long awaited heavenly showers

Often I wonder if any other weather could pluck the chords of my heart as much as this long awaited rain does. There is no denial that the weather was a bit harsh for the last couple of days. But finally it rained, and it rained like a blessing, a serenade in my ears, a nectar to my throat. This joy has no equal anywhere in the world. When drops of rain make sound on earth after such a long silence, it feels like heaven. And the smell of rain, it has a spell in it. It freezes my mind, and I just wish it never fades away. I wish it tickles my olfactory senses forever, and ever. But then, since pricelessness of beauty lies in its evanescence, so I wont ask for more of this. I sit by my verandah, with lappy on my lap, and as I write this article I can see the lightening across the sky. Today, its not roaring like it does, I can only see the light and a mild purr... may be God is also in love, with its creation

Commonwealth Games and my misplaced dictionary

When India won the bid to host commonwealth games 2010 , hundreds of echoes were heard that this event will make us 'proud' and earn us 'respect' on global platform. I had no idea what the words 'pride' and 'respect' mean. I went to my room and looked out for dictionary. I searched every nook for it, but couldn't find it. So I finally gave up and quietly waited for the games to arrive hoping that I might be able to decipher the words in their dynamic form, that is to say when the games will be round the corner and my entire country will be experiencing the so called feeling 'pride' and earning 'respect'.

Finally the games neared and I was quite eager that finally my curiosity shall be quenched. I picked up the newspaper and switched on the TV. My curiosity was no less than that of a kid waiting for a surprise gift on his birthday, rubbing hands, fidgeting legs and going to the window frequently to check if the gift has arrived. Finally my gift arrived and what came out was indeed a striking surprise for me. Just like the birthday kid staring at the gift with shock and awe, I watched the TV with an equal amount of, however, horror on my face. All I could see was authorities of organising committee, politicians and media people running amok, one after the other. Throwing loads of accusations on one another and trying to evade the one being thrown to them.

In India, a strikingly similar game is played, however with colors and water, during a festival in the month of march; we call it the Holi. A festival to rejoice the killing of an evil king by lord Vishnu, to celebrate the Rabi crop . Holi, unlike what most people misconcieve, is a festival played round the year in India. Pardon me for digressing from the topic but it might be informative to share about the year-round Holi played in India. Pick up any month of a calendar and you will find scores of instances of Holi being played with sanguinary colors, ranging from terror attacks, honour killings, road-train-and-air accidents, murders and gory group clashes. What follows these incidents is yet another type of Holi that more or less resembles the one being played before common wealth games. We nickname it as blame-game.

On one hand Kalmadi, when asked about the crippled channelising of cash, could be seen shivering like a sheep cornered by a pack of wolves, meanwhile Manishankar aiyar, on the other, would chuckle in front of camera like a pesky little goblin does, after playing a prank. Media is busy stripping everyone. The entire organising fraternity is running naked like vietnamese people struck by napalm. I have learnt, that it's not just the preparation of commonwealth games that stands in shambles, but the entire country as well.

Fed up of all these, I finally switched the TV off, and stretched back on my sofa and all of a sudden, as if by some divine intervention, I found the dictionary as if smiling at me from the table. I quickly seized it and fluttered the pages looking out for the meaning of pride, and here is what I found: "a feeling of pleasure or satisfaction that you get when you or people who are connected with you have done sth well or own sth that other people admire." Indeed I admire Kalmadi for such humungous money laundering. Indeed I praise the cash receipts for standing unquestioned when hiring rates of treadmills were cited as Rs. 9 Lakhs for 45 days. Indeed I praise the taxpayers of our country for not reacting to such unscrupolous waste and magical act of conjuring of the money they pay. Ironically they do get raved up by a 25 yr old pending decision on a Gas tragedy, although any plausible decision might vindicate the virtues of justice, however justice delayed is justice denied.

Finally i searched for 'respect' and realised that it's a vicarious form of 'pride'.

Thinking was a real waste of time...

Years ago one of my teachers once told me,"Samrat tum sochte bahut ho..."

I 'contemplated' a lot, but couldn't figure out why he said that. 5 years have passed since that incident, and suddenly, today I realised what he wanted to say. Too late of course, but then they say ‘better late than never’.

Man has always been known for his intelligence, diligence and common sense, the last one being not so common contrary to what the name suggests. Shadowed by this fact, man has declared himself to be the most superior species on earth. Ironically, the most famous and the most successful persons on earth share a lot with beasts. Their spontaneity, aggressiveness and survival instincts are what helped them reach that far. Every human possesses a little bit of all these. But those who can master all three are sure to break the shackles and rise above all.

Today, I realised that I have wasted a lot of time in thinking. Before taking a decision, I used to think; think before thinking, think during the thinking and think after thinking. If I had to decide upon something, I used to do three things before it. Think, think and think again. Then either I used to take the decision or drop it. And if things didn’t turn up as I had expected them to, I would start thinking again. After more than a decade of dilemmas and conundrums and thinking over them repeatedly, finally I have stopped!!! No more will I rely on my frontal lobe but surrender purely to my intuitions. I am really sorry that I can’t write you what forced me to believe that I have finally given up my inhibitions, but trust me, next time you will hear what is really in my mind, not what I want you to believe that is in my mind.

A quick trip to delhi

­‘Sahab, Dilli mein jo cheez meethi honi chahiye, wo bhi meethi nahi hoti. FDA kehta hai malai kofta white gravy mein banni chahiye, lekin kaun sunta hai.’ Saying this, the waiter wiped his face with the towel hanging down his shoulders; the heat from the Tandoor could be felt even on the first floor. Swami could still be heard humming in the background in his much loved south Indian accent ‘e delhi ai mere yaar’. A song that could have had no better situation to sing than the one we were in. One thing is clear about Delhi that it is a haven for gourmands and epicureans; however the malai kofta was a nightmare. While eating it i recalled the waiter’s words and wondered if the first sentence had a hidden pun. Saproo was busy eating his shahi paneer and occasionally checking his mobile for texts and service messages. We had been in delhi for the last 12 hours and were falling in love with it, especially the food, the one that quenches the bile and not the one for eyes.
Earlier that day, as our train was nearing to delhi, we were silently looking outside the window and were fidgeting since we were totally new to the event we came to delhi for. Swami broke the silence and asked ‘bai yaha chakke nai aate?’ I couldn’t get him so I asked him again. He was asking about eunuchs. Jadhav replied that it was because Bhopal express has very less stoppages so they don’t show up.
Saproo lifted his gaze from mobile and added, ‘Most of them are fakes, I saw it in a documentary’.
‘So did you sleep tight?’ I interrupted to change the topic since fellow passengers were suddenly straining their ears and finding discussion on eunuchs as intriguing.
As far as the sleeping was concerned, I had very little of it. I am not much used to sleeping in a rocking cradle, so i find it hard in train journeys.

The train reached Nizamuddin station on time and we quickly made our way through the crowd and walked out as if the train would leave any time. Seeing us hurrying like this, the fellow passengers also did the same; although nizamuddin is the last stop. Haste is contagious after all. In India people are always looking forward to get ahead of you. Be it the theatre, train, buffet lunch... people act as if this is their last chance. That’s why stampedes are quite common in India. We quickly brushed past the crowd and perched Bus number 181 and headed for PahadGanj, the place where you find cheap hotels, cheap food, and cheap ... forget it. As the bus rolled, I recalled a line from William dalrymple’s book, The city of Djinns- a year in Delhi: “... dust was everywhere and the city’s trees and flowers all looked as if they had been sprinkled with talcum powder.” Indeed the city air was stuffed with talcum powder and I was finding it hard to breath. But being a capitalist somewhere deep inside my heart, I admired the rapid growth the city undergoes every single day and forgot the filth. One more thing we noticed from the bus that common wealth games, this year, is sure to become a humongous slap on Indian sports committees, and the Govt for that matter. The city looked hardly prepared and i doubt if it will be before 3^rd of Oct.
“Pahadganj aa gaya” Vaibhav said. Swami and I were so busy Cracking jokes on politicians and commonwealth that we didn’t realise how the time crept and we arrived at pahadganj the very next moment.
We descended and checked in a pretty economical hotel. The hotel guy asked for our I-cards and kept calling on hotel phone again and again to confirm identity, finally apologising for the inconvenience explaining that it was for safety purposes. They doubted us to be terrorists. No wonder since Saproo does look like one.
I remember, as a kid, once I read in a popular comic book that Pahadganj was quite famous for getting pockets picked. We didn't have to wait long enough to catch a glimpse of it when Saproo’s pocket got picked in the afternoon as we were returning to Hotel after having lunch. Swami, Jadhav and I had crossed the road while Saproo and Tyagi trailed behind on the divider, still trying to cross the road. They employed a pretty clever trap using a kid and an accomplice. They were on the divider so the pickpocket couldn’t get far and was nabbed.Thanks to the Delhi traffic, you cannot cross a road so easily. The guy who accompanied the pickpocket immediately created a scene to save the latter. He yelled," Kucch lia to nahi.. sab theek to hai na bhai saab.. ye saale ma*****... bhag yaha se.."(Did he steal anything? Is everything ok? These mot****.. Get Lost!) Finally we realised that there are fair chances of us being outnumbered if we hit him as we were planning to, so we took a wise decision and went on our way.

Speaking of Delhi traffic, it works on one single rule, “Drive to kill; kill to drive”
“well we shouldn’t move and not run when we are caught in traffic” One of us said.
“ In that case you will be ran over. Delhi roads show no mercy. Traffic won’t allow them to go right or left or to stop. They have only one way, and you are standing on it. So they ‘hit and run’ away...” I argued.

The next day we checked out of the Hotel and headed for the India Habitat centre on Lodhi road. We were delighted meeting some of the greatest automobile experts and participating in BAJA SAE, a dream of every mechanical engineer. Everything went quite smooth, but nothing can be said before the results are out. After this we decided to go to CP but with our luggage it was impossible for us to wander anymore. One of my friends had to answer a ‘call’, a pretty important, vital and indispensible call that you answer every morning. So we waited outside the palika bazaar till he came back.
Delhi is a blend of thousands of religions, sects and nations. All live under the same sky, taking the pills of both harmony and agony in equal dozes. But one specific section of the society has to face hideously unruly behaviour of Delhites. The people from north east and Tibet, stereotyped and abused as ‘Chinkies’. I recalled reading an article some 6-7 years back on the condition of these people in Northern India. The article read, ‘They are harassed, abused and ridiculed . The number of crimes against girls from north east is on a rise. Some of them even underwent surgery to look like North Indians and avoid being noticed.”
I mentioned this to my friends as soon as I spotted a trio of north-eastern girls.
“So you want to say that we should not discriminate and never prejudice against any section of society while teasing a girl” Swami said in amusement.
“Yes I certainly mean Secular Eve teasing” I summarised his words.

Meanwhile the friend, who had been away answering the 'call', returned and we headed to nizamuddin station. Vaibhav left for meerut and Saproo for Noida. The remaining three of us sat in the waiting room, staring at our ticket with 317,318 and 319 waiting list. The journey to Bhopal was sure to be a torture and so was it. But at the end of the story we reached Bhopal safely in one piece.

Roadholding in the Indian corners.

I was thinking of writing this post since a pretty long time but this road is something that squeezes everything out of my mind. At times the situation turns so pathetic that I actually forget that whether am I returning back from my college or going to college, or any other destination for that matter. This road kills you, surprises you, thrills you, amuses you, disappoints you and I don't have any more words for what else it does to you. But one thing is assured, this road has made us feel proud( some say it is a matter of shame, but then it's about how you percieve it). It has made us proud in front of the entire world that thinks that 'if you can drive safely on Indian roads, you can drive anywhere...' So the next time you are rutting across the pheriwalas, dodging the naked kid who just crossed the road, after doing his morning job, like a headless chicken, felt as if your shock absorbers took their last breath as you bump into the pot hole, then be proud to be an Indian Rider.

I decided to write this post in two different pieces. One from the driver's perspective, and the other from the pedestrian's. I have never been much of a pedestrian since I passed 10th grade so I hope to recall those memoirs as vividly as I can.

[Posts coming soon...]

P.S.:-

I am not expecting you to have understood the meaning of the title. So I am explaining it. Roadholding is the ability of a car to remain stable while negotiating corners. But the word corner in the title implies the most populated and crowded roads. So roadholding the Indian corners reflects the idea of remaining stable and in control while driving on Indian roads

Next time please don't ask why we are not in FIFA

Today, as a matter of chance, or perhaps calling it a result of nightmare will be better, that I rose at 3 o'clock in the morning, the time at which I normally retire to bed. Now since I had woke up early I moved to my room and started downloading songs. I must admit, the download speed is quite fast at this time. So download before the dawn loads.

As the first light appeared in the sky, I walked to my balcony and pulled out a book by Arun Shourie, quite an appealing book, but I'll spare the details about the book till I finish it. Right now I am sitting in my balcony, reading the book and I see two kids walking in soccer attire. Just a couple of days back, I remember, I saw them regularly going for cricket camp. The cricket part is obvious since India is a land of Crick-freaks. But then the uncanny phenomenon of the two kids going to soccer camp is something which we see during FIFA world cup only. A couple of days back the hockey craze could also be seen hovering the city. Of course it was ephemeral as well.

May be we should be thankful to our law that forbids an easy hand on guns, or else Abhinav Bindra's gold could have resulted in heavy casualties, with the kids aiming for the "Bull's eye". And the bull could be anyone. Or perhaps we should thank the sports ministry for not allowing formula 1 into India. I seriously don't want kids vrooming cars all around my house during the formula 1 season.

One thing is assured that except the game of cricket every other game is played as a matter of 'trend'. Sports is never taken as a serious matter by a large section of the society. With the 'worn out' ministers denying to give up their places as Henry the II of sports, how can we expect our country to move up in the medal tally! How can we expect us to qualify for the FIFA! How can we expect a non-cricket sportsperson that his life after retirement won't be as pathetic as that of hundreds of sportsperson today!

P.S.: The nightmare I had was quite disturbing. I saw my English teacher in my school's annual function. I couldn't figure out what was I doing there, or how I reached there.

As soon as I came out of the gate, I was in an unknown place. I started walking totally directionless when suddendly a herd of weird animals started chasing me. I still can't figure out what they were. They seemed like cross between zebras and hyenas. Whatever they were, but the part where I met my english teacher was the most petrifying.

Room on the Roof

I am perhaps the only Indian college student who cannot recall reading Ruskin Bond during school days. By reading, I mean books from curriculum and not novels. Since I have read only one novel in my whole school life, you can easily interpret that I wasn't much into reading back in those days. My teachers can testify this statement as well.
Anyway, three days back I found this book in a nook of a local library which I am a member of. I came back home and started reading it. The very name of the character, I realised was hidden somewhere in my memories. My rusted brains recalled the name Rusty, about whom I have heard a lot but never read any story. Finally i was reading one.
The Room on the Roof' starts with his usual cravng for adventures in the street of Dehradun, which consequently gets him caned from his guardian. Very soon he realises the futility of his life and runs away to his local friends Somi and Rajbir. From this point his actual adventure starts as he joins a job of a home tutor for a spoilt kid Kishen.
The beauty of the story lies in the similarities between Kishen and Rusty, there friendship and drooling for aloo-chaat. The story finally ends with a tragical twist and an obvious happy ending. Yet the book was really worth reading.

Nine Lives, a fine travelogue

For the last 9 days I was madly immersed in a book written on spiritual India. Nine lives, as the name suggests accounts nine stories from nine different walks of life, which I finished precisely in nine days; reading one story a day. Undoubtedly it is a travelogue which deserves immense appreciation from Indian readers and those who prefer to read about India. William Dalrymple, a British journalist turned writer, has written some really famous books namely the Last mughal and In Xanadu, but this one really stole my heart. No amount of appreciation can quench the pulchritude of this book.
The protagonists in most of the stories narrate their stories that stand entirely in contrast to what they turned out to be, yet there is no missing link and not a single story appears to be concocted, as the writer claims it’s ingenuity in the beginning.
The first story tells the story of a Jain nun who was a girl with all the luxuries and love of life. But one day she is moved by the Jain asceticism and decides to choose the path of renunciation. Her battle with emotions and family are beautifully written in the book. Apart from that the magnificent description scenes of the places of rendezvous is yet another ornament.
This book brought a little amount of disappointment for me, when I learned about so many things about my country that I never ever heard of. Each one the nine stories tells you something that you never knew. For instance folk singing in India, specifically in Pabusar of Rajasthan, thought to be a mere entertainment, has a much deeper sense. William meets a local bhopa singer, Mohan Bhopa who is preserving the 600-year old tradition of epic singing. They have sung 4000 line long poems for generations. It is believed by locals as an art of resurrecting the warrior God Pabuji, who looks after their perils and problems. However, the bhopa singers are struggling hard to keep this art alive, which is fading away with time and new modes of entertainment.
Out of all the nine tales, my personal favourite is of course the The Singer of Epics, about a Bhoopa singer, who explains, exemplifies and brags about the magical abilities of Bhoopa singing to William. As the story nears the end, the message becomes clear; not always does the destiny favour the good. Perhaps the most dramatic story of the book followed by The monk’s Tale.
I decided to finish this book in nine days, and I did it. For sure this is the only book so far in which I did so. This book is a real magnet.

I am undone...

It has been 10 years, roughly, since I haven't fallen ill; not accounting the uncommonly common colds I have caught. But this summer, my record seems to have finally broken. I have been seriously ill since last 7-8 days. My obduracy forced me not to accept the fact that I was unwell, and I continued to deter my health. Now things have gone far beyond control and yesterday I was literally hallucinating when my body tried to suppress the pain I am experiencing.
I am utterly disappointed to see my inertness against sunstrokes. I hadn't expected myself to be so easily affected by this. But as fate had it, I was skipping breakfasts for a couple of days so I finally paid the price for it.

Indian Summers, snapshot

We live in a country where people are 'taught' to learn and preach the things that the Government wants. This of course keeps us in the dark, away from the truth and we blindly believe what we are shown, but the lamenting part is that this is the only way to keep ablaze the flame of patriotism. Sounds uncanny, but truth is sometimes an acid tongue.

Gandhi, well known as Mahatma, along with Nehru was in fact a blind ideologist. So strident their ideologies were, that the price was paid by India in the form of Partition and millions of life in the carnage that followed. Ironically, in 1942 Gandhi gave up the ideology of non-violence and ordered his followers to do what it takes to annoy the Brits. Alex Von Tunzelmann in her book Indian Summers puts together all these events and evidences lined up around the clandestine amour between Nehru and Edwina Mountbatten which helps the reader understand the missing links in the story of Indian Imperial days.
The beauty of the book becomes eloquent as it begins with a terrifyingly catchy paragraph,
"In the beginning there were two nations. One was vast, mighty and magnificent empire, brilliantly organised and culturally unified, which dominated a mass swathe of earth. The other was an underdeveloped, semi-feudal realm, riven by religious factionalism and barely able to feed its illiterate, diseased and stinking masses. The first nation was India. The second was England."
The Indian history is no less than a typical soap opera, spilling upto the brim with betrayal, emotional moments, provoking dialogues followed by their heinous consequences and what not. The most famous of all examples is the provoking statement delivered by Nehru against jinnah, which provoked the latter, who had given up politics and was liveing a solitary life in London, to return to Indian politics, shattering the Indian movement to the worst possible extent.
Very few people know, rather very few people are told, that Jinnah was the icon of Hindu Muslim unity when he came into politics. Further few people know that it was Gandhi's obduracy that ushered Muslim leaders to believe that India will be unsafe for Muslims. Had gandhi paid heed to the dissent of followers and fellow countrymen and tried to curb it, then India'd have been in a different positon today.
We live in a country where speaking against gandhi and nehru, and speaking for Jinnah is a punishable offence. So I cannot write more on this topic.
The book mentions the most hillarious acts of buffoonery commited by Louis Mounbatten, the last Viceroy of India. His Quixotic milliary expeditions are perhaps the most enjoyable part in the book.
Further it reveals the reason why it took us so long to gain independece, rather took the brits so long to give up the land. Indian independence movement was an utter failure. just like the 1857 uprising, we never had a common cause to unite us. We were always divided, as we are now.
In addition to the narration of Indian history the book reads the ugly politics that hovered the british crown. The writer accessed the imperial archives to spoon out the most detailed descriptions of events that took place. Further she requested access to the love letters exchanged between Nehru and Edwina Mountabatten from both the Mountbatten and the Nehru descendents but was denied.

Amazing act by Pakistan

As a fiendish gesture to India, if latest reports by Intelligence agencies are to be believed, the Pakistani agencies are offering double salary to terrorists in kashmir. Ironically entire Pakistan is suffering from an economic crisis wherein citizens are being asked to cut down their expenditures.
Austerity drive, a term adopted by our Govt., that was recently declared pejorative by media pointing it out as meaningless and a mere charade, is now the law in Pakistan. The inside story came into light during Sania Shoaib marriage for which they were dragged to court for not being Austere. Humorous news started flooding Indian TV channels, denuding the Pakistan economy to its scantiest garments, as Pakistani people watched in despair.
The inflation rates have shot up as high as 22.35% in 2008 and this year stabilised to 13%. But inflation is not a mere index of economy. If we look into other data we will find our neighbours in hard time. Still they continue aiding terror activities in Kashmir.
Incredibly the salaries have been raised from 5000/- per month to 8-10K per month. A rare act by any employer...

Weirdly enough... the series of incidents that unfolded this monday after my viva won't have driven me as much crazy as they seem to have done, had I not foreseen them, the very previous night, in my dream. For the entire narration.... wait for some time...

The Vivalogue

Well, no matter how much I keep on writing on my blog, I won't cease to be a clown, however occasionally, in technical vivas in this semester at least. When it comes to technical vivas, sometimes I do some of the most hilarious gaffes ever possible. One such incident took place today in my thermal Viva that will ever remain etched in my life.
2:30 PM, Mr. Lanjewar stood in front of the exam controller room of Mechanical Dept., infuriating at a couple of boys who had arrived there on time, by mistake. We had been asked to assemble in Mech dept by 2:30 PM, but we presumed that the external will arrive late as they do always, so we delayed. I walked near and smelled the situation. Actually the external was so EXCITED to conduct the viva that SHE arrived 20 minutes earlier.
We called up our friends, who arrived after a further delay of 10-15 mins. Finally the Viva started and Binty-group was summoned. We were next, so we were prepared for the call.
The door opened, Binty came out. This is a really disappointing part, even after not being the first group to be slaughtered; you never know what is being asked inside. Moreover the external is always beaming with energy for the early ones so that's yet another problem that we have to deal with.
We squeezed inside the room; I heard some noise above my head. I turned my ead to the roof and I nearly fainted. I saw two men hanging down the loft, with mallets and hammers. 'Am I hallucinating??' I asked myself. Then I saw my friends staring at the roof as well, and I felt comforted. The two spidermen seemed to be mending the walls, but had they continued to hear our replies, they'd have probably fainted and landed on our heads.
We seated ourselves, however not comfortably in the congested place full with stuffs, and the interrogation began. Usual questions, funny answers and best of all, Hitendra Kumar nagesia... His thrilling VIVA adventures deserve a separate blog post, so I am sparing the details. But yeah!! I need to mention that he was literally in trance, don't know why... or maybe I do... He is a full-pack entertainment for the external and us both, in every Viva :D
The Vivasorous, that's what we call an external, an innocuous lady this time, seemed apprehensive about asking us questions. Still she did, after all she is being paid for it. Capitalism at its worst... we drench ourselves in sweat writing and studying lab record and what's the reward?? Nothing. While the external get's paid for asking stupid questions, no matter if they know the answer or not!!! At least she can offer us her Samosa-Patties-etc !!! We won't feel bad if she gives us 7 ptr after that... But not less than that...
Very soon she attacked me and asked "How do we classify boilers?". I was stunned for I couldn't recall, but the very next moment I did. I replied in a choked voice, "I said: well according to pressure and position and ummm.. THEY ARE CLASSIFIED... she gave me a weird look... I realised what I had said. And she realised that I am in no mood of sharing any "classified" informations...
Overall, the Viva was cool, and she seemed quite a friendly creature. At least not like the Legendary H.B. Khurasia, better known to mechies as Universal Viva Machine. During our sophomore years, every night, many mechies woke up in the middle of their sleeps shouting "UVM aa gaya" and went back to sleep when we realised that it was just a nightmare... He was our bogeyman!! But today we can say that we met the tooth-fairy...(No she was not pretty, if you have interpreted that way)

please kill 'em

If God gives me one wish that he can grant me, I'll ask for death of all Indian authors... Stupid books, zero logic, improper design(yes I just solved a couple of Gear design questions and obtained better solutions)... and plenty of reverse engineering( modifying the solution in order to arrive to an answer which you already know)... Bhangaar Bhandari he is the most preferred writer in Machine design.. But so awefull that students lose interest in machine design!!!

what should be the theme??

I am still facing difficulty in deciding upon the topic I should write a book on. I am sure it will be a fiction but can't decide on what topic should it be. If I write on relations.. people will have a hearty laugh, because it will be like an Eskimo from antarctica writing about the backwaters of Kerala. The only options I am left with are either writing on friendship or college comedies. But I won't have time till the fall of 2010 to start pondering. However, I am writing this to keep me reminded of this task. I will start with the first chapter as soon as I arrive upon the decision of which topic should I write on... suggestions invited

biggest gameplayer

When I talk of true bargaining it's not the Indian Market that pops in my mind. Of course it did, a couple of years back, but now I have a contender in my mind : our very own UPA govt. Recently when the cut motion that was put forward by opposition a whole new drama came into picture. Mayawati, who had filed an application for withdrawal of case against her disproportionate assets, decided to support the Govt immedietely after the CBI accepted the plea(1). Amazingly the Shashinath Jha murder case is also lagging on dates for the last couple of times, owing to various reasons like absence of Soren, transfer of judges and few more uncanny yet obvious reasons(2). Moreover, since Soren had no reasons to call BJP as a communal party, since they have an alliance in Jharkhand, he coined an excuse which is no wiser than 'dog ate my home-work' . The story recurred few years back when Shibu Soren was released from prison, where he was confined under life sentence, in a bargain of supporting UPA govt.
So accept it, either UPA always reserves some poker chips for the 'fair' play or the Govt is really unscathed from the modern tactics of policies and always achieves a victory by the scruples
1) http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/Maya-U-turn-came-after-CBI-backtracked/articleshow/5865919.cms
2) http://www.indianexpress.com/news/2-days-before-ruling-on-soren-judge-opts-out-murder-case-transferred/607641/

help me!!! i am drowning...

I have so far been known as one of the most sanguine guys in my class. My philosophy tells me, ‘Never bother about what’s hidden behind that curtain, Go ahead, find it yourself. If you find nothing, then look for another curtain.’
But yesterday, when I creased this special curtain for the first time, I found myself sinking deep within a bog of conundrums. A bog, where there is no vine, hanging down the trees nearby, to moor myself to them. Save me from this excruciating pain, for this bog is sucking me within itself. It’s tearing me apart. I don’t know if I will survive... People may not survive the pain and forever remain in this bog, with the venom paralysing slowly from inside.
When my friends will know about it, they'll think I hardly care about this thing, for they have seen my idiosyncracy in some of the most shattering circumstances.But of course this one is unprecedented. May be I don’t care at all. Or do I?? Then why am I writing this post?? I am confused....I have never been so easy in admitting mistakes, but today I am doing it. I made a mistake, a blunder perhaps. I didn’t have patience to wait for the curtain to be raised. I did it all by myself and got restless when I found nothing, I ushered forcefully inside to know the truth, But got caught in this bog...

I can solve the DOHA problem

I can suggest a solution for DOHA round... change the meeting place to some remote city of Madhya Pradesh from Geneva.. the members will surely reach a solution in an attempt to never come here again... Electricity problem is really hideous in our state

I found a friend

In this transforming world and my ever-changing life, there is one thing that has never changed and perhaps will never change; the way i treat my childhood friends. Amongst all the transient factors this conspicuously constant behaviour is what I cherish the most. Be it all my Ahmadabad Buddies, one of the closest one to my heart (so what if Shishir acts indifferently), few of my buddies from KV2 Bhopal, (yeah, I found it hard to resonate with these guys), and of course some of my Kali Bari buddies, I will ever remain the same kid for them.
Now what might amaze you is why I am writing this post. It’s because this Sunday I came across another childhood friend. I have seen her around a lot of times but never gathered the courage to say her ‘Hi’. The reason was not that I enjoyed pestering her in school, along with my buddy Yash. Nor, for that matter, we fought stupidly for getting ahead of each other academically (Well I guess I have made clear how ‘fast’ friends we were. But then this is yet another type of childhood friendship). It was because physically, I have changed drastically and at times people deny recognising me. But I finally gathered the courage and called her name. She paused... creased her brows... her lips were confused whether or not she should smile... She stepped forth and suddenly with a beam of delight spoke,” SAMRAAAT” (yeah there were 4 A’s in my name that evening). I had a sinking feeling in my stomach for I couldn’t believe that she would recognise me. Anyway we couldn’t converse much, but then I always find it hard to speak out in front of girls. No I am not pretending to be innocent. Actually I always run out of topics while talking with them. Luckily we had so much from our 7th class days for chat.
Well about this girl, I must tell you our friendship was like that of a cat and a dog... (Yeah I know all men are dogs... so am I). I must admit she remembers a lot of my nonsense acts way too much than I could even recall. And I thought I had a good memory.
Finally it seems to me that I have added one more friend to my friend list, whom I can really call a friend.

The blame game continues...

The failure of operation-green hunt is being credited to the slag in communication between intelligence and state govt... remember 26/11?? Someone has rightly said- a bad workman always blames his tools...