Silence - It’s one of the world’s best virtues.

Being silent is an art in itself, and I happen to be a master of that art. I’m basically a silent person. I’ve never mastered the art of being loquacious.  I just can’t go on to talk for hours on end. Whenever I talk, I convey my points as briefly as possible and end with a majestic full-stop. That doesn’t mean that I’m proud of being silent. I would ideally love to talk for hours on end. In fact, there was a point in  time, when I used to talk more than what I do now. But then, something happened… something snapped within me, and I lost the ability to talk.

It happened one fine morning. One day, I wake up and I realize that I’ve lost the ability to talk! It’s not like, I went mute or anything. I could technically talk. Voice would come out of my mouth, I could utter syllables, alright. But my communication was just essential. I suddenly became brief in my conversations. My conversations were short (and not necessarily sweet).  That was when I noticed that silence was a part and parcel of me. I’m inherently a listener. NOT a talker. I could listen to people talk for hours on end, but if you ask me to talk for a couple of hours, I’d go mute. I just can’t do it!

I’m not exactly proud of being silent. In fact, I detest it. I envy everyone who talks a lot. Which means, I envy most girls. They just manage to dig out topics out of the blue and go on to talk, talk and talk. Whew. I would LOVE to do the same. Sigh!

Next comes the issue of what to talk. That’s where I’m stumped again. I’m not exactly full-of-beans. If you thought I was a walking-talking Encyclopedia Britannica, you couldn’t be more wrong! They say, “Known’s a drop. Unknown’s an ocean”. For me, ‘unknown’ makes up Pacific Ocean and Atlantic Ocean combined. I often feel a bit deprived because of my lack of knowledge. Can’t say that I’m not doing anything about it. I’m reading my way to glory. Hoping that content will solve my quagmire of not being able to speak up when I want to.

Despite not being able to talk volumes about what I like, a part of me loves being silent. I prefer listening to people talk, rather than the act of talking. Listening is good. Everyone talks, few listen. I’m quite a good listener; I listen to friends’ problems for a living. When you listen to people, it makes them feel happy. They feel important, because there’s someone to listen to what they  have to say. In fact, there’s a friend of mine who’s exactly the same.

I guess I’ll find it a tad too hard to break my mould of being silent. But in a way, it’s made me a good listener.

Let’s see where silent listening takes me to…

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They say good samaritans are a dying breed. At least, you don’t see them on the road every other day. Maybe, it’s a necessary-evil, courtesy: Kalyug. Or, the society has become so selfish that we don’t really give a damn about the world around us. Even as millions die of hunger, we live luxurious lives, unmindful of the harsh realities around us.

We are all hypocrites. Even good comes with a shade of grey. ‘Purity’ is euphemism. Or rather, thus spake pessimists.

I beg to differ.

Dude, Good Samaritans are alive. And kicking.

Now, if you’ll allow me to elaborate…

About twenty hours ago, we were driving through the State Highway one, after one of our periodic native place trips. I was behind the wheel. Since dad was on a nap (read: no more backseat driving!) I let the speedometer hover around the 100′s. On a smooth road, high speed driving is bliss.

Until a nasty pothole wakes you up from the reverie.

Dad woke up too.

A shower of unparliamentary words followed. I promptly remembered to filter my ‘infant ears’ from all the verbal filth that was hurled at me. In the process, I missed out on the ‘advice’ he offered. But what the hell, I never pay heed to advice either. Rules are meant to be broken and advice has a permanent seat in my mind’s trashcan.

Anyway, the backseat driving resumed and I drove on, grumbling.

Fifteen minutes later, I felt something amiss. A knocking sound emanated from the rear of our Indigo. There was a periodic jolt too. Even my mom, who was sleeping to ward herself off all the abuse, woke up with a start.

Something was wrong with our car.

I didn’t need dad’s (unparliamentary) instructions to pull over. I alighted and checked the rear. The right-rear tire of our car lay deflated, like a wilted flower – or a shot-down balloon.

Dad glowered at me. It was the pothole, which was a bit too steep with sharp edges. It did hurt that I was driving at an average speed of 100 kmph, while the mishap occurred. Apparently, the sharp edges of the pothole wedged into tire, causing a deep gash.

Despite being an atheist, my dad believes in karma. “What you reap, is what you sow,” he said. And that was a hat-tip in management lingo. I had to undo the damage I did.

I had to replace the flat tire myself.

Now, I have a serious problem. Whenever someone mentions a task to be handled, I volunteer with gusto, without realizing what it takes to get the job done. I realize my folly only half-way through the task. By then, the damage would’ve been done. Precisely what happened in this case.

I’ve seen enough flat tires and I’ve even helped one of my uncles out to repair a flat.

I took the job with open arms.

I opened the rear-boot to fish out the ‘stepney’ (oh btw, this word is an Indian English gem – don’t use it outta the country, mind you). To my chagrin, the rear boot was stuffed with an array of bananas and other agricultural produce. (Now you know why make frequent trips to our native) I shot a pleading glance at dad who was calmly puffing away his second cigarette, and talking on the phone. Mom stood a neat distance away, glancing through the ‘vanitha’.

Cursing my luck, I started off, lifting bananas bunch-by-bunch.

“Enthengilum sahaayam veno?” (Do you want any help)

I was taken aback by the sudden query in a voice unfamiliar. I made an about-turn to see a dark old man, clad in a white shirt and dhothi glancing partly at me and partly at the flat tire. I was reminded of an old poem – ‘Two tramps in mud time‘. This guy reminded me of the tramp. Trying to act like the narrator of the poem, I politely nodded,

“Kuzhappamilla. Njaan cheytholaam.” (Na, it’s okay. Thank you.)

“Nannaayittu keeriyittundallo.” (It looks like a bad one)

Is he deaf? I thought I made myself clear – I didn’t need help. Ego took the better of me.

“Athe. Chettan mechanic aano?” (Yes. Are you a mechanic?)

“Alla. Aa stepney edukkumbo sookshichu edukkane…” (Nope, but do handle the stepney carefully)

Before I knew it, he volunteered himself, lifting bananas from the boot and placing them towards the side, so as to get the stepney. My ego died, and I was certainly not complaining.

Dad noticed the guy, and came over to see what’s happenning.

Meanwhile, both of us lifted the stepney tire and placed it sideways. Dad fished the ‘jacky’ and screwdriver from a recess hidden in the boot. I removed my watch, un-tucked my shirt and switched myself to ‘Mechanic mode’ (with due apologies to ‘Enthiran‘).

Our visiting ‘mechanic’ knew his ‘mechanics’. He helped me place the ‘jacky’ underneath the car,

“Jacky alpam side ilottu matti vaykku – illengil silencer il mutti balance thetti veezhum.” (Place the jacky carefully lest it slip and hit the silencer. The car may fall down, losing balance.)

With his instructions, I lifted the jacky. Meanwhile, our man fetched a piece of rope from somewhere and removed the wheelcap of the flat tire. The tire screws were super-tight. With some effort from our part, the screws came off and we gingerly removed the tire. The gash was deep. Dad glowered at me again.

“Ithu nannaakkaan ichiri paadu pedum.” (Repairing this is gonna cost me a lot)

Ignoring dad’s dig, I continued work, fixing the stepney in place. The visitor was prompt in helping me out:

“Athra cash onnum aavilla saare… Koodi poyaal oru noottambathu roopa.” (It won’t cost a lot, sir. 150 rupees, max).

Finally, after 20 minutes of arduous labor, the tire was back in place. I unscrewed the jacky and placed the flat tire onto the rear-boot. We reloaded the luggage later on. Noticing that my hands were all dirty, the man took me to a nearby construction site where we found some water and washed our hands.

We returned to the car. I couldn’t help but smile – I would have had a tough time, had it not been for this man. He was just a passer-by and had no obligation to help us out. Heck, he didn’t even know who we were – we were strangers to him! Yet, he found time for us, and did his best to help us out – and he did a good job too! Especially with a novice like me ‘at the helm’. I turned around, to thank the man with all my heart.

He was not there.

We looked all around, but he went missing. It was as if he had vanished into thin air – he left without a good bye.

The three of us were let-down.

“Sho. Ayalkku enthengilum kodukkanamaayirunnu,” (We should have given him something) said Dad.

“Ayaalude peru polum chodichilla. Enthu nalla manushyana,” (We didn’t even ask his name. What a nice person), Mom too was disappointed.

Overcome with gratitude and disappointment, I just could not speak.

The nameless man did a thankless job. He got nothing – he did not ask for it. He soiled his squeaky-white shirt and dhothi for three random strangers who were stranded by a flat tire. He was certainly not the healthiest of men; yet he strained himself to help us out.

Would you do the same, if you were in the old man’s shoes (He was barefoot, btw)?

We all live in our little cocoons, enjoying the little pleasures of life. Maybe we should learn something from the nameless man – a true-blue ‘Good Samaritan’. Reaching out to someone in need could be a thankless job. God almighty might not bless you with the luxuries of life, by doing so. Sometimes, you might not even get a ‘thank you’ in return. But a small step goes a long way.

And the satisfaction it brings in, quoting the MasterCard ad, “is priceless.”

Photo Credits:  Fr. Stephen MSC

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“With great power, comes great responsibility.”

-      Uncle Ben, Spiderman

27^th July, 2007 was an idle Saturday – just another random weekend. That night, I was peacefully having dinner, watching T.V. The two ‘events’ are quite synonymous in my lingo. That is, if I’m having food, I’d also be watching TV; a routine that has never wavered. An action movie was being aired on Star Movies. Being a hardcore action-movie addict, I staged a mini-revolt to gain control over the remote control, and firmly established my supremacy by switching channels. The movie was about a commando operation. Eyes transfixed on the television, I finished my rice, and had proceeded into the final (but most-preferred) item, the FISH – incidentally my favourite dish. Like any artful epicure, I salvage the best for the last, and I was waiting expectantly for this last bit. Exactly when I was done munching the last piece of ‘choora’, it happened.

The world around me blacked out.

It was instantaneous and spry. One moment, the room was well-lit, the very next microsecond, darkness prevailed. Well, I was the least shocked at first; I leaned back on my chair unperturbed. The delicacy of the choora still lingered in my taste buds; the laws of optics take some time to sink in…. My taste buds relished the taste of the choora I licked the last pieces from the plate. Power cuts are quite frequent in any part of Kerala. Even with the government canceling ‘load shedding’ as a part of its populist measures (forcing the State Electricity board to the brink of bankruptcy by ‘buying’ electricity at exorbitant rates!), such occasional power failures are common. They could be as short as a couple of seconds.

I wasn’t aware of the term ‘worst case scenario’, was I?

One second, two seconds, ten seconds… One minute… Ten minutes… the blanket of darkness reminded me of the deep dark black holes in outer space. Silently remembering that verse in Malayalam about the virtues of darkness: “Velicham dukhamaanunni… Tamassallo sukhapradam!”(Light symbolizes sorrow, darkness is bliss!), I walked to the sink and reluctantly washed my plate. I’d missed a crucial part of the movie, and I had to see it once more. In torrent we trust!

The power seemed to have no intention of coming back even after an hour. I decided to call a spade a spade and started another exciting (duh!) game of ‘Nature Park’ in my Nokia. ‘Nature-Park’ing was getting on my nerves when a lovable friend of mine seemingly guessed my situation and called me. After some 15 minutes my Nokia threatened to switch itself off, relentlessly showing a ‘Low Battery’ sign in 4096 jarring colours. Harried, I explained my situation. Bidding a quick good-bye to my friend, I gave the Nokia its peace, switching it off.

Another half-hour found me ‘plugged on’ to my new ‘UNIS’ mp3 player (Gifted by a globe-trotter cousin who’d bargained it for a measly $20 from a vendor at Changi Airport, Singapore). But even my music-addicted self was chivvied hearing ‘Californication – Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ for the hundredth time. Psychic spies from China did try to steal my mind’s elation. My heavy eyes drooped down and I couldn’t stand the call of slumber any longer.

The sun-rays seeping in through the open window curtains stung my eyes as I opened them to greet the Sunday. My Rivoli watch mutely announced that the time was 7.20 AM, too early, by my standards. Sleepily I woke up, expectantly looking up at the fan, which contrary to my expectations, stood motionless. I toggled the bed-switch for good measure, but the fan was idle as ever. Enraged, I trudged to the toilet and brushed my teeth. The power should be back any moment, or it would have returned at night, and they’d have switched it off momentarily for maintenance.

When your dad’s a top honcho in the state electricity board, power cuts should not commonplace, ideally. Now, ‘ideal’, like the Carnot’s engine, is a paradox of unthinkable proportions. Dad couldn’t care less. My query met with rude-rebuttal – wasn’t I aware of the hundreds of employees who burned the midnight oil just to ensure that I got my weekly dose of ‘FRIENDS’ without fail? Dad’s rhetoric questions stump me without fail. Reasons behind the sudden blackout were still in the dark, if you’ll pardon the pun.

Dad’s reluctance to inform the local authorities (“they already know and they’re working on it!”), forced me to fish up the number from the directory and call the electricity office. That occupied me for an hour. The

‘Engaged’ tone was music to the ears. After a while I even assumed that the announcer female’s voice was sexy. (I wasn’t aware of speech processing algorithms back then, but some treble in the crackly voice did reveal ‘feminine tenderness’).

‘They’ must’ve come up with the “perseverance pays” proverb in the late eighteenth century (I couldn’t google, to confirm). But Edward A. Murphy prevailed over the over ‘them’ with his eponymous law. Everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong, that day. Needless to say, I couldn’t connect to the electricity office and I’d finally realized that the announcer was actually a male on ‘voice-drag’. My mobile phone died of low battery. I didn’t have any books to read, the one’s I’d borrowed from the library were returned only the day before. Dad’s laptop had run out of charge too. My camera didn’t entirely disappoint, but the low battery sign flashed on the LCD after a couple of macro shots with flash. It didn’t help that my room’s design-defect exacerbated the temperatures; I was melting from head to toe! Rivulets of sweat oozed steadily through every inch of my skin, and my temper was about to flare!

Worst day ever?

Looking back, the 28^th of July, 2007 was a day I’d never forget in my entire life. Not because of the lack of power and the numerous inconveniences it hence effected; it was one of the best days of my life. : )

Well, at least, not until that very moment – when things were utterly wrong. It was noon and the temperatures soared. I couldn’t bear it any longer and I scampered to the terrace. I had to get some fresh air. I rested myself on the parapet, under the shade of a coconut tree which loomed large above. A gentle breeze soothed my scorched body.  I closed my eyes.

As I made myself comfortable atop the parapet, I didn’t bat an eyelid. For the occasional onlooker, I was either a lunatic sleeping atop a dangerously-risky parapet-wall (one minor turn, and collapse – sudden death) or an actual corpse. Neither was I asleep, I couldn’t be more agile and active! Despite the apparent inactivity of my body, I was in deep thought. It was a while since I took some time off for myself, and those moments with myself was much-procrastinated bliss. I let my train of thought derail and my mind wander. It was such a wonderful experience, letting go of strings of inhibition, observing kites of thoughts fly high in the cloudy vast expanse of my mind. The kites magically dispersed the clouds away. As I woke up, an intellect of the sun shone high and bright in the clear blue sky of my mind.

It was 5:00 PM. Four hours had passed since I climbed onto the terrace. I observed an enriching sense of calmness within myself, as I walked down with a wide grin on my face. I sensed joy, exhilaration and peace.

More importantly, that was the day I realized my true calling lay – in literature.

I marched down the terrace, back to the living room – my tummy rumbled after all the contemplation. I hadn’t had a morsel since breakfast. Dad and mom were watching TV.

The power had returned.  :-)

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07:00: Routine, early-morning-nightmare-wake-up-call. Mixed emotions. (Extractors? Daniel Cobb ‘stealing’ from me? I wish!)

07:02: Ctrl+Shift+Del “Nightmare”. Rational thinking + Obnoxious Optimism. Back to sound sleep.

08:30: Ear-splitting abuses from dad finally shake blissful sleep away. Oh btw, Dad’s my personal abuse trainer.

09:00: Breakfast. Mostly Dosa/Puttu/Appam/Chappathi + Chammanthi/Sambhar/Potato Curries. (Google ‘em if they don’t make sense to you) Gobble ‘em all up until the tummy’s brim-full. *bliss*

09:15: Get Online. Check the status of last night’s downloads. Watch ‘em flick(s).

10:00: Boring flick. Time to attack Facebook/flickr/twitter/StumbleUpon/Digg/Posterous.

13:00: Oops. ‘Tummy rumbling weak and thin’ with hunger! Lunch!!!

14:00: How I Met Your Mother! Sweet!

14:30: Back to sound dreamless sleep, which doesn’t pause Ted and Barney who pursue another caper.

16:30: Incessant ringing of doorbell. Mom’s home! Barney’s ‘awesomeness’ is on pause.

16:35: Mom’s loud observations about her son’s sanity. She’s right, as always.

17:00: Back to HIMYM after a hot, refreshing cup of tea/biscuits.!

21:30: Dinner time! Time to un-learn Barney for parents’ sake.

22:00: Back online to Google Talk and social media. *chatter chatter*

23:25: Green with envy as friends narrate tales at their new workplace. *Rues joblessness*

00:00: Schedule movie downloads.

00:15: ‘Nuff talk for the day. Back to work!  HIMYM resumes!

Somewhere between 00:30 – 04:00: Sleep!

Cest la vie!

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I was on a drive with my cousin – he was dropping me off at a nearby bus-stop. Tech-support (one of my odd-jobs) lasted till late night, and Kowdiar (where he stayed) was three buses away from my place. Since I fixed his computer for free, Aravind annan (as I knew him) was obliged to drop me home. Now, Aravind  annan is my eldest cousin – he’s the oldest amongst us cousins in dad’s family and he works for the railways. Quite an intelligent chap, his bald head gives me caveats about my impending coiffure (or the lack of it). The twenty-year age-gap we had, made sure that our conversations were mostly intellectual, even bordering on the spiritual – we shared a passion for intense spirituality. We didn’t quite share a rapport that I enjoy with cousins of my age – he’d be the last person I’d confide in about my encounters with the opposite sex, but we were friends nonetheless.

We were discussing nuances of Vaishnavite tradition as annan drove, nay, dragged his Maruti Alto in sluggish thirties. Fourty was his speed limit, a couple of ravaging accidents in his younger years being the reason for the vigil, not that I was quite enamored by it. I was left with no choice – necessary evil. Annan‘s  foot spared the accelerator of its misery as we neared PMG Junction – a crossover square that connected our road to NH-47. If thirties are sluggish, tens are, well… a full f***ing stop! I rued my decision as my cousin calmly chanted a mantra to prove his spiritual point, manuevering the gear stick to First gear. That’s right, we were traveling at ten kilometers per hour in a virtually empty junction, at nine thirty pm. Insanely-crappy! Exasperated, I gave up on my argument, and glanced longingly at the empty road, brightly lit with halogen lamps. There was a statue of Subhash Chandra Bose right at the center of the junction with a circular grass-skirting. The night-lights added an aura to the towering Bose, and the beautifully-trimmed grass added a glistening aura to the martyr, making him seem…

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

OH. MY. GOD.

I’d given Janice quite a run for her money with the series of exclamations, but I had to do it.

I just saw the prettiest female I’d ever chanced upon, crossing the road by the statue!!!

She was exquisite. Clad in a floral white salwar adorned with blue petals, she was breathtakingly-pretty. Her face was unblemished (marvelously-ravishing actually). The two-second glimpse I saw, gave me visions of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. Perfection personified. Her flowing hair was the best part – it ran till the waist, and she repeatedly used her forearm to set it right, while her left hand managed a leather bag. Her expression was intriguing – a petulant impatience shrouded in put-on calm.

She was the one. And I needed no further thought to get that into my thick-fat head.

Meanwhile, a few things happened simultaneously. Never a multitasker, I broke all records of intelligent-thinking; and mustered up a plan to get talking to the female. I shook my cousin from his Vaishnavite reverie, gesturing at the bus that had just reached the stop – it was a direct bus to my place. Thanking him profusely, I opened the passenger door and bolted, waving him a cursory bye. Annan was actually glad that I dropped off early, the car’s fuel indicator hovered near ‘E’, and he wasn’ t exactly minting money at the railways; he swerved (at 5 k.m.p.h) and left –  humming  (a vocal carcass of ) an Ashtapathi.

The girl (woman actually) was roughly 25 m away from me. And by some divine grace of God, she still stood transfixed, she seemed like one of the cautious ones – waiting for the road to be totally empty. Interesting quality, I mused. In a few seconds, I caught up with her, and stood beside, waiting to cross the road with the lady. I turned left and took a closer look at her, and she turned to look at me. My vision still stood me in good stead – by God, she was THE prettiest! And she was tall – our heights ‘matched’. She could be older, but what the hell! Saif Ali Khan is my hero!

Then, she, nay WE crossed the road. Turned out that she wasn’t looking at me earlier, she was checking out for incoming vehicles to the right side, so that she could cross safe – but that did help! I wasn’t aware of the surroundings, in my mind’s eye, I was planning my wedding with this Goddess! Lost in fantasy, neither did I notice the direct-bus leave, nor did I observe the man donning a dark helmet on an old CD100 SS, waiting by the bus station. We were centimeters apart, and my arm did brush her palm once – and boy, that was electric! By now I’d started making love to her in my dreams as my conscious mind was searching at terabits per second for the best pick up line.

As we neared the bus stop – which was right-opposite to where we stood, I walked closer to her – God alone knows how I mustered courage to get my shelf self to get to talk! But I had to do it – I wanted to make her mine, then and there, and no force in the world could stop me.

Or so, I ass-u-me-d.

Surprisingly, she was walking away from the bus stop and me, towards the left, whereas the stop was on our right. Puzzled, I followed her – now I was behind her, probably a foot or two away. She gradually reduced her speed as she approached the parked CD100SS. I too followed suit. The man on the bike lifted up his helmet vizor and smiled, which she did not acknowledge . Before I could put a further step forward, she got on pillion and the man fired up his bike. They sped away. Taking my dreams along.

I did get a quick glimpse of the man on the bike -he stood underneath a sodium vapor lamp and I saw his face clearly, he was grossly unattractive. And surprisingly massive too. Who was he? Could be a brother, or maybe a  friend. A (boy) friend? A ‘customer’?

All adrenaline drained out, I trudged about the bus stop, dejected.

And I continued ‘dejecting’ for about one more hour, till eleven a.m. – no bus to my place as in sight. Finally, I had to get content with an overcrowded fast passenger, for which I had to pay extra. As I hit home,  I ended up hating public transport too! Parents’ mandatory back-home-abuses later, I retired with a heavy heart.

I found solace in Pratheesh‘s constant refrain:

2010 is our year, and we’ll be happy forever!

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This post is cross-posted from the Tata Jagriti Yatra blog. I’d written the post during the yatra, and it was published in the blog, back then. Looking back at my archives, I thought this post is worth publishing. You may find the original post here. There’s another post of the same name in this blog – a post that dates four years back. Even it’s on the same lines. You might want to check it out here.

I’m no stud. Plagiarizing the title of Kiran Desai’s booker-winning piece wouldn’t make me one either. I’m that random guy you’d find on every other sleepy, small-town in India. I’d be sitting next to you on the public bus, sipping tea (aptly paid by a couple of borrowed one rupee coins) by a chawl, or even aimlessly roaming about on a crowded city road. “Another brick in the wall.” as you (a.k.a. ‘the stud’) might put it. You’re welcome; your gratitude for my praise is duly accepted and acknowledged. And before you brush my compliment off, dismissing me with the ‘brick-wall’ figure of speech, let me shed some more piece of info, buddy. I’m a tad different. I’ve this not one among these regular red bricks you see piled up by construction sites. I’ve a distinct shade of orange.

It took me a nation-wide train journey to fully comprehend the implications of my difference – A journey, which not only made me bankrupt and awakened me to the point of enlightenment. Bankrupt, because the organizers snubbed out my humble pleas for sponsorship and I had to bust my life’s savings for it. Enlightened, because even though I’m penniless, I’ve found my calling, and I’ve learned hundred times more than what they teach you at those B-schools.

Apologies for the digression and the hyperbole – but then again, you might’ve had an insight into the nuances of my simple mind. And allow me to get back to where I started off – the booker winning book’s title. I plagiarized the title because it was the phrase that made the most sense to me, given the chaotic circumstances. With your due permission, I shall elaborate on what actually transpired.

Okay, so to cut the human excreta, this train journey which instilled high hopes in me, not to mention romanticized notions of the country, was marked by the four letter word L-O-S-S. Materialistically speaking, I lost more than what I gained. Did you hear the song about a raspy-voiced guy singing about the things he’d lost in the past seven days? If not, shame on you. Feed yourself some staple food from your country’s watched movie industry, st-ude (st-ude = stud + dude, for further references). And since it’s been exactly seven days into this ‘Yatra’ and I’m sort-of maniacally-obsessed by the song, being the random movie-obsessed guy that I am, I thought I’d make the fact public, just like the raspy-voiced guy.

It all started on day 1, with an irreparable tear on my brand new Alen Solly shirt. Obnoxious optimism (with due regards to Mark Twain), made me attribute the primal loss to bad karma. With the smile back on my face, I leaped onto the train and set off. Then on, virtually, there was no looking back. Each day meant the loss of a new item. My favourite Nokia 3110c, my toothbrush, an unopened Reebok tee, an IIM Bangalore watch, my towel (lost to laundry), countless pens, medicines, and God-alone-knows-what. When I say the list is endless, it actually is.

It’s bad. Or rather, it’s *insert-expletive-here*. Each day, you wake up to check your purses, bags, and pockets, only to realize that you’ve another lost item. And the panic starts. You feel the trepidation in your arms, which is surprisingly infectious. Your arms, legs and your entire body, in that order, feel this blitzkrieg of adrenaline. And then, you start foraging. Your mind’s eye rushes through your memoirs of the past couple of (awake) hours, tracking your (invisible) footprints. And then, like the Na’avi from Avatar (watch the movie, if you haven’t), you leap off in pursuit. You overturn all the bags, books, blankets, soiled socks, stinky towels, and every other thing that blocks your line of sight. At first, your roommates are empathetic and willingly join-in. But with time, they realize that this is cest la vie for you. And then, you’re at the butt of ridicule. Progressively, you disappear into the ambiance as a lone maverick being, showing proof of your existence by making periodic appearances at the announcement desk beseeching the announcement of your latest loss.

If serious doubts about my optimist claim have started cropping up in your mind by now, chill. The sole reason why I never stop my search is because I know I’d find my stuff someday, somewhere. And yeah, I’ve already found most of them. Yet, each day beckons to a new loss, and I’d have to balance the pursuit of loss with the pursuit of inspiration, which I admit, is quite tasking. Yet, it’s no daunting task.

‘Cause if a brick like me can multitask, so can a stud like you! ☺

P.S.
If you find some of the items that I’ve mentioned anywhere around (not necessarily in the train), do give me a buzz. I’d certainly appreciate it, not just verbally.

Bottom Line

I actually ended up finding everything I lost on train, while plenty of others didn’t.

Related posts:

1. The Inheritance of Loss

Happiness is bliss, but the quest for it often isn’t. Broadly speaking, the very purpose of life is happiness – we live our lives to stay happy. All our deeds are directed toward happiness. However, dire situations in life block this emotion from within. Alright, life isn’t always a bed of roses, but drowning oneself in the wine of sorrows is pointless.

Such occasions demand instant happiness – quite like a painkiller. Here are ten effective tips to inject sorrows out of your system in a short span-of-time. I can’t ensure cent-percent success, but I’ve been a guinea pig myself and these have worked like charm:

Here goes:

1. Talk.

The simplest key to happiness; find a buddy and talk! Anything and everything – your blues, your pains; even a flimsy Tintumon joke would do. Once a healthy conversation (preferrably a long-one) is over and done with, you’d be back to your happier-self. This works even if you’re an introvert, in which case, you should get the other person to talk to you. Side-effect: hefty phone bills.

2. Do your thing.

What’s ‘your thing’? Everyone has his/her obsession that makes him/her happy – it varies from person to person. If you’re into books, dust open that elusive book from your shelf and glue yourself. If music is your mind and soul, listen listen to some soothing Floyd. Or worse, if you’re that bookworm who’s obsessed with studies, try formulating a theory of your own and verify it yourself! Your ‘bad mood’ might make you feel skeptical about your ability to pursue your passion when you’re down, but that’s just a negative thought. Give your passion a try, and you’d find yourself smiling again as you successfully go about doing it.

3. Put yourself into motion.

Wake up lazybones and give thy booty a quick shake. Don’t slump down in despair, instead, give your entire system a boost of motion. Add a tinge of motion to whatever you do – if you’re reading, try walking about. Add a momentary briskness to your gait. Pump faux-energy to your voice, take a walk outside; even climb up and down your staircase for good measure. Some energy’s goanna do you good!

CC Credits: samikrc

4. Be a good-samaritan for a change

Drug your evil twin and try doing something noble for a change. Pass along a gratifying message forward. Cheer up a buddy, donate some money for a needy person or feed a hungry child – do your bit to make the world a better place. Just a small gesture shall bring a smile to your face.

5. Talk about your good deed

There’s no harm in publicizing the good deed you just did. Beat the drums about it; reverse karma ensures that once the word is out of your mouth, happiness shall fill your tormented mind.

6. A walk to remember

Don your walking shoes and take a walk across the street;  especially so if it’s morning. Nothing adds more positivity to brain cells than a good walk in daylight, swear researchers. If your climate so allows, make sure to bask yourself in the bright morning light. Also, try walking the talk – find a walk-buddy and ‘walk-the-talk’. A happiness-high shall sure ensue.

7. Task out the task

Have a long-pending dentist appointment? Remember that library book whose fine has now run into hundreds? Take up minor daily chores that you’ve procrastinated over time. Assign priorities and complete them. Once each bugging chore is off the list, your mind shall heave a progressive sigh of relief, ushering in a rush of spirits.

8. Spread the love

Spread the warmth of your love as you meet your loved ones. Text that friend you haven’t heard from in a while. Give your girlfriend/boyfriend a pleasant surprise. When you share your love and care, your buddies shall reciprocate and you’d feel wanted yourself. Even an arbit ‘take care’ goes a long way, longer than you imagine.

9. Imbibe knowledge

Known is a drop and unknown is an ocean. A few gulps of the unknown ocean shall flush out needless negativity from your system. Find an area which you’ve been dying to know more of. Google/Wiki it and treat yourself to nuggets of information. Trust your intuition on this – these new nuggets of info should be upon something you actually have a penchant for. Enlightenment has its effects.

10. Fake happiness

A li’l plastic smile does help at times. Researches have proved that even artificially-induced smiles help boost moods. This, ideally, should be the last arrow in your quiver and is sure-shot success. Laughter therapy is a variant of fake happiness; so fake a smile until you feel real joy. What’s more you’d look your best with that pretty smile on your face, and you’d present yourself as approachable to people.

Happiness is infectious. Once you’re out of the blues, make it a point to spread your joy! Remember, love only multiplies itself as it spreads. And enjoy it while it lasts – do try to make it last longer.

Related posts:

1. Silence is Golden!
2. Frame of Mind
3. Life blog

My uncle made a sudden announcement that he’s migrating to the U.S. of A, to the family’s surprise. His company posted him overseas with a pay that’s equivalent to ten times as much it’s worth in motherland. Despite the odds, especially the countless diplomatic hassles, he decided to pack his bags and live the american dream with his wife and daughter (my cousin), who was a five-year old back-then.

Three months of red-tape-dodging later, the three of them took a  flight from ‘namma ooru Bengaluru’ to ‘The Valley’, in pursuit of the much-cliched ‘American Dream’.

The flight was bumpy and it took  little Karthika (my cousin) six visits to the loo just to get ‘settled down’. Aunty and Uncle were excited about the trip, but Karthika wasn’t. She bawled all over the place when she heard the news of departure. She couldn’t stand the thought of leaving  her buddies at Sacred Heart’s School. And besides, she’d come to love Bangalore. She just couldn’t let go, yet her parents didn’t take no for an answer.

Twenty Three harrowing hours later, the trio landed at SFO (San Francisco Airport) – they were supposed to land at the San Jose Airport, which was closer to their destination – Palo Alto. Sadly, a storm turned things around, literally, that is. Now, that was a huge blow for uncle, cause he had his company car waiting at San Jose. SFO was over twenty one miles from their destination. The driver had been informed of the change, but it would take at least three hours to reach SFO (which was over 35 miles  from SFO, and the storm made driving hard). Uncle, Aunty and Karthika had to wait in the passenger lounge for hours. The jet-lag was killing them, and they hadn’t taken enough woolen clothes. To make things worse, temperatures neared sub-zero and it was snowing heavily outside. Karthika was seriously pissed – but even she was too tired for tantrums; she struggled to cope up with the cold, under four layers of woolen clothing.

CC Credits: artofthestate

The USA was new to Karthika. A whole new world of people who were either too fair or too dark. It was so clean, swank and modern. Every square-metre had some beeping/gleaming electronic gadget attached. She stared open-mouthed, with an emotion that was part-awe and part-fear. She observed every nook and corner of the airport, trying to read signs in English – she was already familiar with the language; her teacher at school was American, and she’d already learned ‘the drawl’ from her. She could read and write well-enough for a five year old. As she was observing the red neon signs on the wall opposite to her, something caught her eye.

‘Someone’, actually. Not some-’thing’.

The plural of ‘someone’ to be precise.

Two people stood close to each other, beneath the neon sign. The man was clad in a tee shirt and shorts while the female wore a sleeveless blue tank top. Strangely, they didn’t seem to feel the cold at all. And they were doing something to each other. Karthika squinted. She moved forward, braving the cold, and eyed closely. The man seemed to be biting the woman’s lips. No, he was eating something from her mouth – she couldn’t be sure. It was gross! For all she could see – the man’s mouth was inside the woman’s. Perhaps the woman was hungry, and the man was trying to feed her? Aw, no – that shouldn’t be the thing.

Now, were they kissing each other?

No, Karthika reassured herself. People kiss each other in the cheek. Her dad kisses her on the cheeks before they go to work. Her mom does that too, when she’s playing with her. And she’d seen Mohanlal kissing his heroines in Malayalam Movies they show on Asianet. They must be doing something else, she decided. Two minutes later, they didn’t seem to stop and Karthika felt sick staring at them. She turned around only to see another couple in the act. And another. And another. She even saw a man, biting/stucking another man’s lips/tongue (ewww). Karthika’s tummy did a back-flip. She ran to her mom who was trying to find some sleep on her dad’s shoulder and rested herself on her mom’s lap.

Aunty woke up, and caressed her arms lovingly on Karthika’s head. Karthika’s query caught aunty unawares.

“Amme (Mom), What are these people doing?” (Pointing to a kissing couple).”

Clean bowled.

“Molu (Daughter), er, that’s the american way of greeting people! In America, you kiss a new person when you meet him/her. Much like we shake hands in India.”

“Oh, so they are kissing right? I thought so. But why are they kissing on their mouths? Why don’t they kiss on the cheeks like us?”

“Er… Er… I guess, that’s the American way of kissing, molu.”

“Oh, athu shari.” (Hmmm, I see).

Karthika failed to notice the beads of sweat that had accumulated on Raji aunty’s forehead, as she nodded in understanding.

Later on that day, they reached Palo Alto and they were ushered into their cozy apartment. The jet lag took a toll on the three of them, and they spent the entire day sleeping. Workaholic that he is, uncle left for work at 6 AM next morning. Aunty woke up soon after, and set about exploring their new fully-furnished home, awed by the profusion of gadgets, (especially the kitchen). Karthika took her time, and walked about their new apartment. She enjoyed the ambiance - and loved it even more, noticing the projection TV with countless cartoon channels. Meanwhile, somebody knocked the door, and  Aunty opened it. Next-door neighbours had come visiting  - A lovely black lady Michelle, and her son Tyler. Aunty ushered them in with all charm she could muster, silently-glaring at Karthika who was too busy with Spongebob Squarepants to notice. Reluctantly, Karthika had to switch off TV and attend to the guests; she knew the what the outcome would be if she didn’t comply! Perfunctory conversations later, Aunty eyed Karthika to talk to the guests. She hadn’t uttered a word, and she was dreading that moment; partly the reason why she glued herself to TV, not acknowledging the guests. She simply couldn’t get herself to do it. But now her mom had commanded her, and there was no escaping from it.

Taking a deep breath, Karthika got up from her sofa, gingerly stepped forward, and walked to Michelle and Tyler. She paused before for an awkward second, as Michelle held her arms out to her. Tyler, a six year old, beamed copiously at Karthika, who returned the smile.

Before Tyler knew it, Karthika went over and kissed Tyler, straight in the mouth for ten full seconds!

Michelle’s eyes nearly popped out. Aunty had her arm on her head, silently calling all the Gods she knew, red with embarrasment. Tyler was in a daze, he kept staring blankly at Karthika whose smile now morphed into a puzzled expression. She stared at her mom and asked innocently:

“Amma, I was just welcoming Tyler, ‘the american way’, as you’d told me at the airport!”

Bottom Line:

Real story, altered names.

No related posts.

A name’s the most primary identification mark of any person. It’s one of the only entities about us that’s both intensely personal and unabashedly public. It’s something you take pride in (not always, but in general) and hold closest to your heart – and it’s also that piece of info about yourself that you’d willingly share with almost every other person you acquaint with. Your name says a lot about you; it signifies your caste, your religion and even your persona: Often “You are what your name means!” (Okay, that’s an inaccurate hypothesis and I’ll elaborate why).

Now, all of us aren’t exactly in love with our names, are we? Many change names in the course of their lives. The reasons being social (change of religion, marriage), astrological (Think Numerlogy and astrology), or even personal (sheer hatred of your weird name). But our names have been lovingly bestowed upon us by our parents, and changing your name would mean, changing our identity altogether, won’ t it? And in these days of inane red-tape, a name-change would mean countless forms, corrections, modifications and what not! Changing what you’re called, just once, can be such a pain in the ass, right?

How would you feel if you you had a new name each day?

Here’s an anecdote. Rewind 54 years.

1956. Picture a village in Rural Kerala. A kid is born into a fading aristocratic Nair family. Now, the once-prosperous Tharavaadu is in the throes of total destruction, thanks to economic mismanagement and a profusion of Legal Troubles. This kid is born as the youngest in a family of 8. Now, this family has a huge disparity in terms of ages, best explained by the fact that the kid’s oldest brother got married when the kid was one year old! Way back in the ’50s, being the youngest kid wasn’t as cool as it is, right now. The kid’s parents were too busy managing his seven siblings and their own troubles,  to give him a second look. His mother didn’t have enough time to even breastfeed the kid. What’s worse, the kid did not have a name, even when he was two years old! He was too small an entity to be considered, when the landlord father of his was losing acres of land and his imported Ford to a slew of court-cases!! Heights of bad parenting, if you ask me.

By the time the kid was three years old, the family was impoverished, more or less. Most of the property was in dispute – the sole lifeline of the family was a ten acre rice-field, and some cattle. The kid-who-had-no-name wasn’t even encouraged to eat three meals a day, let alone go to school. He had no issues with the lackadaisical attitude of his parents, however. Too mature for his age, he learned to mingle with neighbourhood kids and enjoyed his life, blissfully unaware of the troubles around him.

One day, a group of middle-aged men and women marched into the Tharavaadu. They were greeted by the kid’s mom with trembling arms. Were they officials from the court, all set to attach the only property they had? They coterie of well dressed people turned out to be teachers from the local Government school. Apparently, the school was about to be closed down due to lack of attendance, and there was an DEO (District Education Officer)-inspection due. The teachers were hunting for kids to substitute  ’real’ children so that the school wouldn’t get decommissioned; their jobs were at stake. While the teachers were explaining their predicament to a now-relieved mom, our kid marched into the courtyard, clad in a loincloth-style knicker, happily playing with a discarded cycle tyre – his only toy. As soon as he entered, this lady teacher pounced upon him immediately, the way a lioness would perch upon a zebra and bribed him with a bunch of toffees. The kid munched a toffee for the first ever time, and boy, he loved them! Within a few minutes, a deal was fixed. The kid would attend school whenever an inspector came to school, and he’d get free meals as a gift. The kid was too satiated to relent – milk, countless toffees and nourished WHO-sponsored meals were a welcome relief from his daily-porridge.

The very next day, he set off to school donning the new ‘uniform’ the guests had bestowed him with. Walking four kilometers, criss crossing rivers, and jumping fences, the kid finally reached his destination. Tired he was, but sweet promises of delicious milk and meals kept him going. No sooner had the kid reached school, he was ushered in by a peon, and was rushed to the lady teacher from yesterday. She had a bunch of kids of various shapes and sizes beside her. The teacher smiled at him, and examined a list. Then she gently told him:

“Monte peru innu Mohandas ennu aanu ketto? Aa inspector attendance edukkumbo ‘Mohandas’ ennu vilikkum. Appo kai pokkanam ketto. Ennittu namukku kazhikkaame?”

(Your name today, is Mohandas. That inspector will take attendance and he’ll call ‘Mohandas’. Raise your hands then. After he leaves, you can have your lunch. “)

The kid happily nodded.

Soon the inspector was in class, and called out the names. He must’ve been astonished as to how tiny a kid Mohandas was – he did frown at seeing a seven year old who was more of a three year old, but he let it pass and moved on to the next person. ‘Mohandas’ rushed after class to have a satiating meal. He loved his school!

Then on, the kid was a sure-pick whenever inspectors attended class. Each time, he’d be attending a new class, sporting a new name. “Vijaya Kumar”, “Raghavan”, “Krishna Kumar”, “Rajeev Pillai”, “Shekhar Nair”, “Peter Simon”, “Adel Aziz” – he’d gotten used to being referred to with new names. As the kid was six years old, he’d attended all classes and division from the first grade to the fourth grade – and he enjoyed it! Soon, he’d deliberately attend classes, seating himself in different classes each day, choosing a new name for himself; the school was perennially-underpopulated, so no one really cared. The teachers loved him, he’d saved their asses plenty of times, and the kid was too good a student for his age. He was doted upon, and got to drink plenty of WHO-certified milk, subsidized by the U.N. The kid was fat and healthy as he turned 11 – a far cry from the impoverished, knicker-clad three year old. With time, the kid developed a strong penchant for studies. He loved science and math – and he excelled in the latter, thanks to a Mathematics Professor of a brother who enjoyed passing on lessons to his sibling.

Years passed, and the kid had reached tenth grade (fifth form, as it was called, back then). He still had no definite name, but his ‘names’ were narrowed down to five or six, maybe. The date came to register for the SSLC Board Exams. The kid went to the teacher in charge of examinations – who was new to the school. When he approached the teacher, she asked the kid for his name. Now, that question was quite a googly for our buddy, no one had asked him what his name was, till then! He was referred to by his classmates by whatever nickname they chose for him, and he never really bothered about it till date. The realization stuck him hard! He did not have a name to himself! For the first time, the school’s most brilliant student could not blurt out an answer to a question posed by a teacher.

Noticing his silence, the teacher looked up from her register and quipped:

“Oh, I know you! You’re Ramesh Babu! I taught you the other day at class. Sorry, I forgot you.”

That was the name he’d assumed during the previous inspection; this teacher was taking the class whilst the inspector came over. She did seem to have a good memory.

Before the kid could answer, the teacher wrote down ‘Ramesh Babu’, onto the register. The kid finally got himself a name.

The kid’s mom was about to return his hall-ticket back to the post man citing the absence of a ‘Ramesh babu’ in the family, when the kid rushed and grabbed it from the postman. He wrote the SSLC exams and passed them with flying colours. He did well for his Pre-Degree and went on to be an Electrical Engineer at a reputed Engineering College. After working in different companies all across the country, Ramesh joined Kerala State Electricity Board as an Assistant Engineer. His quest for knowledge spurred him to take an MBA while he was working. Now he’s a Chief Engineer at KSEB – widely respected and honoured, even by the Hon. Minister of Electricity, in Kerala.

The kid who had no name happens to be my father.

Bottom Line:

“Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony”.

- Morpheus (Lawrence Fishburne), The Matrix Reloaded.

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One month.

It’s quite a long time period in a human life-span of about seventy years. Yep, 1/840th of an entire lifetime, pretty big, going by the numbers, huh?

Before I write any more crap about the significance of one month in life, you’d have come up with a reason why I mentioned a month which such emphasis. Yeah, it’s been a month since I blogged. Nope, it’s not the exams – normally, exams bring out the creative in me, as I’ve said a couple of times in this space. I’ve written the best of my posts battling university exams; I’ve even come up with the idea of writing a book, couple of years back, during a similar exam-season. But this time around, a certain mental block engulfed me. I simply couldn’t put pen to paper (wrong imagery in a digital age). Normally, I just had to sit down – the words would be flowing. But this time around, it simply DID NOT HAPPEN! The reasons are too far-fetched to delve into; for a while, I thought I was a simple person, an open book of sorts. But the past month, gave me insights into how complicated a person I am. By experience, I had gotten into the habit of making the simplest of things complicated (and vice versa, albeit occasionally). Procrastination, MY BIGGEST FLAW, was eating me up, slowly and steadily. A month was all it took, to kill my creativity and to get myself messed up – in ways more than one.

Nevertheless, the past month – marked by an extended study leave and my last (regular) university exam of Engineering, was eventful.

Fun

Doing nothing , when you’re supposed to mug tens of thousands of pages is an interesting experience. In an ironically-screwed-up manner of speaking, that is. Each day of mine would be characterized by obscenely-late waking hours, that would be as late as 11 or 12 AM. The hangover would a tad too much that I wouldn’t even be able to concentrate before the books. Diversions were the order of the day, and I fell prey to them. My friends-circle (or triangle, which is closer to reality – cause, technically, a circle is a figure with infinite vertices, which is rather far-fetched) provided much-needed solace in the mean time. Had some of the best times in life, during the past month. The month was indeed a wake up call, in terms of friendship – it was a paradigm shift of all. I saw new people enter my life, and some of them are inseparably close now! Of course, ‘loss’ – the inheritance of which, is etched in my mind as the biggest of life’s lessons. So I’m cautious this time. I should be wary of losses, but I’m hoping against hope that such a situation shall not arise.

Introspection

I got plenty of chances to introspect back at life. It’s a fun thing to do – watching yourself live your life in third person. Like a movie. I owe the replay to Vinnaithaandi Varuvaya – which was a virtual rewind of my life. Watching it three times, set off a saga of rewind. All those good times, all the moments of joy, of sadness, of euphoria, of pain; they “flashed before my mental eye, in a bliss of solitude”. History is all about learning from the past  - and I realized where exactly things went wrong. Some of my mistakes were are irreparable – but, they grounded me, and I realized the value (and the joy) of making mistakes. I understood the ‘connect’ – there was an irrevocable connection between every incident of my life. Each occasion, each living, breathing moment had a meaning. I had found my purpose in life – I am Happiness Evangelist. Spreading happiness to the world around me was my calling. I just LOVED seeing a person smile – perhaps God’s most beautiful expression among living beings. So, I’ve made my decision – I’m going to bring smiles to the people around me – I don’t know how, as yet. But I’ll sure figure out, in the long run.

Depression

Depression seems to be my steady-girlfriend; compensating (even bolstering and complimenting) my lack of real-feminine company. The cliche talks about the idle-mind-devil’s-workshop nexus; in my case, it’s a giant factory of sorts. The Devil has actually had too much of a field day in my mind, which has ensued in huge huge bouts of depression. The God-given power of hiding them before the world under the veil of a smile is a talent in itself – but it ended up draining me. By the time, I opened up floodgates of emotions, it was too late. These days, every other minute of  idle time would end up ushering in untold depression. The not-being-able-to-blog part ensued from the death of creativity was an added blow. Hence, I did my bit tackling the depression monster – and it was a fight quite well fought! Depression was always at bay, ready to pounce upon, and I had to be alert all the while. In a way, facing the depression monster was an experience by its own right.

Happiness

Yep, if depression’s my girlfriend, happiness would be my best buddy, personified by a few good people called F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Not the TV show, REAL buddies, if you misunderstood. They were there, period. And they did what they were supposed to do. Love them for that. Enough said.

Reading

My biggest hobby till date suffered an onslaught this exam season. Didn’t read much apart from regular acad stuff; couldn’t even glance through the newspapers. Hence, my general knowledge was at an abysmal low. Yet, managed to catch upon old favourites like ‘The Kite Runner’  - re-reading classics is always a pleasure. Caught bits and pieces of other books in my repository. Was good.

Social Networking

This was one activity that I repeatedly indulged in, over the past month. Which means, I was consistently online in gmail and Facebook. And I tried tweeting more occasionally after a while. Since I’m not into heavy duty apps in facebook like Mafia Wars/Farmville, et al, usage of the social networking site was mostly for status updates/photo uploads/comments et cetera. Meanwhile, I started a fanpage for ‘I chose the red pill’ and recorded a staggering 229 fans in a matter of two weeks. Huge record for the blog and personally for me. Thanks a trillion for the support, guys. You may join the fan page (or rather, ‘like’ it, in new fb terminology) by clicking the widget on the sidebar – only if you are a fan, that is.

Writing

Journalistic and Creative Writing pursuits were mostly absent during the month. I couldn’t devote time for ‘The Hindu Metro Plus‘ – of which I’m a freelancer now. I mean, I HAD all the time in the world, but, well… it just wasn’t possible. Blame the procrastination. Nevertheless, I did my maiden translation job. Rehashed a series of articles in Malayala Manorama Online; translated articles originally in Malayalam to English. That was pretty much the only writing assignment.

Acads

Last, but never the least – they too did occupy a lion’s share of my time. Especially, towards the latter days of the gap. Hectic exams found me nerve-wreckingly tensed. Yet, they weren’t as hard as I’d expected them to be. After a while, I did manage to get down to some tough-nut studies. It was hard, but I did manage to surmount procrastinational tendencies – can’t say I wasn’t entirely successful. But I guess I shall reap the benefits of perseverance, albeit minimal.

Looking back, the break was perhaps necessary evil – it was meant to happen. This blog is one of the few good things that has happened to me  (it actually tops the list). Leaving it astray for a month was a hard decision, but that decision proved wrong. The facebook fan page was enough testimony – and that has given me my dose of inspiration and motivation. I can’t assure frequent updates till eternity, but I shall write as much as I can, even more; for all those who care to read.

This post is dedicated to everyone, who’s come here and had a dose of the red pill. You guys give me my blood, I’m alive today, thanks to you. And I shall keep writing, as long as I’m alive.

Love,

Hari.

P.S.

Some of you have complained about this blog going down every now-and-then. Apparently, it’s a server side issue. Hence, I’m moving over to a new server. Hiccups with the site are expected. Kindly bear with ‘em. I chose the red pill, will be up online, in 24 hours time.

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