, I consider it as time and money well spent…

Lost, Atlantis, Found...

2008-12-15T11:41:00.000-08:00

I recently travelled to Dubai, with my cousin and went to this awesome place called Atlantis. Its in the Palm Jumeira and it simply rocked.

The place virtually teemed with fishes and the whole place was themed around the sunken city of Atlantis. I could have been lost underground for hours, had it not been for the thought of my plane leaving in about five hours time.

I reignited my romance with the seas and these were a few of the sights which pushed me into doing that. Dear viewer, here, I give in no particular order, some of the sights that transported me to a mythical land sunken beneath the sea.

Despite feeling the dread for a lost civilisation, I envy them for seeing these sights almost every single day....

Here is my tribute to the Lost Land of Athlantis...

1. The Red Dancer.

It undulated before my very eyes, in deep shades of red. It was mesmerising, hypnotic, and simply stunning.

2. Blue Dancers.

And then there were many of them, ululating, wandering around, gently touching one another, disappearing behind one another, just like the faint whiffs of smoke, coming from a warm chimney, on a cold winter evening...

3. The Blue Dancers, in a lighter mood...

When the lights turnes upon them, they were fainter than the faintest ghosts. And then they began their dance of hypnotic serenity.

4. The Being. The God. Atlantis.

If ever there was a god in Atlantis, he would look something like this. The King of the Volcanoes, who breathes flame and snorts out tarred smoke.

5. The Five Thousand Merry-Go-Rounders.

I entered their realm, of the deep sunken city of Atlnatis, and this sight greeted my eye. About 5,000 lovely warriors with silver gills, went round and round and round and round in a pure glass chamber. Eternal, lovely, peaceful, hypnotic.

6. Follow My Leader.

To the end of the world, to the end of time. The view of fishes following one another, to the ends of Atlantis and Back, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

7. And The Ethereal Light Shone Down...

The clear lights from yonder shone down, and a thousand fishes answered to its creator.

8. And A Thousand Bubbles Burst Forth...

This was the most beautiful sight of all. The lights from hig above, from the heavens, shimmered down the deep blue waters above the sunken lands of Atlantis. It ignited a thousand splendid bubbles, all lapped up hungrily through a thousand hungry gills. This sight, I shall never see again. At least, not ever with the same intensity asI did before...

9. The Sting Ray That Ended A Legend...

He was Australian. And he was the greatest animal lover the world has seen. The Sting Ray which stung him should really have felt bad for years after.

10. The United Colours Of Atlantis.

Do you see the bright difference between yellow stone and blue fish. It was as fantastic, and maybe even more, than is actually depicted here. Nothing, can recreate god's natural work of art.

11. The Man Who Never Sleeps.

He's 45-years-old, weighs 150kgm, and hasnt slept over all these years. I wonder what must have kept him awake all this while? The first time i saw him, i couldnt help but stare in awe. He was a revelation, and I'll leave it at that.

EPILOGUE: All Good things in life should come to an end. I once again reached the beginning of the end. I was richer by the experience.

And one day, if by a queer chance of fate, i find Atlantis, I'll tell those fishes that I already lived the life with them, in a land high above them, for a few brief moments in time...

I Miss You So, Ammachy…

2008-11-03T15:42:00.000-08:00

27 years a go, my appachan wished to see me hold a little bag, with a tiffin box and water bottle in it, and happily hop off to school.

27 years later, I wished that my ammachy could see my child do the same.

Both those dreams, which were happy thoughts when first dreamt, will now never happen. The sun around which our familial planets revolved, set one final time. Almost her entire family sat by her, singing hymns that she taught us throughout her 73-year-old pious life.

I believe that she waited for months, biting down searing pain, just to see me, before she became a collection of beautiful memories. She shunned death with the same gritty determination that made her the adorable woman she was. Aware of the depth of illness, the entire family got together to celebrate the Christmas of ’07. I lost my chance. To this day, I sport an empty chapter in my book of memories…

When my appachan passed, leaving her midway through their journey of life, she never once broke her stride. Her step-in into the great big void was effortless and natural. She easily kissed things back to life and we started living again…

The family built their annual get-togethers around her. Never once, until her very last, did she admit that she was tired. She proudly took the reins in hand and led us from the front. We laughed and she laughed with us. We cried and she always said never again…

And then as gently as a little stream ebbing away, her life began to seep out…

I’m happy that I spent some quality time with her, at the fag end of her days on earth.

I used to kneel by her bed, gently massaging her hands and feet, listening to the incomprehensible once-in-a-while utterances, talking to her, letting her know that I was just a breath away…

I once gathered her up in my arms, from the hospital bed to the comfort of her little bed at home, just like she did over a million times with me, at different stages of my growth…

It’s hard to imagine an empty house, without her reassuring presence. It’s hard to imagine a life without her, and her gentle toothy smile. It’s hard to imagine, that in a moment, time stood still and that it would never come back…

It’s hard to imagine…

Happily Ever After...

2008-09-20T21:19:00.000-07:00

September 11, 2001, people cowered in fright as terror dawned on the US of A.

September 11, 2008, people beamed with pleasure as another institution was firmly established.

My sister, the only one, got married.

Standing an arm’s distance away, resplendent in a white sari, awash in the yellow glow of halogen lamps, was the being which I had protected all my life, with all my will. She had transformed from ‘our little one’ to a confident young woman. It did not feel like 23 years had passed since I first held our family’s ‘little bundle of joy’ close to my chest, next to my mother’s cot, in the hospital room.

When happy memories rush at you from all sides, it feels delicious to submit to its joy. Growing up was certainly more fun with her around. She taught me to be a big brother, in her own subtle way.

There were times when I took her hands in mine, while crossing busy roads, and then there were times when I covered for her mistakes, earning sound thrashings in return. There were times when we used to make hand-drawn birthday cards (competing to outdo the other) and other times, as kids, when we used to count the number of cows during long journeys.

She was the one who always called my bluff and found that I cried while reading Reader’s Digest articles. She was the one, who in the darkness of countless movie theatres, found that it was not only my mother who had streams of wet tears while watching sentimental scenes. She was the one who knew all about my crushes, since class nine. She was my fashion guru and she was my rock. Correction, she IS my rock!

Not having you around is going to be hard. But knowing that you got the best mate there was, makes it a bit easier.

I now close a little box, inlaid with velvet, deep in my heart, about happy memories of you, from 23 years, till now. Once in a while, I will open it, living again the joys of our yesteryears. On September 11th, I opened another fresh little box in my mind, where shall reside the happy memories of your second phase in life.

NOTE: I dedicate this piece to every brothers this world saw, who enjoyed seeing their little sisters grow up from being shy youngsters to charming princesses.

A Song For December...

2008-06-25T04:56:00.000-07:00

The memory of my first hearing this song, on a cold December evening three years a go, is still fresh in my mind.

I was walking back from the St Stephens College Library, in Delhi, arms full of heavy books on Indian history, cursing our curriculum that made me toil so hard, yet was stingy in appreciating the efforts. Cutting and walking across the basketball court, I heard this song for the first time. Although four of my friends were singing along loudly, fittingly out of tune and reminding me of croaking frogs, it didn’t matter in the least…

…the song had already captivated me.

“Bulla Ki Jaana Maen Kaun” or “Bhulla, I don’t know who I am”, sung by Punjabi rock singer Rabbi Shergill, immediately went to the top of the list of MY favourite songs. It stays there, firmly at the top, to this day.

It was then strange that it took me three years (until today, June 25, 2008) to finally watch the song’s video. Once again, it blew me away. It reminded me so much of the past that I left behind, it reminded me so much about home…

...The green trees, the inky darkness of the night, the cold kept away from me by four layers of clothing, the warmth of the camp fire, the hotness of delicious tea against my freezing, ungloved hands, the mouth-watering smell of fresh made omelette, jam-packed between two lightly-brown roasted breads, the old radio hanging from the wall, blaring out the song which I fell in love with...

The song has made different impacts on different people. Over three years, I have heard some say that “Shergill sings with gay abandon,” while others “I could feel the heart-wrenching pain in his voice.”

For me, it was both.

This song, each time I got lost in it, made my heart soar like a bird who made its first flight into the deep blue sky. This song made me feel like having taken a prolonged dip in a cold river, on a hot summer day, refreshing me to the core of my being. This song made me feel like a lover, pining for his long lost one. This song made me feel... so much like myself.

Try to hear, see and feel this song.

Do not worry about lyrics, they have been deciphered for you. The camera work is awesome, capturing India’s mood perfectly.

Someday, if I meet the Punjabi gentleman who gave me a song to love forever, I would hold his hand in a firm shake, look into his eyes and say softly…

“Thank you…”

The Dance Of Death!

2008-03-27T05:24:00.000-07:00

Today, on March 26, 8.30 pm, I was involved in a spectacle I had only ever heard of before. The Qatar-Iraq World Cup qualifying match having concluded at the Al Sadd Stadium, I was walking towards the place where my car was parked. The atmosphere was a bit windy, balmy and thick with excitement…

…and smoke…

…and screeches of raw rubber burning on asphalt, on the huge parking area, where my Don Whito Corleone lay…

I was witnessing for the first time how Arabs truly proclaimed their happiness. Land Cruisers, Hummers, Nissan Patrols and even a flame red LAMBORGHINI danced the mad dance of victory, the mad dance of death...

A huge circle of cars, mostly white, all turned inwards, with their lights on, made up the arena of fun. Cars, in huge numbers, raced into the circle from different directions, at each other. Swerving at the final moment, they skidded sideways, in full circles, burning rubber, throwing up gut wrenching screeches.

The pattern of the mad, deadly dance shifted with the passing time. Starting out with just two cars, the numbers gradually built up and so did the cheer from the watching white-robed congregation.

And then, another strange noise, like that of croaking frogs, overtook those of the screeching tyres. The people, almost on cue, turned and fled. The cars stopped their deadly antics and rushed for various exit points as one. The revolving blue and reds were here, the cops…

They came in packs, flooding the arena in their powerful Land Cruisers. They cut off the exit points, caught a few death dancers, while many fled. The spectacle, which lasted more than ten minutes, was busted in less than one.

Sometimes, I believe in fate…

Had I decided to go back to the stadium to collect my friend, as was the original plan, I would have missed the entire show. I would not have had anything to write in here.

Now, when me pops asks me if I ever saw the dangerous side of living in Qatar, I can smugly say…been there, done that!

Resolutions!

2008-01-17T11:48:00.000-08:00

Thats the new look for the new year.

It will last a few months...

...or till the time my sister, or mother, finds out about it!

2007 Is Dead, Long Live 2008!

2007-12-31T03:45:00.000-08:00

Words won't be necessary.

These are pictures of 2007. Selected at random.

No, things weren't as bad as that, and NO, I AINT down and out...

Mr. 2008, here i come. Stop me if you bloody well can!

Of An Aquamarine Sea And The Visions It Holds…

2007-11-07T04:15:00.000-08:00

The blue waters of the Doha Bay lapped gently against the old black inflated tube, overgrown over the years with sea corrals, off the Marina at the Marriot Hotel. The yacht, slowly moving away from firm land, curved around and began its seaward journey.

The occupants, with wind playing games with their hair, sat mesmerised, as the Filipino captain expertly handled the boat, shouting instructions into his walkie-talkie, in sweet Tagalogue tongue.

The boat’s speed gathered, and wind scattered people’s hair with newfound vigour. The fun was on, and on the top platform of that open luxury Caterpillar yacht, my mind was born again.

I was once again a little child, flying through fresh, sea-salty night air. Stars shone bright, reflected in the deep pools of my fast-filling eyes. My spirit soared like a seagull, ever expanding its trajectory upwards in graceful motion, capable of by only the very best of god’s creations.

We left the Doha shoreline behind, and with the deepening depth, the blue waters turned green. The only other colour was that of the waves, making white froth against the boat’s hull.

I imagined imaginary fishes jump up and plop down back into the water, making widening water circles, to be immediately devoured by the ever-strengthening sea waves. I imagined a bald eagle sweeping down majestically from the heavens above, squarely landing on the water surface, firmly clutching a still-dying fish, that was the master of all it surveyed, till a few seconds a go…

I imagined an imaginary land, hundreds of feet below the calm sea tops, just waiting to be discovered.

I discovered that world, in the insides of the belly of the boat, so unlike its stylish outsides.

Luxury seeped from its every pore. Soft lights emanated from the most unlikely places, giving it an almost ethereal quality. Sunlight played a game of hide and seek with the lush green curtains at the windows. The carpets were softer than freshly sheared wool, off a well-bred Swiss sheep. Rich, sweet music engulfed me and tugged at my heartstrings. And as easily as it appeared, the vision lifted…

The wind still flowed, and I was still at sea.

The glorious, aquamarine, calm, peaceful, life-giving, salty sea…

These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things…

2007-10-24T04:58:00.000-07:00

The ‘Sound Of Music’ inspired me, for the millionth time, and hence this list, of a few of my favourite things…

- The wind - sweeping through my hair, tears - forming channels on the sides of my eyes, as I breathe the delicious night air, while coursing the misty dark New Delhi roads, in my silver Honda Activa, on my way to Jama Masjid, seventeen kilometres away from where I lived, to have steaming hot beef kebabs, lovingly baked over red hot coal pieces, and blown hot by the little silver hand operated fan, worked by the little boy, standing nearby, in his traditional Indian Muslim dress…

- Sitting cross-legged, on the floor, with a big elephant-ear shaped leaf in front of me, white, yellow and red curries keeping me company, eagerly looking forward to have the first taste of steaming red rice, cooked in the dark black mud clay pot…

- Slicing the still night with the yellow beam from my pearly white ‘Don Whito Corleone’, during long drives into the desert, with nothing more than soft music, keeping pace with the very beats of my heart…

- Seeing a cloudy sky, feeling the clap of distant thunder, eagerly looking heavenwards, to catch the first round fat water droplet, at the tip of my nose…

- The birds that fly to the south, in an open V formation, with wind on their wings, and courage in their eyes…

- The gentle gooey feeling of clay, sticking to the base of my feet, and the delicious pain that follows, as my bare skin touches the hard white rock below, at the Al Khor beach, on a dark night, with just two friends, and the numerous crab hunters, with their shining lanterns, as small as fireflies, in the distance, clothed in darkness…

- The pain of labour, while giving birth to words, fearing each moment, if they would be lost on me, forever….

- The immense satisfaction, after each successful story written, of having brought into this world, a healthy, screaming, imaginary baby, full of words…

Last, definitely not the least, thinking about my favourite things, and mentally reliving every moment of them, over, and over, and over…

The Written Word…

2007-09-29T14:06:00.001-07:00

I sat in the middle of a largely empty stadium, devoid of the numerous screaming fans that usually inhabit it. They were still at least an hour away from me. It was then that I realized that my laptop had died on me. I had nothing but the greens in front of me, gradually springing to life with the frantic footsteps of the camera crew, eager to air the football match that was soon to happen.

Strangely, I was not sad at my predicament of an hour to be burned out… for then, I rediscovered the joy I always felt, when I was writing.

I freed myself from the constant ‘spell checks, word counts and thesaurus checks’ that had made my words plain mechanical. My notebook was once again filled with words that had cuts and bruises on them. My hands protested against the unfamiliar writing routine I was putting it through. Somehow, I felt happy, and I felt human.

Once again, it was that delicious race against time to transfer ideas onto paper, before they disappeared altogether. No one has ever called my handwriting neat. But at that point, I swear I felt that it was the best on the globe.

Though I don’t remember the first word I learned to write, I do remember the first word I spoke - ‘Am-ma’, which means ‘mother’ in my native tongue. I do remember the innumerable hours the lady so selflessly spent, to teach me to write and read. I do remember her gifting me my first ‘join-the-dots-yourself’ alphabet book. I do remember the joy I felt when I completed joining the dots, though I had no idea at the time that I had written what was my first few English alphabets.

Sometimes, in the darkness of my bedroom, when I am balancing myself between consciousness and a dreamless sleep, I rue my loss of the written word.

To own a computer was a childhood fantasy. I yearned to escape from the dirtiness of my written word and graduate to the tiny, neat, roman letters that appeared on screen whenever I gently tapped the white keyboard in front of me. For the 18-year-old boy who was me, it was a dream that led me on while growing up.

Now, two desktops and two laptops later, I yearn to return to the written word, fully knowing that it’s simpler said than done. Computers hold a charm for me no more. In the midst of a rapidly filling stadium, I understood that pen and a sheaf of paper were indeed my greatest friends.

Not to forget the written word was a lesson I learned while I grew up. Not to forget the written word will now be a lesson that I will learn never to forget.

...And Calm Came Down!

2007-08-18T04:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, emotions built over months will pass in just an hour of simple talking. When it does, one'll feel calm, and peace with oneself.

Like I do now!

The wait, and the calm, was well worth it!

Hallelujah!

The ‘F’ Word

2007-08-10T21:42:00.000-07:00

When it comes to matters of the ‘F’ – The Family - I have been a lucky bloke. My parents knew the importance of a tightly bound family, god bless them for that.

Every of my trips home, including this one which I waited for over a year and a half, has been something that I looked forward to. This year, I had started my countdown well ahead, from day 150 on.

Scattered widely at the four corners of my state and in the neighbouring one, we have never been closer. Every one of us counted days on the fingers of our hands to the day when all would descend to one house. And then, laughter, fun, and unbound love would come together. And it did.

On the very first day of my vacation, my grandmother fell ill. And the hospital became the family. From the four corners came the family, just like that, and room No. 502 suddenly became the next meeting ground. The pall of gloom usually associated with a hospital suddenly became a stranger among us. All was well.

During our get-togethers, memories are always an important compatriot. Blunders done during growing up years always came back to haunt me and my cousin brothers/sisters. None were spared. And when fourteen people sit together, some on chairs and some on the floor, there is never a dearth of smile-worthy topics. And that’s why I love my family get-togethers.

I have been lucky to have strongly-bound families on both sides. I don’t know if I would have turned out the way I am, for better or for worse, had it not been for this group. I owe my way-of-life to them.

I am content.

Feeling In Love...

2007-07-22T13:55:00.000-07:00

It must be a direct result of all those intense love songs that I heard in the calmness of the silence provided by my dear Don Whito Corleone…

The ethereal silence inside my car and the faint chords of melancholy belted out by the soulful Gregorian saints gave me that feeling again…that of feeling in love. The boy was once again little, excitedly hopping ahead to where the sands of time intended to take him. For him, without a doubt, the land of love would be filled with milk and honey and frankincense and myrrh…

…and of course, the girl he went to sleep thinking about, the girl he woke up wishing about…

The first time the boy felt in love was in his sixth grade, when the girl in the blue dress with the blue tiffin box to match offered him a piece of brown bread dabbed in red jam and faint yellow butter… he accepted the bread crumb and along with it, a part of her, into his life…

The feeling stayed for close to six years, until he reached graduation.

During a boring session at the physics lab, there seemed to be one spot that emanated much positive energy. Invariably drawn to its point of origin, the boy stood, and stared. Seated on a high platform, eyes closed in concentration, listening intently to the vibrations of the thin tuning fork, sat the most beautiful being he had ever seen… she struck the tuning fork again and the vibrations seemed to link with his heart, to the very depths of it…

… and the girl opened her eyes to him. The boy could do nothing, but melt at the sweet smile the girl gave him…

Eons later, the boy graduated and each went their way, in search of the life they knew they both should lead…separately.

Sometimes, when the boy sees a girl smile, nod her hair away from the forehead while concentrating on the book she is reading, take the extra care to put things back in place, arrange the flowers in breathtaking fashion, smiles at the old lady before helping her cross the road, wave at the school bus filled with grinning children, hand over loose change to the blind man sitting on the road… he would once again feel in love. A love that was never meant to be...

With the faint hum of the air conditioner in his ear and a thousand stars reflected in his eyes, the boy took the right turn, to home and to oblivion.

Kawabunga...Its The Holy Grail Of Football...

2007-06-17T11:46:00.000-07:00

I am sorry, I know i am vain... but i just wanted to shout it from the rooftops anyways.

Damn!

When AC Milan's Clarence Seedorf unveiled the Champions League trophy at the ASPIRE Academy, i just died.

And i lived...in a piece of photo, immortalised for ever.

Blimey!

Just Plain Crazy Old Greeker!

2007-06-16T12:14:00.001-07:00

You know, its one of those times...

What do people collect for a hobby? Rocks, stamps, coins, centipedes? I collect mails in my yahoo inbox.

I just sat down today and went down memory lane, through 2045 e-mail messages, seven years worth. I replied to about forty, for the second time in five to seven years.

There were people who owed me cash, there were people whom I hated through the core of my being, there were people whom I owed my life to, there were people who I knew I could never talk to again.

The thought, somehow, makes me truly melancholy. Why had I waited to rewrite to them for so long? After all, they are people who I have known through that growing up phase called life...

It’s plain amazing, but of the forty that I mailed, just three bounced. And that leaves me with only thirty seven reasons to be anxious.

Tomorrow, for me, is NOT just another day. It is for me, the delicious wait for the unknown.

Would my mail ring a bell? Would the ringing prompt them into action? Would they be joyous at hearing from me? Would they spite me for the troubles I took? Would anyone remember? Would anyone care?

A few years a go, when I still lived in a world where lies didn’t exist, I would have felt an optimist. But now, in an age where emotions are considered a weakness, I truly don’t know anymore...

The Corniche Virgin!

2007-05-24T01:01:00.000-07:00

I was, in one of its truest sense, a Corniche virgin.

I knew not the pleasures of walking the Corniche. I knew not about the gentle salt breeze that would play hide and seek with my hair strands. I knew not about the pleasant pain that the walk would leave in its wake, I knew not the joy of lying on the grass afterwards, staring into the black sky, willing a star to appear.

I witnessed the Asian Games on the shores of the gentle blue sea, which splashed gracefully at the stone walls that guarded man from water. During the triathlon event, I watched one toned body after the other emerge from the sea’s depths to run the Corniche. I watched, I wrote, and I got published. It was just my job.

Yesterday was different. I wanted me to believe that I could.

I did.

I started slow, promising myself to go slower as the distance increased. Surprisingly, my legs had other ideas, something it has never done before. The walk took on a life of its own. The simple walk gradually graduated to a ‘quick walk’ and later went on to metamorphose itself into the desperate urge to run.

An hour and a minute after it all started, I knew that this must have been how all those timeless love stories began.

The pleasure of walking the Corniche, was finally mine.

Life Is Beautiful!

2007-04-29T11:56:00.000-07:00

Open it up, and watch it unfurl in vivid hues of blues, greens and violets!

Need I Explain?

2007-03-31T05:25:00.000-07:00

Excuse the profanity. They aren’t mine.

What IS mine, is the condition,

That of a confused writer!

The Music That Maketh Me!

2007-02-07T04:18:00.000-08:00

Some days, I hallucinate about the Roman Catholic churches, which sung the Gregorian chants for mass.

The church would almost always have ceilings that touch the skies and more often than not, the ceilings would be adorned in frescos…the fall Of Man, Judgment Day, The Rise of Son of God…

The tiny streams of light coming in through colored glass pictures - which took many glassmakers the major part of their lives to craft - would create the feeling of being in a garden made of glasses.

The men, and the women, would sit in stony quietness on the two neatly laid out rows of benches made of black teak wood. The silence of man talking to god would as always, be deafening.

And then, high above them, from invisible vantage points near the roof, the opening notes would play down. It would start as a tiny note of the grand piano. Then there would be the quivering voice of the tenor. The shiver in his voice would then be complemented by the deep strong voice of the bassists. The sopranos would take their cue and music would begin its life journey. The sounds of a thousand throats under the frescoed ceiling would then join the singing from above. Man and man, women and women, would come together to sing for the lord.

The power of music would never fail to drain out all worldly differences. There would no longer be white, black, brown, old, young, freckled or supple skin. There would not be the poor, the rich, the once poor and now rich or any other permutations of life’s situations.

There would only be music that transforms one’s senses. Transformation from mere mortals, to the one standing in front of god, gazing at his greatness, feeling small at the strength of it all….

Once in a while, when I am insane enough to travel into the night with just the silence of Whito by my side, my hands would search for the CD I marked ‘Gregorian chants’. With Whito his silent self, and the Latin chants washing all over me, I would make my connection with God. I would hold my private conversation with Him, with His favourite music setting the background.

Me, and the world, have no one to thank but a group of monks who lived centuries a go in penury, for the greatness of god. They believed that god’s name was beautiful and so had to be his music.

Unknown monks of the generations past, I thank thee for bringing me the most beautiful sounds in my life.

Ave!

It (D)Rained!

2007-01-29T09:54:00.000-08:00

There was a time not too long a go when the first drops of rain on fresh baked earth sent me into moments of nirvana. The heat would suddenly dissipate and in its place would come the sweet smell of parched earth, which suddenly founds its lifeblood. And then, inevitably, the croaks of a hundred frogs would follow.

I had my most beautiful rain experiences in God’s own country, at my very own backyard. There always was a set pattern. The skies would darken; my pet dogs would get restless; the air would cool down; the first hint of wetness would creep into the wind; and then, god would cry down.

…Or as my some of my friends used to say, god would take his shower.

It was a long time back that I fell for rain and she, was my first lover. I could sense its mood swings, its silent rage. I could see the soft smile, I could feel the gentle grace. It was always my soothing calm and more than anything, she was mine.

During the Asian Games, it rained in Qatar like never before. It lasted weeks together, but there never was any warmth. There was no smell of parched earth, there was not a croak to be heard. All around me, the pale earth got paler, and slimier. The Arabs went wild with joy and burned tyres on the pavement in an act of joy.

Sometime then, somewhere deep inside, rain died for me. For it to come back alive, I need to be surrounded by the greens, the chirpings of the birds, the restlessness of my dogs, the yellow leaves that skelter down, the croaks of the frogs, the salty wind that course through the hair…

In short… Home!

The Winter Of ’06

2006-12-22T01:17:00.000-08:00

The Games Of Your Life is over, leaving in its wake a big void, which many may find difficult to bridge.

The Games, was for me, an opportunity, which I think, I used wisely.
The Games, was for me, a threat, which looked like it would destroy me.
The Games, was for me, time spent (or not) with the family.

15 days since the start of the Games, I became a battle hardened veteran.

I saw bloodless war, healthy rivalry, passion, sadness, tears – of both sadness and joy, sports fanaticism, empty stadiums, extra-full roads, never before seen rains and cold, the church and many things else.

I saw and learned, from what they call and I follow, The Games Of your Life.

(That momentous night was captured by Shahjahan - a colleague, dear friend, and ace lensman. Thanks for letting me use the pic, Bro!)

I Christen You… “Don Whito Corleone!”

2006-11-23T12:44:00.000-08:00

The apple of my eye, accumulated realization of a thousand dreams. What I would take my life forward in, what god gave me after putting me through the learning ropes, what I christened…

Don Whito Corleone!

Old Christmas Tree…

2006-11-05T12:23:00.000-08:00

Its 50 days to Christmas. For the first time in half that number of years, I will celebrate it away from home.

Christmas, 53 years ago, was the time when a second reason to celebrate the day was introduced to this world. Though my father says that he lacks a day to call his own, we say that no one but the whole world celebrates with him.

Christmas, 23 years ago, is the first memory I have of the rickety train journey, from a then small town of Cochin, to an even smaller town called Thiruvalla. Grandparents keeping their eyes peeled to see their second generation always counted as a blessing for me.

Christmas, seven years ago, was the time I fell in love with music, and the church choir. It was the time I knew, that my deep bass voice could be used in singing notes.

Christmas, a year ago, was ten days before I knew about my dad’s heart surgery. For the second time in three weeks, I boarded the plane for just the third time in my life. Frozen with fear, I landed at Chennai. But thank god, the New Year was born a happy child.

Christmas, now and for ever, will be a major reason I would continue to miss home, and my parents, and all that I hold near and dear. It would be the season that gave me the most to remember.

Present day, 3000 miles away from home, Christmas will be my private pain, as much as it is my public joy.

My Gentle Breeze...

2006-09-25T14:44:00.000-07:00

I have no qualms in admitting that often, I am a scared child.

But what a scared child also knows, is how to become not a scared child anymore. Whenever I am, I close my eyes, letting my mind wander to a red house set amidst the greenest green. My mind rocks to the gentle wind that makes the littlest noise passing through the yellow leaves that pave the path. My eyes will search for the ancient gramophone, with enough youth still in it to turn me one more soulful ballad.

Then with the light breeze drying the tears on my cheeks, I think about the ‘Gentle Breeze’ in my life, my local guardian angel, my Nazeem uncle.

Much before I saw him, I had his picture in my minds eye, painted on by stories my father told me about. When we met, not surprisingly, the picture was more accurate than not. He smiled. He was thin. His eyes shined. He spoke with a rhythm to his voice, waving his fingers, conducting the phantom opera.

When I went away from home for my first long spell of solitude in a military hostel, I was not alone. I had him a loud call away. He was my local guardian angel. What he was, was also my school’s favourite neighborhood singer. I still remember me, sitting enthralled in the auditorium, listening to life, in beautiful musical notes.

Misfortune never bothered him. He faced them with a song on his lips. When it took away his music from his lips, he fought back by gently tapping his left fingers, in tune with the music in his heart. He never gave up, and he taught me his life.

Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel his heart beat, in tune to the musical notes inside. Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel his gentle defiance, at fate which played a game of dice. Two thousand miles away from me, I can feel the strength of determination emanating from the body, made frail by the forces bigger than man.

If he is half the person I know he is, he will be home to greet me with a song in his heart and a smile on his lips. After all, he was the person who taught me that a ‘Gentle Breeze’ can also mean M.S Nazeem…

A Haka Birthday To Me!

2006-09-15T04:35:00.000-07:00

Haka birthday to youuu…

Haka birthday to youuu…

Haka birthday, dear Ajoooo…

Haka birthday to youuuu…

Quarter century done and over with.

A small step for me, a giant step for me too!!!

A Short Goodbye...

2006-09-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

I am leaving my life in a blog behind for a little little while,

To not run away from real world realities, I need to rest, and rally around meself.

Recuperation might be just a day away, again, it may be a year…

Leaving behind a lot unsaid, I go,

to return, on another day…

peace be with you, people,

Shalom…go in peace and Godspeed!

Astalavista!

2006-08-25T15:19:00.000-07:00

And He Taught Me To Drive…

2006-08-12T13:21:00.000-07:00

Learning to drive all over again, feels so much like going back home in time…

to when I was much younger, to the time when my father gave me the handle of the Royal Enfield Bullet, on a straight road sans disturbances, with darkness upon us and the constant whimpering of my mother with my still young sister in her arms, terrified and saying in a little voice that I was too young to do what I was doing…

And I remember my father say through the corner of his mouth, without looking back, checking the road ahead for his young driver son, “I wouldn’t give him control if I didn’t trust him. If there is trouble, I will take over…” and my mother calmed down. I knew that day that even at seven, one could feel ten feet tall.

Eons later, when the Enfield disappeared and four wheels made their appearance for the first time in our lives, it was my father again who made me take the wheel. (Though I fell in love with our bright red Maruti Van at first sight, I had to wait till my eighteenth birthday to graduate from the left side of the Van to the right). Endless slaps on the wrist in a quest to gain steering balance later, my father felt confident enough to agree that the Van had become an extension of my mind and body. And he left me loose, to live life with the car, my own way.

Again, he trusted me enough to permit me to use the car as I wanted to. The trust was always there that I wouldn’t do anything that he wouldn’t with his car.

Years later, when I am on the fringes of getting my own car, trying for a drivers license whose primary concern is that I graduate from the RIGHT back to the LEFT, I miss my father. I miss the days when he sat by my side, never showing the fear he felt, slapping away at each tiny mistake and praising each moment of wise driving.

I started Qatar’s driving classes on the 10th of this month. I believe there is no better time to acknowledge the best driving teacher in the world.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the award goes to my dad, patience personified, for being the best in the trade when it comes to training his first born, in that delightful indulgence known simply as driving…

You Made Me A believer, Thank You...

2006-08-09T08:01:00.000-07:00

When I started my blog, I didn’t think much about it.
It died a natural death.

Then Indian Express happened to me and someone there helped me turn a believer.
2000 hits later, I know.

I was meant to be here, in this little space on the web that I call, my own.
Thank you, for being here and coming back, and in the process,
making me a believer, in my own god-given talents.

Thank you!

About A Thief, Me...

2006-08-06T11:56:00.000-07:00

Forgive me father, for I have thieved.

Eons ago, when I was still a crazy coin collector, I did what is unthinkable for me today, I thieved.

I still remember the incident as clear as yesterday. We were in a moving school bus and there were a lot of kids around, in blue. I was all of nine while he, seven. We talked about everything under the earth and soon enough, talk turned to coins. That was when temptation struck.

It was he who threw me the bait and unashamedly I took it. He looked me in the eye and asked if I knew about the East India Company. I said I did and dramatically slowly, he took out his little black Kodak film roll case. He jingled it near my ear and sure enough, there was the rattle of coins.

I was dying with curiosity and the devil took his time to open the box. Slowly, very slowly, as if the djinn resided inside, he opened the box. There were seven copper coins in all, one huge while others varied from small to smallest. I remember the words I spoke, "May I look at them?"

He wouldn’t let me, at first. But soon he gave in to the look in his friends eyes and gave the box to me.

I took out the coins one by one and deliberately took my time in looking at each one of them carefully. I wasn’t interested in the beauty of the coins, far from it. I was deliberately timing my movements so that the stop where he had to get down was approaching fast. My friend sat lost looking at the glee on my face. I am sure he must have felt contended, at having made me happy.

Then in one sudden flash of realization, he understood that his stop was on him. He tried to snatch the coins from my hand. I deliberately stumbled and barring the view of the smallest coin behind the largest one, I slipped the little one quietly into my pocket. He just ran with the box.

I was truly unhappy that I could not steal the biggest coin. I never felt guilty; it took me many more years before that. But when it did, he was completely lost to me.

To this day, that little coin resides in a corner of my room. It is safely packed inside a little black Kodak film roll case. If I ever meet my friend again from so long ago, I shall take that box out and beg him for forgiveness.

Forgive me father, for I have thieved.

Black Is thicker Than Blood!

2006-08-03T13:17:00.000-07:00

So Do I.

At Odds With The World...

2006-07-29T05:57:00.000-07:00

but never will I lie on the ground, defeated...

...And Thus I Left My Heart Behind!

2006-07-23T11:55:00.000-07:00

When memories come back unexpectedly, sometimes, I miss my school.

Would you study at a place where the ratio was 21 girls for over 600 boys? I studied there and if there ever was another chance, I gladly would do it all over again. I would study at my school, the Sainik School.

First memories first and those were the crew cuts. Hand held machines bit into half bent heads and at ten minutes end, the head felt a cleaner and better place to hold up. Pushing down the maroon beret around the fringes of a freshly partially shorn head, those were the times when I felt heaven came down to Trivandrum.

Wednesday was the day of the heavenly feast. We used to run to the mess-hall to be the first to grab the softest poori's with the biggest chunks of half cooked beef. Whoever said school was never fun?

Board exams came and seriousness left through the back door. The mango trees were our play grounds. Two stood on the ground while the third said hello to the tree tops. Ripe, heavy green mangoes fell down and were lovingly caught on towels. Sneaking it into the dormitory, it was covered with cloth and beaten against the wall.

The soft sound of the fleshy fruit breaking was music for our ears. Salt and chilly powder would have already appeared magically. The tip of the juicy green fruit would turn into white first and then into blood red. And then, it would drown in a sea of saliva. If that wasn’t innocent heaven, I shall never discover what it is.

That world ended for me doing my tenth. A part of me died and another was born. I never went back to school. It remains to this day my own sweet pain.

The day I go back, I will stand on stage, the way I wanted to for so many years. Looking once at the empty rows of seats, I would close my eyes and visualize it being filled with people. Closing my eyes and saying a silent prayer, I would explain to myself and the hollow world I see in front of me, why I left my life in school behind, why I used to wake up thinking I was late for P.T, why I thought the best years of my life would never come back…

…why I miss school so much, years after I finally tore myself away from it.

And God Painted The World!

2006-07-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

What colors would god give the world if he was to do it all over again?

Thanks to the National Geographic, for showing the world for a century, the beauty of sight!

And Then The Land Took Me In…

2006-07-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia for me is also when I look back at my Goa phase of life, a phase which lasted the longest two weeks of my life.

I landed up at beach country to make a movie in a day. I had a single piece of paper with a single name on it for company. And then there was the huge backpack which my mother hated and two days worth of train lag (I did not get a reserved ticket and general people kept me company. Sleeping and then not, I was afraid for everything except the sheer joy of uncertainty)

Four thirty was an obscene hour to make my landing. I took the night flight on two wheels. Delicious night air sliced through my hair. I made planes with my hands. They lifted by themselves as cool air struck their base. I was flying, latching on for dear life to the person in charge of my life, but barely his.

I put a face to the man who existed on my dirty piece of paper the next day. What would a stranger do for another? Anything under the sun, provided the stranger is a Goan.

Coming to a land for the first time in your life (not counting the family trip you had eons ago) to make a movie is not what any sane men would do. Insanity showed me my way. Happiness that my father had allowed me to be in Goa led me on. Ticking away one obstacle after the other, the stranger showed my way.

I location hunted. The places found me. As to the actors, the stranger was always there. I wanted transport, he found me his Vespa scooter. I wanted a four wheeler for shoot day, he gave me the key to his black Gypsy without a second thought, with petrol filled to the brim.

I did not burst the time frame given to me and I fathered the movie on time. I gave birth to my imagination. My baby never won an ward, but it did win minds. It was never the best of the lot of 40, but it gifted me a few of my bosom pals.

In fourteen days, a land transformed me. Goa was the place of wine and sun and sand to me, but then it became the land that bore my baby.

It became to me, simply, the holy ground.

Swami Greekerananda!

2006-07-12T04:22:00.000-07:00

And then I thought, why not?

Courtesy – My beast (A.K.A Nokia 3230),
Picasa,
Silvester and…
One moment of madness or absurd creativity,
whichever way you see it…

I Walked, The Lady Of Sand Followed...

2006-07-11T01:17:00.000-07:00

I always loved the prospect of getting lost. If it was in an alien territory where I knew not their language, it was all the more better. To me, it was a true test of my gesticulating skills. The sign language expert that I was, I always passed with flying colors. I never once lost my way, until the day France cried and Italy sighed in deliverance.

Where there is a will, there is a way, they say. I insist that it is not so. It should be ''Where there is a will and a human to ask the way, there is a way.'' Else, you are doomed, like I was that fateful day.

I was on an assignment to the other end of the world. Just as I finished, the Lady of Sand started her hunt. She hunted with fury, howling in glee, making sand her weapon. It blinded and it stung. It took away everything in its path.

And then, I lost my way, courtesy, The Lady of Sand. She passed the dunes and they never were the same again. Walking in the storm, I felt the pathos of the doomed nomad. I tasted bitter fear, and I shook.

Heat, Wind, Sand – The deadly trilogy that made many a man lie down and die. I lived fear, and then redemption came.

I reached a tarred road during a moment of respite for The Lady of Sand and I hailed the pleasing green on four wheels. Leaning back on the plush seat in controlled cool temperature was not an act of luxury. It was the joy of realization that after the Lady of Sand, there inevitably came the grace of god.

I, Dream Of Chocolat...

2006-07-08T04:58:00.000-07:00

Chocolates overpowered me very early on.
Around me, they seemed to take a life of their own. They smiled at me from shop windows, begging to be taken away.
More often than not, I obliged, taking them delicately off the shelf and depositing them lightly in my shirt pocket, afraid to hurt my babies.
I preferred the deep fried brown hue to the whiteness of milk.
I loved the sensation of thick chocolate sticking to the roof of my mouth and my tongue’s toil to yank it free. When my battle was being won, I adored the heady feeling of diluted chocolate swirling around in my mouth.
I don’t remember the person who bought me my first chocolate- it should have been my mother. Another vivid image remains, though.
It was she who fed me the first chocolate of my life. I can still picture my mother breaking little pieces off the bigger chunk, mashing it with her fingers for my little mouth where teeth were just putting in its maiden appearance.
And I fell in love with the 12 brown pieces which came wrapped in golden foil paper and then in violet. They called it the ‘Dairy Milk.’
The love of my life remains so to this day. Twenty five years has done nothing to take away the charm of a piece of cocoa melted in sugar. They are the closest heaven can come down to earth.
I know it for sure, for when it comes to chocolates, I have been there and I have definitely done that.

Every Creative Writer's Nightmare...

2006-07-04T03:24:00.000-07:00

This post is an ode to the words which never took shape, however hard I tried.

This post is for those times, when you desperately wanted to write, but could not.

This post is for those long hours spent on rumination, on the next topic for the post.

This post is for the seven complete deletions that happened before this was accepted by the editor in me.

Writers block, damn him to hell!

After My Beast, There Came Silvester...

2006-07-01T02:49:00.000-07:00

Why do I give names to all my possessions?

Why do I call my Nokia 3230 'The Beast'?

Born out of sheer habit, my new laptop, a day old, has been named 'Silvester'.

He is my Noble Fair unicorn.

It wouldn't change the world, nor save it, but for me, the world has just changed.

Holding on to his white mane, I watch the world go by.

Dream two down, many more to go!

Coffee, Tea Or My Me?

2006-06-24T05:02:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer – Though a lot of passing years has jaded my memory, I have tried to be as accurate as accurate can be.

I have always had a soft corner for village tea shops. We were truly spoilt for choices at the place where I grew up. We had three shops to choose from and I was a spoilt brat, thanks to my grand dad, who was quite a prominent figure.

Those ancestral-home visits were reserved for the long holidays. Many times have I gone to bed praying for it to start the very next day. But when I woke up, it was still those four white walls, looking and being looked upon.

The tea shops were always the same, the ambience never changed. If in one, the goddess smiled down on you with a shower of gold coins, at the next, it was Jesus Christ with an open wound to his heart, oozing blood and love. It smelled my favourite smell at the third tea-shop – that of freshly squeezed coconut oil.

It was in these shops that the world came together. It was in these shops that the news of the world was gathered and dispelled. It was here that a million 'matches-made-in-heaven' was finalized and it was here that rebellion first came to my little village. It was the place where my father got his strong circle of friends and it was here that I wished I could emulate my father and his close circle.

It was a million things in one, and then some more. It was a million things that many thought would not change, but did. It was a million things that described me, and then became strangers.

I walked those roads recently when I was home. Later, I wished I hadn’t.

The dried palm-leaf roof was gone, hard concrete boiled down on me. The little card-board sign which proclaimed the hotels name was long dead and gone. Plastic coated vinyl sheets glared down at me. The little wooden shelf which displayed the little round snacks were little no more. Nor were they wooden.

It was an 'Impersonal' steel hue everywhere, as long as my tear stained eye went. My old land was gone, to never ever come back. As I walked home, it began to rain, first as a drizzle and then as a torrent. For a fleeting moment, I felt god sharing my pain, for things that had gone horribly wrong.

Maybe one day, I will tell my grand children…'' Before Pepsi and Coke overtook my country, there were these three little tea shops…''

Its NOT About Money, Honey!

2006-06-17T02:39:00.000-07:00

I swear, its not about money.

For 23 years, I never provided, I did not have the means.

If my thinking confirms with what god has planned for me, then I believe I will provide for the next 23 years or even much more.

It’s a nice glowing feeling of warmth inside at the start of every month. Sending money home gives you the feeling of doing your Penny's worth - for the trust, the time, the money, and the pains – your parents invested in you.

It may be the 'Mallu-syndrome' at work and if so, I am the happiest man on earth.

I gotta go, I think I can already hear the sweet sound of my next pay cheque arriving.

Tagged A Strange Stranger!

2006-06-07T22:40:00.000-07:00

I was tagged for the very first time by a very dear friend. It's eons since I promised to give the tag a thought, and now, eons later, I do. The next few lines could bore you to death or bring a curving smile as your face blossoms in recognition. My duty is to recognise six weird facts about me (easier than I thought it would be) and tag another six of my friends who Blog.
First tings first. Ladies and gentlemen, the Strange Facts Files:

Strange Fact 1 – I can never ever find a topic to write on, it finds me every time. I love to paint pictures with words and the pictures would never be earth shattering. It'd mean a lot to me, but never to the world. I feel weird in deriving pleasure out of describing the tiniest details in my posts, but that’s me, for you!

Strange Fact 2 – I relate incidents in my life to smell and music. It stays with me for ever, coming back to me in flashes and flashbacks. Endless rumination follows and the end result would always be deep sadness or wild exhilaration of joy.

Strange Fact 3 – I still cry when I read the articles on Reader's Digest. I cry for happy endings in movies and wail when it ends the way it should nowadays. I take crying to an entirely different level and everything would have been fine had I not been a guy of 24, with 84 kilos on his more than chubby 170 cm framed body. If that’s not strange, tell me, what is?

Strange Fact 4 – Has a fascination for all eye-balls other than my colour, Black. Green mesmerises me, Blue dumbfounds. While Grey never ceases to amaze, Brown roots me to the spot. Fiery Orange is what I have looked out for and Black is what has looked back at me most. Stranger than fiction, yet truer than the truth!

Strange Fact 5 – In a web-site named Orkut lives my dear pals of time and beyond. I know of their existence, but never have added them. They took pains to add me and I have always welcomed them. It's strange to know that I am acting pricey (although it's not in my character), but its stranger to know that I continue doing so despite risking a snub.

Strange Fact 6 – Its feels so strange to know that I sat with this post for the past three hours, assessing my strangeness quotient. So much for the thought of me being the strangest human to have walked the earth.

Friends I feel are strange enough to have a tag on them…

Shivangi
Ajoy Philip Babu
Sherry
Sharan Sharma
Rajasree Ray
GBU

(Please do what I have done and tag six of your friends, for more info, just send a screamer my way.)

It Rained!

2006-05-26T23:19:00.000-07:00

Patience is a very good ally. It might rain down peacefully in here in a day or two.

Jade Eyes!

2006-05-18T01:33:00.000-07:00

This picture of the Afghan girl, whose rags were her only riches, is almost as old as me. I was two when this photo which mesmerised the world was taken. She stared right into the world's conscience and became its silent ache. 14 years ago, a girl from Kuwait, looked at me like this, and she became to me, what this snapshot became to the world.

I can never forget my sixth grade in 1991. Iraq invaded oil rich Kuwait and my many relatives headed back home, as paupers. In the middle of that turbulent term, to my class came a malayalee girl, scarred by war, terrified of the world. She was alien to us, for we never knew what war meant, though we played it every other day.

She sat in a corner, green eyes peering cautiously over glasses with a thick transparent frame, aware of every movement in the classroom. My female classmates tried to make her feel at home. For us boys, wrongly, she was the perfect alien, different from us and the way we grew up.

Our school was a strict vegetarian institution. It was sacrilege to even mention meat. On her second day at school, she brought an egg roll to class, neatly packed in her little pink Tiffin box, and all hell broke loose. Boys surrounded her and started chanting that she had committed a grave sin. The little face, with fear already writ large on it, swelled up with tears, but bravely, held.

All the while, I sat there, little and stunned and stupid, unable to move. Her eyes looked for an escape from within the growing, chanting circle. She looked at me for help with eyes I will never ever forget - It truly held the pathos of a hunted animal. I changed school soon after, completely losing track of her. Her eyes kept returning to me, on and off, for the next 14 years, reminding me of what I should have done, but never did.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006 was like any other day, except that I met her on the net unexpectedly. The sad, unsure young girl had grown into a confident young woman. It gives me strength to apologise, for being the scared young boy that I was, who could not help her when she really needed help. That said and done, god knows - tonight, I will sleep the most peaceful man on earth.

The Moment Of Truth!

2006-05-14T16:13:00.000-07:00

12-05-2006,
8.03 P.M,
Qatar Sports Club,
Doha,
Qatar.

He ran with his heart and his legs carried him like the wind on the trees.

9.76 seconds later, he ran into my arms and he ran into history.

Justin was the subject of my first World Scoop and hence is the closest to my heart. I ran to him and jumped up to hug him. He looked at me, smiled and hugged me right back.

Justin Gatlin, fastest man on the planet, biggest gentleman i have ever come across!

Land of Black Gold, Yellow Sand And A Thousand Screaming Throats!

2006-05-06T09:02:00.000-07:00

When thousands of white paper squares crash against you accompanied by the wild beat of drums and sheer magnitude of a hundred powerful throats, you cannot help but look heavenwards at the thick mass of people lining the top edge of the gallery, leaning down and making their pleasure known.

The first time this happened, it took a little while to register that the Arabs who were doing this were actually celebrating their team's victory. It was the final of the Qatar Football league and the leading team had just won the tournament. What followed that day is one of the reasons why I love sports so much.

No matter who it is by your side, you invariably hug him/her when your team wins. It could be a person you have grown up with, or someone whom you didn’t even know existed ninety minutes ago. There is no age, caste, creed, sex or any other constraints of society when it comes to two people sharing the common joy of their team's victory.

It is into this joy that I have flown down into. It is into this feeling of sharing that I have to go each time to find a new story. It is this feeling on oneness I feel each time I go to report an event.

What else could be more sweeter than the anticipation to a referees long whistle at the end of a particularly tense football match? Nothing, my friend, absolutely nothing!

The Fingers Of God!

2006-04-27T06:21:00.000-07:00

I have flown before, but not like this. The fears and hopes of a getting into a new country and a new life will last only the first time. The next time one flies, one does it as a veteran.

I have always been fascinated by the landscape 36,000 feet under me, separated by the thin steel hull of the aircraft. Trees often fifty to sixty feet tall on land, appears as tiny as the nail on my little finger from air. The buildings would as well as have been not there.

This fascination for the landscape often made me demand a window seat where there were often none. I demanded that I should see the land below me move back like a floral carpet with intricate colour patterns – green, brown and grey, as only god could have ever designed.

This fascination was the same emotion which made me look ahead to a different colour pattern on the same big floral carpet – that of the Gulf, which would be my home for quite the foreseeable future.

If in India, the designs were all intricately woven into one another, in the Middle East, the grandeur lies in the vast palette of the same colour. It was the blue of the ocean that first greeted me, and then it was the gradually lightening shade of the same colour as land gradually kissed the ocean. And then the golden hue opened up and stretched as far as the eye would go.

Even as the announcement of the captain came over the P.A system that the plane was readying for landing procedures, the fingers of god was made visible.

The massive cloud ahead of us that completely hid the sun suddenly developed tears through out it's under belly. Even as we watched, the purest of lights shone down. One mighty beam of light shone brightly on my window and illuminated my face. I saw that the seat behind and ahead of me was shadowed by the massive cloud while I saw light. It was a personal message, I believe, hand delivered, in person.

I craned my neck as the light passed and saw the man behind me shut his window to escape the fierce light. Gentle tears formed, but amazingly, it did not burst forth, as sometimes it does. The cloud dissipated and once again the voice of Captain Kenneth boomed through the interior, ''We welcome you to Qatar, please prepare yourself for the landing…''

Somehow, I know that the Qatar phase of my life is being watched upon by the force, the same one which made itself visible through my most beloved phenomenon on earth– The Fingers of God.

Golda Meir... And The 25 Stephans!

2006-02-24T11:30:00.000-08:00

In the book 'O Jerusalem' by Dominic Lapierre and Larry Collins, there is a portion called "GOLDA MEIR'S TWENTY-FIVE "STEPHANS". I tried many a times to get the entire extract from the web, but failed.

Each time i read the portion in the beat up copy of the book i have, I cannot help but cry. Yeah, yeah, yeah, men do cry too.

The portion details about how this lady came to New York with a broken coat on her back and $10 in her hand bag, entrusted with the job of finding 25 'Stephans' or $25 Million for buying arms to keep the enemies away.

Her pathetic dress ensured that she was referred to as a lady from the bible. She stood up and felt weak. And then, word became her and she touched an instant chord. By the end of it all, she had collected 50 Stephans where she was asked for 25.

She can rightly be called the 'Mother of modern Israel'.

I wish i knew her, if only to say that each time i read the speech, i feel its power -to move souls...

I wish i knew her, if only to say that i was honoured to share the same time span as she did...

I wish i knew her, if only to listen and learn about how to move the human soul by mere speech, like she so effotlessely did...

My Lady D'Arbanville

2006-02-23T02:35:00.000-08:00

Finding the lady is the least of ones problems, its the rest of it that is such a downer...

And then... the lyrics of a song that took me by storm these past few days and one that promises to stay with me for a long time to come...

My Lady D'Arbanville, Why do you sleep so still?
I'll wake you tomorrow
And you will be my fill, Yes you will be my fill

My Lady D'Arbanville, Why does it grieve me so?
But your heart seems so silent
Why do you breathe so low, Why do you breathe so low?

My Lady D'Arbanville, Why do you sleep so still?
I'll wake you tomorrow
And you will be my fill, Yes you will be my fill

My Lady D'Arbanville, You look so cold tonight
Your lips feel like winter
Your skin has turned to white, Your skin has turned to white

My Lady D'Arbanville, Why do you sleep so still?
I'll wake you tomorrow
And you will be my fill, Yes you will be my fill

La la la la la.....

My Lady D'Arbanville, Why do you grieve me so?
But your heart seems so silent
Why do you breathe so low, Why do you breathe so low?

I loved you my Lady, Though in your grave you lie
I'll always be with you
This rose will never die, This rose will never die

I loved you my Lady, Though in your grave you lie
I'll always be with you
This rose will never die, This rose will never die

What The Hell Am Me Doin Here?

2006-02-23T01:22:00.000-08:00

Anywhere else, i would not have felt so much like a stranger. In my office, on Wednesday, i did and i could not help it. Anyone would feel strange if...

1. You are one of the only ones watching the Indian Football team's performance against Japan on TV and feel bad about the 6-0 loss.
2. Half the office population is cursing the game to get over while the other half is leering behind my back at my craze for the lost cause.
3. Everyone feels that football in India is lost and nothing good can be done about it...

I beg to differ from the view that the game is dead in India. I for one, will not take n for an answer and am gonna do everything in my power to see if something can be done.

I just wish to state here that i have an agenda, a time bound one. For people who still feel that i am not crazy, it will be revealed in time. If you forget that i had promised so, dont worry, i will remind you...

Where Memories Sleep...

2006-02-18T11:43:00.000-08:00

(This was written two years a go when the mother of my favourite teacher passed away. i got my directions wrong and went into a wrong cemetary, which ultimately helped me realize my littleness. i found the surroundings overwhelm me... a deep peace that only a cemetary can offer took over... differences mattered no more. the rich, poor, men, women, children, black, brown, white...everyone lay there, having six feet of earth common between them. i had to write this down then, before the words were lost on me, for ever...... and this is it, what my heart whispered and what the paper took it on itself.)

-“There is in all this cold and hollow world no fount of deep, strong deathless love, save that within a loving mothers heart”. -Tombstone, CSI cemetery, Sungam, Coimbatore, Tamil Nadu-

I walk amidst a lot of memories, laid to sleep. Memories older than me and my father and my grand father. The revv of the motor engines and the poisonous fumes of the outer polluted world seems an eternity away. The tranquillity and the peace I feel here, I feel nowhere else.

The once pure white solid marble angel weeps softly on the final resting place of Anthony Philomin Joseph, aged 81 days, 67 years a go. How would he have looked? I wonder silently, knowing that I would never ever know… I entered the resting place of so many souls, some young, some old, some forgotten, some not…

I feel the sadness, I feel the calm, I feel the wetness of the soil, and the wetness made of what? Tears? I don’t know. I walk forward. Amongst the graves, I find a bone and I see its human, still brown and fresh and teeming with ants, sucking away the last of the life sustaining bone marrow. I raise my eyes from the bones unto the heavens in despair and finally it comes to rest on the lighted lamp. Somebody had taken the pains to clean their loved ones final resting place. Four fresh red roses, with the dew still damp on them, sat atop the memory stone, in deep respect and mourning for the rested soul. I am touched; love is a feeling so eternal and pure…

I feel the push of the memories from all sides, as strong as a rushing river and as soft as the faintest rustle of leaves on the gravel path leading to the cemetery, Memories fresh as the morning soil dampened by the early morning dew and as old as the holy holy parchments. I feel the love and the care that has gone into each tomb and I see the souls deep below swell with the amount of love heaped upon them. it’s a special feeling to be loved, through time…through all eternity.

I feel the shades of the trees, protecting those asleep, from hard wind and rain and sunshine, and comforting them with the gentle music of their leaves. A lone yellow bird sings sadly to break the weight of the silence all around. I feel a million eyes and a million hearts, all around me, looking lovingly at me as a son, an uncle, a great grandson. I bow my head in deep respect for the sleeping…

I bow my head before love, before never dying ever lasting memories, before the power to move the toughest at heart, the power that makes you humbler than humble, the power of remembrance. I shed a silent tear to all those people resting here whom I have never known and will never know. But one thing I do not doubt, they were good people, good at heart and soul when they lived… To be here at this place where the memories rest, is proof enough.

I walk back, heart filled with sorrow and joy and humbleness. Sorrow at not knowing them, joy at knowing they are in safe hands and humbleness at the magnificence of it all.

Dear lord, make me a better human being that I too, when I die may be buried at a place of memories, where I will be remembered for my good deeds and not hated for my bad ones… amen.

(Written on the day of the funeral of my teachers mother, when I found time and peace on my side, to walk around and feel for myself the silent, powerful, moving gift, of the place where memories are laid to rest…)

{last, but not least, an entry at http://ramblersbloc.blogspot.com/ gave me the final push to put this up on this site. Thanks, lady, for pushing me enough...whoever you are, where ever you are...}

One Game To Rule Them All?

2006-01-13T04:43:00.000-08:00

Why does it always have to be one single GAME, in india? Why is it that it has to kill off the others? why is it that even on a particularly bad day of the GAME, three pages gets dedicated as to what went wrong? Remember, i am not even talking about the days when things go well...

I am sick and tired of people telling me that i am not IN because i dont like the GAME, where the fuck is the freedom to love games? Isnt someone who doesnt love the GAME considered a gamer?

I wouldnt have written this post, but the frustration is too great in me to have left it unwritten.

I live, i burn, i long to see the GAME come down, and in its place a thousand others arise. Those around me did that to me, period.

that written, i retire feeling a little inner peace come over me. But not for long, for the GAME has just begun when i write this and would go for another coupla days, and thaose days, would inevitably be hell for me, as it always has been...

Drummer Girl, Younger Boy...

2006-01-08T01:27:00.001-08:00

This is about the kids and no, I have not mentioned them anywhere before. These are the countless nameless, faceless kids whom you meet each time you board a train in India that I talk about.

I was delving deep into my writing pad when I heard that familiar helpless music – of the drumbeat. Each fall of the stick on the tautly drawn skin drum emphasizes the hunger and pain that went into the effort. The little drummer girl looked at her tiny young brother, mutely pleading with him to break his arms behind his back, for his body to pass through the self made loop of his hands.

He was a nameless wonder boy because he had to be. The oily charcoal stain under the nose of the kid, in the shape of a moustache, heightened the pathos of the desperately little boy, in the garb of a man. He started the act by rotating a weight tied by a string, attached to his cap, round and round and round. Then, even as people watched, he somersaulted, and then did it again.

He made his hand a loop and took it all the way behind, under his leg and to the front of his body. The loop had completed itself. All the while, the little drummer girl poured her frustration into the beaten old skin drum, each beat louder than the last.

When it ended, the shameless spectators, witness to the open violation of the kids, began to concentrate on other things - for the little ones would soon come to them, to seek the rewards of pity for the inhuman act they had to perform.

The little drummer girl came to me and pointed at the empty food packet on my seat. She looked me in the eye and begged for food. I looked at my fat tummy and the tummy that was hardly there on her, for the first time in my life, I felt truly ashamed.

I pulled out my bag and emptied it on her lap. She dutifully took the food, gave a bun to her brother and saved the rest in the inside of the drum. As they walked on, I felt true sadness, but I had to blink away tears. Men don’t cry. But as I watched the young boy disappear with a bun in one hand and the metal ring to contort his body with in the other, all pretenses left me.

I cried like a baby…

Why Me Blog???

2006-01-08T01:10:00.000-08:00

This entry is about why my blog is…

Around a 100 pages in 10 years may not be all that much, and it isn’t. That was exactly what I felt when I sat down to think about it, reflecting on what a waste I had made of my talents in writing. Then my baby started taking shape, ten years in the making, an outburst of all those lines I should have written, but didn’t and all those thoughts I have to pen down, but may not be able to…

Laziness clogged my veins and more importantly, my mind. It brought me a thousand deaths within me, but I live. Animals hibernate to wake up some day. This animal woke up too, after a long 10-year sleep. The mind does not have its previous sharpness; the words just will not come. Devoid of feelings and words, I almost suffered creative death.

I feel with each passing word a sense of belonging. This is what I do best and this is what should be done best by me. The passion to let the memories flow, from the center of the brain, to my fingertips holding the pen which became the extension of my hands years before; onto the whiteness of the paper that caused many a tree to be felled…

The words that died inside me frightens me to no end, it should have lived. My grandfathers words come back to comfort me, “nothing can bring back the dead, but nothing can take away the new born too…”

And that’s why I write, even if it means walking down painful memories, tearing away fiction from life. This is what I enjoy; this is what I truly need. This is what I was born for, and this is what I will live for. But am I getting across to people? Is anybody out there listening and comprehending?

In lands as diverse as the U.S, Dubai and Delhi, people staring at 17 inch monitors, running their eyes from the left to the right on a web page called Greeker… bear witness.

Icy Vision - The Perfect Three Minute Trick!

2006-01-06T23:20:00.000-08:00

I had enough madness to keep my train door open and stand the blast of cold air for three full minutes at 6.45 in the morning. This post is about those three minutes, when time stood FROZEN, just like me at the door of the train.

Ice cold tears laid the boundaries of my eye even as the train chugged along. The mist caught my eye first. Where the green of the paddy fields ended in the distance, the white of the mist started. It hung on to the greens like a frail old lady- beautiful, unhurried, serene.

The green suddenly turned deathly brown – the color of a very dead land. The land was brown, the land was dry and the land was lifeless- at least for another few seconds. Then among the dead brown tree stumps, there appeared white and then bright orange, all canvassed against the misty fairness.

The whites were cheap little tarpaulin huts, while the bright orange gave them food. It glowed under the cooking pots and outstretched brown hands in search of warmth. The image soon apparated (pardon JK Rowling for that word) and another pleasing, yet dead landscape materialized which left me truly wishing that I had film in my camera.

The land was red as blood, vast numbers of deserted thatched huts and brick kilns adding to the hue. One kiln stood far away, apart from the rest, smoking, as if against its own free will. The smoke, as it left the safe warmth of its mothers womb into the cold world outside, lost strength and withered into nothingness. Knowing it to be a losing battle, the mother kiln continued pushing out its smoke children, as if to prove a point…

The cold had reached my bones and I had to risk falling off, my hands were frozen. I pulled myself in and let the door shut in front of me with a bang. My connection with the misty speeding world outside was broken, I was once again inside the safe domicile of the moving train…

When I Went Back To Being 'Between Five And Nine'...

2006-01-06T23:18:00.000-08:00

Those two neighbouring kids on my train made me write this one as they finally got to me… and my nerves. Ignoring and frightening them did not get the desired result and I delved back deep into my writing pad.

The elder one, around nine was younger than his younger brother of five. While the five year old was as calm as a saint when it came to specialized destruction, his elder mold took pleasure in publicizing his work, and it was chaos.

Their father, with the Border Security Force, admitted – “I would gladly face the enemy bullets than a day in the train with my two young brats.” It was a sentiment that my father often had of me, when I was between the ages of five and nine, so it was a sense of Déjà vu, period.

Not a moment passed without one of them screaming, running, laughing, screeching, clawing at one another, imitating the hawkers, throwing around pea nuts, taking money out of the blind beggar’s battered begging bowl, rolling on the ground, putting their fingers through the safety net of the turned off ceiling fan, drawing moustaches with the dust thus acquired, sending the parents into a mixture of craziness and despair, spitting, beating each other, crying and in general, making my life on the train hell.

Now I realize what it was that I had put my parents through, I am sure they have seriously contemplated throwing me out of the train on more occasions than one. If I was wondering how I would pass my three days on the train, I had found my answer.

It would be three days of madness, but at the same time, it would also be my journey into what I once proudly was… five years!

Dynamite-Opium, In Tandem...

2006-01-06T02:09:00.000-08:00

My train is two and a half hours late, I just found out, on the train. Ten minutes from Vijayawada, the eye cannot escape the destruction of beauty and grandeur. What formed over a million years breaks away in one millionth of a second. The expression ‘Rock Solid’ has suddenly lost the solidity.

Rock formations, a thousand feet high are suddenly withering away, they are being dynamited. The scars on its proud face are still fresh and bleeding. Tiny specks on wheels, yellow and red, throng its base - moving away with the spoils of the dead. What was once an almost living organism stand frozen, unable to see little men do to it what millions of years of nature could not.

We move ahead and watch the poppy fields, as far as eyes will go. People diligently work among the fields, the sun heating their arse’s pointed skywards. They go about reaping the fully grown white fluffy balls with manic precision. Its scary.

I saw Destruction and Euphoria, in the space of 30 minutes. The point is driven home, without destruction, there cannot be euphoria. The price of Euphoria is almost always destruction. Drugs, fagging and boozing, all come to my mind. Euphoria-destruction, an equation almost as old as time.

It is as if a heavy tempest inside me just left me drained, or it may be the sudden change in clime, I retreat back to my mood of contemplation, euphoria…destruction…

Night Flight, By Train!

2006-01-06T00:37:00.000-08:00

These are the final few thoughts that I am sharing before I fall off into a deep slumber. That heavy dinner packed tight with generous proportions of a mother’s love has assured me that.

I was washing my hand after dinner when the rattle of the unlocked train door, swaying with the motion of the train caught my fancy. I opened it and as is my habit, watched the black landscape whiz past me. I felt like writing poetry, but soon after banished that thought from my mind. I was safer with prose, has always been.

The wind pushed me back and played magic with my hair. The tear started at the corner of my eye and even as I felt it, welled and made a channel across my face. The world lay in darkness- cold and menacing. I felt cold, through the thin T-shirt I was wearing.

I stretched- holding both those yellow iron bars at the trains entrance- outwards, till I could go no more. It must have been the heavier darkness than the one around it, I saw the plant coming at me and pulled back just in time – it just grazed my face. My near brush with death, left me drained, I felt sleep coming to my eyes.

Pushing close the door with a bang, I ascended my berth, and there, looking at the bright white light shining down on my eyes and the incessant cry of the little kid on the berth next to me, I retired, I slept like a baby.

Peace…reader.

Sadhu, Will I Live Or Explode?

2006-01-06T00:23:00.000-08:00

There is a certain thrill to the fear of the unknown. On my way back to Delhi from Kottayam, two sadhu’s, dressed in black, left their bags in my possession. “10 minutes,” they said. My uneasiness grew as the minutes they promised grew into hours. ‘El Diego’, the book I was reading continued to grow fatter on the left side, the pages flew.

The fear of the unknown grew along with the depleting pages. I took a walk to the other end of the bogie, stinking and unclean as always. Though I found a tonne of other Sadhu’s, in all sizes and shapes, brown and white and black, all with 90 days of uncut hair on them, the only two I was interested in was nowhere to be found. The same two who sat beside me, drinking coffee by leaking it between the cup and the lip.

The fear is there, the question remains, would I live to type this onto my blog site? Or would I be one of those countless pieces of unidentifiable flesh pieces, scattered and recovered from the site of the blast – seat number 16, S3, Kerala Express…

Six hours later – Ah, the Sadhu has returned for the baggage, I live!

A Journey Back To My Life...

2005-12-21T05:59:00.000-08:00

Whoever it was who said that writing is an art, definitely knew his books well. Here I am, staring at an empty computer monitor, willing my mind to bear it all. Easier wished than done, it just does not come out.

It’s been quite a long time since I willed myself to write, it was never a necessity. It still is not. But going back at three in the morning regularly, waking the neighbourhood early each day, getting into a cold tomb like room and then staring at the walls for an hour before sleep courts me, I felt the need to write.

With a pleasant feeling of jarring pain, I am just realising how tough it is to find the words. I always thought the words would be there inside me, waiting for me to get it down on paper. Not any more, not unless I consciously try, that is.

Words are what I make a living from nowadays, but what I really want to write, it just died inside me. Lucky for me that I am a firm believer in the legend of the phoenix – that bird who always rises from its ashes. Take a deep breath and you can still smell the sweet aroma of ashes on me.

I am on a journey of self-rediscovery – of a past, which I thought I might never get back. Accompany me, on those lines, on my long journey of discovery and of course the burial that has to inevitably come at the end of it…

Memories Of Another Day...

2005-12-20T12:17:00.000-08:00

My first blog attempt was a disaster, for blogging was Greek to me. I wrote long posts which other than a couple of cousins of mine, few read. On my second foray into the unknown, i want to keep it tinier, crisper and of course, readable. So here is to the return of the Greeker, for ever and ever...