Sunday, February 17, 2019

When man management lessons begins at home…


Man management skills has traditionally not been one of my strongest points. But having two kids (with a third on the way), one tends to learn the ropes of management on an almost daily basis.

My elder son is eight and the younger one a year and a half. Fights, though not often, do happen. How do I justly judge them? Putting myself in their shoes isn’t going to cut it, because one of them is a size two and the other a seven.

Very often in their fights, rights and wrongs are separated by a very thin red line. Their quarrels are a veritable minefield that could blow up in your face as a fit of rage or a never-ending supply of tears.

Hence, with each passing day, I realise what a slippery slope management is.

Dealing with monster-sized egos in the workplace and still being able to deliver a quality product on deadline is definitely an inborn talent. It is not a walk in the park. All the bosses I’ve had so far have been born naturals at it.  
Lessons of management begins at home, they say. It’s true. In my case, I get almost daily practical session at least once. And for that reason, I am calmer, and I can think more clearly under pressure.


Kids have a way of teaching you lessons. My two management Gurus at home definitely have me going up a steep learning curve.

Tuesday, January 08, 2019

On the eve of my second date with the Middle East…



The wait, the excruciating wait, continues.

On the one hand, my heart cannot wait to get back to the field and start powering full steam ahead. On the other, I’ve got a better half and two (soon to be three) little halves that make my heart ache at the mere thought of being away from them.

I am not going to be the first or the last person who has to leave his family at home to lead an isolated life across the seas. I may be in the middle of a huge crowd, but I’ll always be lonely inside.

But like the millions of people from Kerala in the Gulf region, the dream of a better tomorrow leads me on. Hopefully, my second stint in the Gulf will be relatively short, compared to my first. But simply put, it is going to be much harder too.

I have packed my bags and my heart in a suitcase. All I need to do now is to take off. And that, my reader, is the hardest part.

Wish me luck, dear reader, as I wait to engage in the second part of my Gulf sojourn!

Saturday, December 29, 2018

From past perfect, to future possible!

How fast time flies?

The last time I wrote something on this space, I was yet to enter my 30s. And now, I’m married, with two kids and a third on the way.

Some decisions in life, like this blog, for example, are taken on a whim. Then those decisions come back to surprise you by enduring for far longer than you thought they would.

Such decisions may die a thousand natural deaths. But like the memory of a loved one, it never completely leaves you. It would remain at the back of your mind, patiently waiting to be beckoned once again, on a whim, and come alive!

Some friends never leave you, even if you wanted to. And some enemies never leave you, however badly you want them to. This blog is slowly limping back to life at the insistence of a friend, from decades earlier, who I thought would remain a mortal enemy. Once again… surprises, surprises!

You know who you are. Thank you for pushing me into trying to write this blog again!

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Walking To A Fish Market Near You…

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…


Friday, December 26, 2008

Walking The Souq…


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…

Monday, December 15, 2008

Lost, Atlantis, Found...

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... 


Monday, November 03, 2008

I Miss You So, Ammachy…



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…

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Happily Ever After...


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.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

A Song For December...


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…”

Thursday, March 27, 2008

The Dance Of Death!


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!

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Resolutions!

 


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!
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Monday, December 31, 2007

2007 Is Dead, Long Live 2008!

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!

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Of An Aquamarine Sea And The Visions It Holds…

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…

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things…

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…

Saturday, September 29, 2007

The Written Word…


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.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

...And Calm Came Down!


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!

Friday, August 10, 2007

The ‘F’ Word



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.
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Sunday, July 22, 2007

Feeling In Love...


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.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

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



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!

Saturday, June 16, 2007

Just Plain Crazy Old Greeker!


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...