The girl with the RJ tag

Its been a long time since I spent some time over here. My pen seemed to have stopped spilling ink. I sat days starring at my blog without typing anything. So now,  as my eyes flirt with the elegant night lights of Bangalore,  I  put in a committed effort to break out of the jinx, I try hard not to lose myself,  vehemently fight not to get drowned in the trivialities of life.

The music that soothened my ears came from a radio channel. Usually I prefer not to give ears to the blabber of RJs, but I always appreciated their ability to keep words pouring in with loads of energy. As the sweet voice of the anchor created a cozy ambience, I noticed that she was talking about "falling out of love ". I had quite a lot heard about falling in love,  but a programme on falling out of it appeared interesting. The most interesting part of the programme was that while the RJ kept sobbing over many callers ' experiences, she would say, " On this note, lets listen to a very romantic song ". I really felt sorry for her. She had some songs lined up to be played and irrespective of the scenario or mood,she had to play them. The callers couldn 't ask for more. A poor chap calls up and says his gf has dumped him and there comes the song for him, 'Ek ladki ko delha toh aisa lagaa...',  well how could that relieve a distressed soul,  I have no idea.

Then there was another woman who had kids and stuff and she seems to be falling in for some office guy and many more cases. The RJ assured each and every caller that she would pray for all of them and wished them good luck. I thought infidelity was a word that could be related to most of the cases. I felt people just forgot what compromise and sacrifice means in the context of family. Just because your partner doesnt get time for you doesnt give a big enough excuse for kickstarting a flirting saga. I am no saint and I cant make prophecy on what happens to my life after x years. But just prioritising your lust and selfishness over family and moral ethics is not an idea I find worth pampering. May be some of you might disagree with me, but I felt repelled to some idiotic calls and more awful responses that I switched off the radio. At nights,  when one would prefer some beautiful songs and sweet talk, I couldnt digest a 20 year old advising a 30 year old on dealing with her extra marital affair followed by a romantic song on air singing her a lullaby. May be the channel could air the topic at some other slot calling in a sensible psychiartrist to host the show rather than a college going girl who tried her best with some subtle groans and ohhs. I wish God would pull in some sense into these people  so that they dont start searching solace in an RJ's voice.

The Trial

Someone rightly said, 'There is a thin line between sanity and insanity'. The beauty of Franz Kafka's novel  (for that matter, his any other work)  is the ease with which he treads the line and takes the reader through an ambiguous mental realm. It was nothing more than just curiosity that prompted me to read his works; having known about his reputation as one of the very best in modern literature, it was high time that I should read any of his works. I started off with his short story, "The Judgement". After reading it, I felt, "Give me a dose of 'ecstasy', give me a pen and paper, I would, at any time, give a better shot.". I just couldn't stop cribbing  at the unquantifiable piece of insanity , I felt it like a holy piece of ****.  But not let down by this, I thought I would read "The Trial". My first impression, "What Kafka can contemplate, well only he can contemplate.". His ability to detail even a trivial human thought with unrivaled surgical precision impressed me beyond words.

The novel starts in the usual Kafkaesque style, the protagonist Josef K comes to know that he has been put under trial. There is no mention anywhere regarding the case or the incident K got involved in  which gave him the 'accused' tag. The whole novel focuses on how K faces the trial and his struggle to prove his innocence. There is no conventional chain of progress or demeanor that any of the characters portrayed exhibits. Its as chaotic as it can ever get. The behavioral patterns exhibited by some of the characters might seem to be out of place, well , 'The Trial" is never meant for a conventional citizen. There is no way you can guess the climax unless you are as imaginative or as eccentric as Kafka (I certainly believe its the former one). But certain parts of the novel would boggle your mind because of the ease with which the author details, what appears to be subtle events and his unparalleled skill to portray it completely in words. The philosophical attire that the novel drapes is twisted, but fantastically conceived and aptly presented. After reading the novel, you never get a feeling of eating up a thriller diet or fatigue of a philosophical torture, but a pleasant feeling of ambiguity that you dont want to clarify, an unexplainable sense of gratitude for the author who have serenely portrayed what your mind wanders through at times, but never knew how to express. Finally your mind would succumb to the fact, "Kafka is a genius".

Kabul

"But the game involves only male names. Because, if it's a girl, the name was already chosen". My eyes barely met with the penultimate word that it flirted with a news article on my computer screen. I sat numb with my eyes gouging into oblivion on account of two facts I conjured; Khaled Husseini is nothing less than a pied piper, Hope still seems to be too highly priced a dream for a desolation draped nation.

I was meant to be writing a book review on " A Thousand Splendid Suns" which is another class act from the author, but it would be unfair to constrict the vastitude of human misery defined in the book to be mere heart wrenching. What pains me the most is even after almost 40 years of endless wars and crimes on humanity, Afghanistan remains a blood sucking land and Kabul, a cradle of unfathomable miseries. I have never been to Kabul, but the novel teleports me from my plush mattress to the parched meadows, air conditioned coupe to sun stricken deserts. The endless times of endurance tests are beyond words and sometimes, it is hard to perceive the depth of adaptability cortex wound around human souls that transcends any emotional breakdowns and bypasses savage torture. Its unbelievable what a mass of flesh and bones can withstand in order to survive and realise its hopes.

I winced in pain when the protagonist embraced the lashes, silently wailed when mines chopped off the limbs. When I finally finished  the book, I had a sigh of relief that there will be no more EQ poking, a satisfaction of having read a wonderful piece and more importantly, the assuagement that  after all this is just a story and I just self-abased to pamper some one else's imagination. All of a sudden, when the news article that worded the brutal bombings at Kabul, struck my eyes, I knew; Beyond any veil of words of misery in a novel, beyond any magnifications by the media, there is truth in the pale story of Kabul, there is pain in every street which I might never see, but I feel it. A pain inflicted by humans on humanity with nature watching  silently as if incapacitated by its intensity. Many excuses tabled  and the burden being borne by mute ideologies which are being preached by purblind "saviours". I realise the triviality of my self assurance of existence, how obvious it seems to me that I will be alive tomorrow, how true is Maslow's hierarchy where the base level  meant nothing  more than an academician's delight to me.

But there are some painful similarities between me and a human embodiment in the land of hopes. He has learned to walk past the debris of bodies with indomitable calm, he has learned to sell his artificial leg for a meager meal, he has lost hope of seeing his kin and kith alive tomorrow morning. He has gained strength. I have learned to skim past the pages of truth with indomitable calm, I have learned to tread on others pain without a treble. I proudly claim, with an unashamed conscience, I can feign compassion.

The Kite Runner

My fascination for fiction is in its infancy and I am quite enthralled to tell you that I have been fortunate to read a gem which is termed as one of the best read in the last decade. 'The Kite Runner' is nothing but fascinating in every sense of word and beautiful beyond any bounds of tangible expression. As  I ran through the last words of the book, it was not a sense of  satisfaction that I had, but of a settled window pane that had quivered in a severe gust of wind, a satiable smile after having a ride on roller coaster of emotions.

The novel takes you through the parched lives of Afghanistan and the hardships people face to survive another day. Its an unparalleled caricature of  human story of Afghanistan with such depth and vividness that you cant tear yourself off the plot. The first hand narration of the protagonist makes you empathize the character  and your involvement to the whole plot bears an involuntary commitment.

The novel is based on two childhood friends, Amir and Hassan who grow in Afghanistan through the turmoils of time and later, part ways brought about by the turbulent situation in Afghanistan. Amir, the protagonist and his friend had woven a thick fur of friendship which gets torn off as time passes by, thanks to the justifiable cowardice of  the protagonist, and Amir moves to the United States of America  when Afghanistan was being ravaged by war. The novel continues with the narration of protagonist about his life in US and his saga  seeking redemption.

Even till the last word, the author has been successful in mesmerizing the reader in his web spawn of  hand picked words and heart crunching emotionally pricking tangled events. I would suggest it a must read for all  since its a passionate account of  deteriorating humanity and the never ending struggle of a nation and its people to find their niche.

Chanakya Chants

Its been a long time I have written a review on a book I read, the reason being successful pampering of my procrastination in ploughing out time for reading something worth. When you are happy cuddling on your idleness in life, it requires something spectacular to throw you into action and "Chanakya Chants" is nothing less than that. Its the latest novel written by Ashwin Sanghi of "The Rozabal Line" fame.

The novel starts with an old man, toiling for his last breaths at a hospital bed, watching, a woman getting sworn in as the prime minster, on television. The next chapter pulls you down the time line to some where around 500 BC when the King Paurus is brutally murdered by a female assassin. The novel is a blend of two stories occurring at different timelines but the theme being the same. The present time story has a man named Gangasagar Mishra as the protagonist who successfully thrones a poor village girl in the helm of the world's largest democracy. The second story which dates back to 500 BC or around when Vishnu Gupta alias Chanakya avenges his father's murder and in the process places Chandra Gupta Maurya as the Emperor of 'Bharath'. The novel in detail portrays the strategy carved out by both protagonists in taking their partisans to the zenith of political power. It explicitly mentions the shrewdness and diplomacy played out by both king makers in getting their jobs done.

One cannot stop admiring the precision with which Sanghi has spawned both threads and intermingled them throughout the novel in a delightful and gracefully discern manner. The novel glues to your palms from the first page and it requires quite an insensitive mental attire to even take a pee break in between. I would recommend this novel a must read for those who love political thrillers and also those who closely follow the Indian political scenario. Even though the author claims the book to be entertaining, rather than educative, I feel the second aspect has been well covered, given the depth with which the domain has been handled. Read it and conjure your wickedness :)

Coffee with Destiny

“Sir, what would you like to have?”
“Two coffees and a choco fudge cake”.
My obsession with coffee at “Dine” is well known among the staff in the restaurant, but is an obnoxious fact for my better half. I still cant figure out, her irrevocable deterrence of coffee, but more surprisingly my unjustifiable but determined effort to give her a piece of my obsession. Through the seemingly non existent large glass pane, the diminishing rays from the sun seemed to uncover the tint of tacit dissatisfaction on her face which she was trying to hide. Even though she dislikes coffee as much as my obsession for it, she prefers to gulp it without hesitation . One reason could be the fact that we have been together for just over 6 months now. A feud over coffee is presumably too early in what is planned to be a long career together.

Soon we had coffees with the cake on our table. This is the second time in the week that I am sitting here with my wife in a splendid orange clad evening. The choco fudge cake is my give away for her patience to withstand her agony while guzzling the brownish liquid that she has in her cup. But we loved spending time at that particular table at that particular restaurant. The dwindling rays of sun through the window kept us relaxed. Our stay at the restaurant always longed for more than an hour and we only signed off once the twilight darkened to night. This is the time when we get to share some moments, probably realise the essence of our togetherness in a work clutched life. This evening was no different. As we had mutually promised, we didn’t let our professional side to poke into the coffee session. Our discussions were mostly confined to family tittle-tattles and I preferred to be a listener most of the time.

As I was sipping my coffee, I noticed a couple with a baby, taking their seat opposite to our table. The feminine figure seemed familiar to me even though I was yet to see her face. As she placed herself on a seat facing me, I felt an abyss of discomfort engulfing me. She orchestrated her recalcitrant hair with her hand and the first glimpse of the face told me who she was. When my eyes met her’s, I was thrown off a few years back into my college days. The days when those eyes meant everything to me. The days when I had spent hours looking into her eyes. The days when our hush glances stole moments from the time.

“Are you listening?”
I felt an abrupt call pull me back into reality and my beloved wife was throwing an inquisitive stare at me. I told her, “Ya continue, am listening”. Even though my words seemed unconvincing , she was so involved in her chatter that she continued flawlessly. I feigned listening to her. I was busy skimming through my memory shelves for all those moments that I had spent with my ex. The first time I met her, how I drew a detailed plan to propose her and convince her. And when she was in, how hard I found it to maintain the relationship...

“Do you think I was wrong?”
Again a tap on the head and back to reality.
“Hmm, well ... you should ask that question to yourself”, I didn’t want to sound out of context. Well, I didn’t even know the context and so my response to my wife’s query was purely diplomatic. She nodded as if approving my statement and I let out a sigh of relief. I looked at the nearby table and my long lost love was busy in her conversation with her hubby while the baby was seated on the table. All of a sudden, my wife turned around to trace my glance and then she said, “Cute baby right?..”
“Hmm...yes”, I replied with a smile.

I was wondering if my ex recognised me. I was sure that she saw me and given the fact that I have not had a dramatic physical transformation since my college days, there was no way she couldn’t identify me unless it was a deliberate act. In midst of my thoughts, at some moment, our eyes crossed each other, she stared at me for a second and then withdrew. I could see a shade of uneasiness painting her face blue. Yes, she has recognised me. I recalled the moments when I proudly pronounced me and her as some divine couple. I recalled the moment when the divinity was lost and I was shattered. I believed that she betrayed me. I wanted to take revenge, but later when I gathered my senses , my vengeance disappeared into oblivion. Its been five years since my college and I had almost forgotten her until this unforeseen indirect tryst. Now I had no vengeance for her, in fact I felt happy to see her settled and probably happy. I remember the last day in our college when we had agreed that we would remain as strangers from then on since the tag of friendship would mean nothing other than fooling oneself. Probably she was abiding by her word as she didn’t even bother to look at our table again.

It seemed they were done with their food as she wiped off her lips with a tissue and grabbed the baby . Both of them got up and were moving towards the exit when she turned and gave me a glance acknowledging my presence and more importantly letting me know that she recognised me. I still had half of my coffee left to finish where as my wife had an empty cup.
“How long would you take to consume a coffee..”, It was more a desperate sigh from my partner than a question.
I looked at my wife and smiled. I gazed out through the glass pane where I could see the baby cuddling on her shoulder as she kept moving away from my sight.
“You know what.., Napoleon gifted Josephine, a gold locket as a wedding gift and he had inscribed something in it..”. My statement was received with a perplexed face by my wife. She asked, “Well.., what had he inscribed?”
I looked outside. I lost her in the crowd. I gloated back at my wife, clasped her hands and replied, “Destiny..”.
She smiled as I sipped my coffee. It tasted much sweeter than ever before.

Chotu

Drenched in November rains, this morning appeared much colder than it usually is, that walking out in the streets without a sweater was implausible, at least an over coat is inevitable. I was in no mood to move out of my bed. But my belly would never agree. As always, I again 'deliberately' missed my breakfast today. I always believed that on holidays, ten in the morning is too early to rise from bed, but unfortunately, after ten, you can't find breakfast in any nearby restaurants. So, even though the clock had just ticked twelve, I decided that an early lunch would solve my belly's outcry. At half past twelve, I walked out of my apartment with my black khakis and a grey t-shirt that has been demanding a clean up for past few days. But thanks to my deodorants and perfumes, I completely suppressed the ever longing hope of my fabric.

I walked to the restaurant across the street. Being a bachelor employed far away from home, the only respite in life for me was the sumptuous lunch and dinner that I have from the nearby restaurant at weekends that pampered my native tastes, even though it emptied my pockets. At times, I felt I worked five days a week just in hope for having those feasts at the weekends. I entered the restaurant and ordered my usual rice and fish curry. My memory has wiped out any traces of that moment when I ordered something different. Since I am a usual visitor in that hub, I had developed a warm acquaintance with the restaurant staff. Since my eyes had already been accustomed with those faces, I never kept an inquisitive view until I saw this boy who was a shade darker than a wheat flake and stood four feet from the ground. He cleaned the table, served me water and brought the dishes I had ordered. I looked at his face and instantly, I guessed, had he been in school, he must have been in fifth grade.

I was having a peaceful rendezvous with my food when I noticed a family, a middle aged looking couple with a ten year old boy, caught my attention. One of the restaurant staff called out, "Chotu...(kid)" and the four feet tall sprung onto action. He cleaned the table, served water and continued with his designated task. I knew "Chotu" was not his real name, but probably they renamed him for convenience. While serving, Chotu's eyes were locked on the wrist watch the boy was wearing. In midst, the boy looked up at his father, "Papa, that new ferrari you got for me seems to have some problem. The remote control is not working..". The gentleman gave him a consoling pat on the back and advised him to concentrate on his food. Chotu who was still serving seemed amused and perplexed. I think he found it hard to figure out what "ferrari" meant. The family got engaged in finishing their plates and at times I found, the boy was virtually spoon fed. I could see 'chotu' looking at the boy with envy and sadness in his eyes, standing besides the kitchen door.

Its not that I have not witnessed stark dichotomies before, but never been a part of such a touching one. All at once, I realised that my half dried hands required to be cleaned and I moved to wash room. Once I paid the bill, I called 'chotu' and gave him a ten rupee note. He was happy and confused at the same moment since no customer at the restaurant used to pay tips, at least I never saw anyone doing that which includes me. I came out of the restaurant and I saw a big banner smiling at my face which read, "Happy Children's Day". I turned back, and saw 'chotu' busy with his task. New customers, new faces, but his task is cut out; cleaning the table, serving dishes.. It must have been a coincidence that I witnessed these chain of events on Children's Day. A ten rupee note doesn't change his life. I felt may be I washed my hands off from my responsibility (I find it hard to define what that word means in this context). The 'generous' donation of ten rupee note was a mere act to satisfy my conscience. But what more could I do. I felt I shouldn't spoil my day with an empathy for bitter realities and took my mind for a stroll into the insignificant activities of lust world around me , may be movies, may be gaming.. As my steps took me away from the restaurant, I could hear a faint yell from behind, "Chotu....".