Aur 'Use' pyar dena

the poem is in Hindi

'Use' (read in Hindi), as the name suggests can be the name of anyone ! (literally)
December 1 -was celebrated as World AIDS Day

Mushkil Nahi,
Pyase ko dena pani,
Ghav sehla dena,
Thake ko dena chaon,
Aur Use pyar dena !
Mushkil Nahin (2)

tumhara dost, tumhara bhai,
kal tak jiske saath saath
gulli mein khelte the cricket,
ya barish mein jumke football.

aaj akela band kamre mein
nafrat aur ghruna
ke adheron mein
kucch dhoondh raha hai...
tumhari insaniyat
tumhara saath
tumhara pyar

Pyase ko dena pani,
Ghav sehla dena,
Thake ko dena chaon,
Aur Use pyar dena !
Itna Mushkil to Nahin

Loosing my XXXXity

Some people call me religious. I wear a Rudrakhsha on my body and hand, occasionally you may find a mark of vermillion, sandalwood or the typical orange sindoor of Hanuman on my large forehead after I have visited some places that have been termed as 'Houses of Gods' - temples, I do read the Ramcharitmanas or Gita and carry them with me many times whether I manage to read them or not, I used to observe fasts. At my home you would find pictures of Lord Hanuman, Divine Mother, Jagannath, Jesus, Ganesha, Idol of Krishna and Buddha, picture of my grandparents. None of them speak back to me, sometimes I doubt if they are even listening. I use many languages to communicate with them, always understanding the full meaning of what I say. The language varies from Sanskrit, to Hindi, to Awadhi, to Oriya, to English, to Punjabi and sometimes even silence. I cannot make the distinction as to which one of them I am referring to when I say something, I dont usually consider this neccessary. Also, not all the times I mean exactly as I say. Neither do I have the sincereity or conviction behind all my words. I know this.

A few days back somebody asked me "What is your denomination?", I shouted back on the phone "Denomination, as in?"
"What religion, what faith do you belong to?"
I could not answer that immediately. I thought for a while and said "I am a Hindu by birth, that is how I would put it". I wanted to celebrate Christmas with them.


Some kids whose company I was fortunate to have in one of the Saturday afternoons asked me which religion I belonged to. These kids could not speak or hear. They gestured, one did a cross and the other directed her upturned hands towards the sky. I could not understand immediately or I was trying not to understand, I can't be sure. I asked someone to tell them that 'I am an Indian'. She took her thumb and did a upward motion in front of her forehead. I don't know what that means exactly. Did the two kids who asked this question and all others who were standing there (of age 5,6,7,8,9 etc) understand the question or the answer ?


Name and form. As they say in scriptures 'Nama' and 'Rupa'. Take these things out you will get 'Brahma' or anything else you want to call it, again the delusion of words. The moment you put these dual handicaps of name and form, you have diluted the reality. So, with everything which has a name and a form.
'neti, neti', translated 'not this, not this' this is how you approach what is 'Absolute'.


i have few more things to discuss...and would but lets think.

The moment we put a name to a person, we start the division, this religion, that faith, this region, girl, boy etc. The moment we see a person, again we start to make divisions-in addition to all that what is mentioned before, colour, rich, poor, beautiful etc.

please forgive me

For every time I thought
I could be rude to you,
Without having a bearing on our relationship.
Almost as if, it were my right to do so.

For every thing I learnt from you
As easily or with as much difficulty
As the new-born calf, trying to stand up
After being licked warm by it's mother.

For every thing that
You wished to ask me for but did not,
Or worse, for all that you asked for
But respond I did not.

For every time irritation got the better of me
At hearing your high pitched voice,
Which had nothing else but concern underneath.

For every night that I slept well,
Knowing that I am protected and loved
But never cared to reciprocate.

For every time I failed to say 'Love you'
Or 'Thank You' at least.

For every time I missed
To acknowledge your presence
When I needed it desperately.

Please, please forgive me...

what next

no, i won't write about mumbai - 26th november.
i won't, as I am afraid it might just be the alibi I need to console myself that I had done my bit, I had done something. No, I have not and I do not have the answer as to "What should (not can) I do ?"

the unfolding of the morning

The rhythmic monotony of the noise made by crow's ensured enough irritation to disturb me out of my slumber. The music of the car in reverse and the windy chill caused by my unregulated fan added to the feeling. The sleep was over.
There was darkness in the sky, like old memories that are always there beneath the surface, one only needs to the scratch the surface and they will show, like the old paint posing in its ingenuous nudity due to scratches made on the newly painted car's body. They sky was getting the paint of the morning.
It can evoke images in mind without even asking for its permission to do so. Such is the effect of sound. The crow's were a means of protest by the nature of something gone wrong somewhere near. Certain music reminds one of some incident or some people, though reason may never be able to establish the link. Mothers were busy with getting the children ready for school, the children were as busy as children could be and with things that one wishes with much longing one could get busy with, at a later age.
From the parted curtains I looked out, a crimson horizon greeted me. Ah ! what feelings is nature able to inspire in man everyday. What is made for what ?
Laziness, heaviness and some other -ness (earthiness in general) caught up with me. Why has man this dual pulls defining his existence on earth. His mind, his brain and his soul can soar without stop in the skies of thoughts and emotions unhindered and untied but his body must drag on this earth and be subject to all types demands and be caught in ties?

a sunday afternoon

i thought of my mother,
had just talked to my sister,
not again in the day with my dad,
family - out of contention.

good friends, not so good ones too,
cousins distant and the nearer ones,
some busy on their phones, some
not reachable they said, thank you for that

her ? been so long now,
don't know what to say and what not to,
yeah, don't even have her number for that,
new flames, old flames, would be and could be flames
are mere flames after all.

Am I still thinking, of whom to call,
When the person I should be talking to is myself.
Am I thinking what to write,
Do I have to write, or think
or do both in a vague priority order ?
For me, or for readers,
for joy, for encomiums or anything of that order,
too much in my head now,
chuck it, leave it,
write it, leave it.

Little Learning

This piece of writing was published here (thanks to a Reeti - a friend)
http://writeherewritenow.co.in/

“Let’s organize a feast this Dipawali”, exclaimed the eldest member of our small gang of children after the usual session of post match analysis at the washerman’s well (interestingly there was no washerman in our village since the last few generations). Some doubts were cast by some of my friends, echoing more of the concerns of their parents and grandparents than their own. Some jumped at the idea. I was somewhere in between - confused. Most of the members of the ‘khatti’ (that was what the sessions were called in Oriya) were elder to me and by quite a few years.

But then the eldest member ‘Pupu’ was convincing. Venue was decided, menu followed, cook was (s)elected and time and date fixed. We worked our further details of logistics including coming back early from school, ferrying the cook on someone’s bicycle, who shall bring which utensils, who will do the shopping etc. Younger ones like me got the responsibility of arranging water for cleaning and drinking – washerman’s well was our answer to both. Pupu was in-charge of the most important responsibility of all – money collection.

Some calculations were made and a round figure of Rs 5/per person was agreed upon. Some members opposed it. “Rs.5/- per person, we are not even having chicken or Kheer!!”, exclaimed Khoku. One glance from Pupu and he came up with real reason, “My granny would never give me anything more than three rupees”. “My mom had given me two last week she will not give nay for this week, I can manage one more at best”, this was Paku.

Pupu looked at both of them, breathed a heavy sigh of irritation and did some more mental calculations. Paku tried to help, but he was shooed off. Pupu needed more space than his head offered, he used the wicket made up of a tree branch as pencil and the ground as his slate and started the Black Magic we all call Maths.

“OK, all elders (four unfortunate ones, ha ha!) to contribute Rs.5/- , the younger ones have to give Rs. 3/-, not less than that, we are having a feast goddamnit!!”.

“Can we get our younger sisters and brothers?” I was sometimes very considerate of my sister.

Pupu seemed to like the idea “But you have to get Rs 2/- extra for them as well”

I did my maths – 3+2 = 5, then a big smile lit up on my face. The reason was not known to anyone yet.

“By playtime tomorrow everyone must get your contributions. Don’t come to play without the money” Pupu the in-charge announced as we all dispersed.

I went back home and after washing my dirty limbs and having said my prayers, I started a secret search in the house.

‘5’, this is all I have to get. This number started flashing in my mind. I have seen it somewhere. I don’t even have to ask mom for money. 3 + 2 = 5 this is all I have to get for me and Chiki.

Eureka ! besides grandpa’s big radio, there is where it was, five rupees. I went to his room silently, he was reading Ramayana and chewing his paan. I looked at that spot where I expected my prize and it was there, but so was grandpa who was now looking at me. I smiled and dashed out of his room.

“In ten minutes he will be out to meet the other village elders and discuss village matters over a game of cards” I was waiting like the cat, waiting to pounce upon the milk left unguarded by my mother.

I waited outside with some book in my hand and the opportune moment arrived exactly ten minutes after. I wasted no time in grabbing the money and putting it in my pocket. I transferred it from my pocket to my school bag. I was very happy, no default on my part, no excuses to Pupu and hey I would be one of the first to make my contribution of 5 – as much as the elder ones!

I ran all my way to the playground next twilight. I saw Pupu with the bat and some other guys around him.

“Hey, 3 for me and 2 for my sister, total 5” I could not have held it any further. I handed out my contribution to Pupu, and waited for acknowledgement and kudos for promptness.

What followed next was the loudest and unmusical round of laughter I had witnessed till then. I could not get any of it. Did they not expect me to get the money at all or was it the promptness

Pupu held up the coin for all to see and then with a most sympathetic smile said “ Buddy this is a five paisa coin, all you have got is five paisa” Then he mimicked me “ 3 for me and 2 for my sister”.

Another round of shameless laughter.

“But it is 5 right, and 3 plus 2 is five, right” I was thinking aloud.

“Dude, you should have asked someone at your home for five rupees. I am sure you saw it lying somewhere and picked it up.”

“Yeah” I admitted meekly and thought " How the hell does it matter to you, I am giving you 5 ".

“You got the maths right but Rupees are different from Paisa, you will learn this at your school” Paku it was.

“ 3 for me and 2 for my sister” again Pupu mimicking my statement.

I was flared up and embarrassed at the same time.

The whole afternoon practise session was punctuated with Pupu and Paku's mimic directed at me. I ran all the way back to my home thinking 5 paisa, 5 rupees, 3+2 = 5 and when I reached I screamed.

“Ma what is the difference between paisa and rupees?” I don't remember whether my mother taught me the difference then but that's besides the matter.

After all these years, whnever we meet, Pupu and others still chuckle with much delight “ 3 for me and 2 for my sister”

It would be unfair to me, to not to state that I was 5 years old and had not yet gone to school and the little learning I had in maths was from my late grandmother.

bhaiyya

I ask this watchman at our office to swipe his card to let me in (did not get my ID card) " Bhaiyya, zara gate khol do na"
"Kholta hun saab, par main Bhaiyaa nahin hun, main Maharastrian hun", was his queer reply.
I was taken aback, could not understand what he just told me. Did he get offended? Why? I called him as Bhaiyaa, what else could I call him?
"Ah, arre haan bahut lafda chal raha hai aaaj kal" was all I could say while passing by the door and finally gettting the full meaning of his words.

'Bhaiyya' or 'Bhaiyyaji' is a term people generally use to refer to people from UP and Bihar and that guy did not want any misconception. Why?
If you have followed newspapers for some time now, the biggest news coming from Mumbai have been related to BSE Sensex and this isssue of Non-Maharastrian working class in Mumbai.
I am sure you would have read enough on this issue, and have your own opinion and your own numbers to back it up, I am not going to add to the same debate.

I would like to look at the core of this and any other lines of separation or division that men love to draw and plunge into the 'us' and 'them' cowardice.

Is this a new phenomena? By no means. Divisiveness is as old as man himself. Reasons change, evolve, return and multiply and the people at the other side too change accordingly as not many (actually other than yourself) one can fit all the bills.
Forget all, lats take your parents - one of them cannot be of your own sex and by this reason alone both of them be on one side.

I am sure you dont want me to start counting the reasons now - some have nothing to do with man such as sex, colour of skin, country you are born in and others man created himself just to divide himself such as religion, creed, education, caste (may be read as profession one chooses for himslef or is born into), social class, economic class and i have studied about some socio-economic class too, region and many more.

Why does man do this thing then?
The reasons may be many, but the most prominent ones would be fear and ambition (wait are they not similar, an ambitious man is also a very afraid man, who is not happy with or is afraid of the way the things are at the present and would do anything to change it).
Anyway, man is afraid of himself and more so in solitude, thus he wants assurance that there are more people like him and he wants to add on numbers on his side and feel better (read less afraid) and thats where ambition comes into picture. The people who are very ambitious, use its cousin fear very well to play the game of division.
Man has an incessant need of staying close to himself and in the lack avenues to do so (what else would you call the hours people spend on work, travel, food, routine etc.) he chooses to get himself closer to other people whom he calls 'us' and to squeeze the radius of the people in the 'us' circle he brings them closer and thus starts to find differences in many of them and unable to bring them asny closer he distances them are 'them'. Rest is there for us to witness.

Is there any solution?
I don't know. Even if the catastrophe called 'fear' is removed from people's minds I am not sure, whether there won't be grades of 'unafraid level 1, unafraid level 2 or unafraid recently, unafraid classic' and so on. As long as there is reltivity and things can't be absolute (man not even the ground I stand on is absolute, not the time, not anything I have ever come across) there would be this divisions. "Divide and Rule " eh?

suggest a title : mine - nothing

She always slept like a baby. Her legs curled up, head bent down, hair disheveled, fingers carelessly touching the palm and sometimes with her glasses on, which would be right up at her nose.
That's how he saw her, in the train to the big city, chasing his dreams where he was headed. She too was going to the big city, she said she knew why, never told him though. She was in the same berth, he wanted to ask her for some water, knowing that the next station was two-three hours away and the old couple would be too irritated if woken up. He looked at her, sleeping this way and could not help a faint smile on his cheeks. He turned back, about to leave, ask someone else waking up at this hour of the blank, cool night.
" Excuse me.You need something?", she was adjusting her glasses, on her elbows, clutching a novel of Marquez. That was their first night together.

One of those may nights when he was late to get back from work, still chasing dreams, not his anymore - he had bartered them and forgotten , he would find her asleep just the same way.
He would put his bag down, slip out of his shoes and go to the dining table and get the food kept for him. Unable to find the customary dal - his favorite, he would search here and there, in the kitchen, in front of TV or in the refrigerator he would come back to the living room. He would look at her, again, smile, again and turn back to resume his futile search. Hardly two paces and she would look up from the corner of her eye " You need something?"
"Yeah. Dal"
"Three times I had to heat it up, three times. It's kept in the microwave"
"Thanks. Go to the bedroom"
Once more. He would heat it up, he hated cold food. She would follow him to the kitchen and cut the salad for him and mix them just the way he liked and munch at the tiny ginger bits cut for him. She would watch her eat and few minutes later yell "Eat it, damn, how many times you have to mix the dal with the rice."

That night, again he was late. She was not in the livingroom. She was asleep in the bedroom, just the same way he saw her first. Some things never change, he thought and the faint smile came up his lips as effortlessly as tears of love and gratitude. For the first time, he did not turn back, he wanted to call her and tell her how much she meant to him. How, to find her carelessly asleep in his home justified everything - good, bad and everything in between.
He called her, once, twice, thrice, many times. He waited.
But she did not get up, with that light in her eye and ask " You need something?"

Now, in this small room, he tried to sleep like her. Curled his legs, looked at his fingers for a long time and tried to compare in vain. He needs nothing.

not an option...never

(September 10th is the world suicide prevention day)

it's not a question of right or wrong,
doesn't matter - effect or even the cause.
compulsion, revulsion or general angst
nothing justifies this act, persuasion or provocation.

can't you see, things don't change,
neighther do people or problems
what is that you want to change,
a change alas! you wont be around to see.

walk, walk again, stumble, rise, rise again
run, dance, weep, jump, shout, cry,
sleep, wake up, wake up again, do whatever,
it only matters till you are here.

ending life is no course, no option,
any other road is a road taken and taken well.
for a dead man reaches nor carries anyone
to any milestones or destinations.

this life, brutish and ugly, may seem to you,
but surely fills up a zig-saw puzzle
hung on a larger canvass of the world,
which loves you so much.
your life is not just yours alone !

two poems

both the poems are by the Great Mystic poet Kabir (for more on Kabir and his works see on this blog http://maybemay.blogspot.com/2008/02/mysticism-of-kabir-great-sufi-saint-and.html )

first poem
Sadho Ye Murdon Ka Gaon
Peer Mare, Pygambar Mari Hain
Mari Hain Zinda Jogi
Raja Mari Hain, Parja Mari Hain
Mari Hain Baid Aur Rogi

This is the land of the dead !

Saints die, Messengers die,
Even the Yogis die too.
Kings die, Subjects die,
Healers and patients both die too.

Chanda Mari Hain, Suraj Mari Hain
Mari Hain Dharni Akasa
Chaudan Bhuvan Ke Chaudhry Mari Hain
In Hun Ki Ka Asa

The moon and sun both have an end,
Sky and Earth too will some day cease
The caretakers of the fourteen astral levels also die
Why in vain aspire for these.

Nauhun Mari Hain, Dus Hun Mari Hain
Mari Hain Sahaj Athasi
Tethis Koti Devata Mari Hain
Badi Kaal Ki Bazi

.The nines(may be a reference to planets) die, tens too die.
Die easily the eighty eight,
The thirty three crore gods die,
Such the Time's great might

Naam Anam Anant Rehat Hai
Duja Tatva Na Hoi
Kahe Kabir Suno Bhai Sadho
Bhatak Maro Mat Koi

Only the Name of the Lord remains,
Only this is truth: All else is lie.
Listen O Sadhu! says Kabir,
Don't Get lost and Die !!


second poem (makes an excellent reading after the first)

(i am working on the translation)

Sakhiya Wah Ghar Sabse Nyara,
Jaha Puran Purush Humara
Jaha Nahi Sukh Dukh
Sanch Jhuth Nahi
Pap Na Pun Pasara
Nahin Din Reyn Chand Nahi Suraj,
Bina Jyoti Ujyara

O friend ! That house is the dearest
Where dwells the fountainhead of vedas.
No joy, no sorrow there
Truth-unthruth none
Virtues and sins all one
Day and night the same, no moon no sun
Where there is illumination without light !
(what is the need of light from outside, when the inner light illuminates the path)

Nahin Tahan Gyan Dhyan
Nahin Jap Tap
Ved Kiteb Na Bani
Karni Dharni Rehni Gehni,
Yeh Sub Jahan Hirani

No use of knowledge or concerntration
Saying rosary, penitance
Holy book,word all superfluos
Karma, manners, rituals
Any matter of the world not there.

Ghar Nahin Aghar Na Bahar Bhitar,
Pind Brahmand Kachu Nahin
Panch Tatva Gun Tin Nahin Tahan,
Sakhi Shabd Na Tahin

No holy residing place there, nothing inside nor outside
No fire and no spark
Five elements melt, three nature's too
Vanish like the Word.

Mul Na Phul Beli Nahin Bija,
Bina Braksh Phal Sohe,
Oham Soham Ardh Urdh Nahin,
Swasa Lekhan Kou Hai

No flowers, fruits or seed
Where fruits ripe, without tree
Holy Om, Soham, This-that concept non-existant
The breath and its control too gone.

Jahan Purush Tahwan Kachu Nahin,
Kahe Kabir Hum Jana
Humri Sain Lakhe Jo Koi,
Pawe Pad Nirvana

There is none but our dearest
Kabir says I realise this
Who sees my Lord's sign,
Attains the goal of liberation.

two stories

Under pressure to write, been more than a month.
Well the real reason for not writing since so long is not clear. I don't want to waste more time on that too.

Here are two stories - Not original. Recounted from hearing / reading.
Both the stories are allegorical in nature and as regards morale of the story - leave it as comment.

Story 1

This is the story about the monkey and GOD.

Once upon a time (qualifies as a story now), there was monkey. It was very curious and exitable. The monkey lost its tail due to some accident. He was very ashamed to face the other monkeys. A beautfiul and long tail was a matter of pride among the monkeys. Our dear monkey was also very proud of his long tail and used to ridicule other monkeys not so fortunate. Now, loosing his tail was very humiliating for the monkey. He began to think of plan.

He called a meeting of all the monkeys. They all came to the meeting, monkeys with small tails, long tails, hairly tails, bald tails, round tails, straight tails all other kinds of tails. They all took their respective seats in many rows. The social position, needless to say was decided on tails ! After all were seated, our monkey made its appearance. Face illuminated with glow, a beatific smile adorning it, walk to put elephants to shame, demenour unparalleled by any other than the king of the jungle.
"I have found GOD. I can see HIM !". These lines were spoken in such supreme confidence and firmity that there was a moment of absolute silence, followed by even more silence. Then, all the other monkeys looked at the monkey with one question written all over their minds "HOW???".

The monkey looked at all other and with a radiant smile broader than Julia Roberts', turned his back towards the audience. What followed was a silence, indescribable. Awe, Shock, Repulse, Joy all intermingled. "Yes, my children (He was one of the youngest of his folk!). You have to renounce your tails. Cut it off and thou shall see GOD and realise HIM".
"Are you nuts??", "What did you have for supper last night??", "Did you have a break-up??", "What the #@$K??", "You must be out of your mind?", "Dont try to trick us", "Whatever" and "A$$H()!%" were some of the audible reactions.
His smile got even broader. "All great people - Galelio, Socrates, Newton, Archemidics were called these names too. You must be patient, my children(again!!). This is a truth ahead of its time, but you can test it now. Can I have one volunteer?".
"Forget it" said all.
"Not one. Not one who believes in me. Not one who has the courage to see the truth."
Mock silence ruled the scene. "I am ready to experiement", said one monkey from behind. He had one of the tiniest tails in the whole community and was almost ashamed of it. Also, he was too fancied and taken away by the monkey-who-had-seen-GOD.
"Come here. Son" The monkey led the other monkey behind the screen.
" Aww !! Oh GOD! " the scream reverberated across the entire jungle.
"Do you see GOD now??" Asked the monkey after it had completely chopped off the tail of the other.
There was bloody horror on the face of the freshly-cut monkey. "What GOD?? I see no GOD. All I can see is you and the axe and my cut tail ! All this is a lie. A big lie. A farce. I am going to bust you in front of all"
"You dont see any God ? Really ? Well, I dont see any either. But now that you tail is cut and cannot be joined back, you better claim as me that you do see GOD! . "Your tail my son is cut anyway ! " saying this he threw the cut tail to the dustbin and placed the axe on the side.

The other monkey took a hard look at his cut tail lying in the dustbin and then looked through the screen at the huge mass of monkeys whispering in utter confusion, waiting for the verdict of THE EXPERIMENT ! He could see they were very eager, looking for a moment at the closed curtains and at their prized taile at the other. Finally, the curtains parted our moneky came out first followed by the freshly-cut monkey.

"WE CAN SEE GOD !!" both of them proclaimed at the top of their voices.

Story 2
The story of the cat and the sparrow.

There was a sparrow on the banyan tree. A cat lived below it. The cat had made innumerable attempts to catch the sparrow but never succeded. One day though she got lucky. The sparrow had lowered its guard and the cat had grown wiser by the attempts.

The cat was very happy and was whistling and thinking about the various spices and ingredients she would put to the sparrow-dish she was about to devour upon. The sparrow was terrified but not without hope. It was thinking and thinking.
It finally managed to get its head out of the claws of the cat, and speak.

" Are you going to eat me right away?"
"Well, what do you think? It's lunch time anyway !"
"Right now?"
"Ah? Yeah. Why ? Is there any problem?"
" No, no problem"
" Then why do you ask?"
"Well. I was thinking, should you not wash off you claws and mouth before you eat me ?"
" Oh, yeah. What a civilized sparrow ! That would be a MAN-thing to do. Wait for a while here. I will go to the stream and wash my claws and mouth real neat!"

By the time the cat came back (nearly 15 minutes later). It could not see the sparrow. It looked around here and there.
" Hi ! there" said the sparrow from the top of the banyan tree.
" Come down. I have washed my claws and mouth. I am ready to eat now."
"You should have eaten me first and then washed your claws and mouth!!"
"From the next time..." said the cat.

a wave

There was a wave.
In the vastness of the sea, in its depths and in its greatness there was this one wave.
It was not too long, it was not too fat,
it was neither too violent, nor was it too silent.
He was not too tall, neither was it too small,
it was not that noisy, it was not also always busy.
It was little restless, and a little nervous but not unlike any other wave.

It was very curious though; its head full of questions. It kept asking one or the other of these questions, Do you know where you are going? Do you know where am I going? Do you know why?
Why does not the sea speak back to me? Who makes these pictures in the sky? When do I get to touch the red, er.. orange oh no yellow ball, and when do I get to touch the white ball that comes out when I can not see anything. Where am I going? For how long?
It asked the other waves, the big ones, the small ones, it asked the birds that flew across, it asked the ships, it asked the dolphins that jumped across it.
Some of them looked at him strangely, some shooed him away, some fell silent after listening to his questions, some even got angry and some just ignored him.

He recollected, when it was very young and started out from the bosom of the sea, though it did not exactly remember how, and had been moving forward for a long long time, it saw something different. He saw some movements he was not familiar with, he saw things he had not seen before, he saw very very big ships that the people called homes or was it hotels, he saw very tall people with very long hairs that they called trees-were not they normal people, its just that they chose to move only their hair now and then. He saw waves that were ahead of him slowing down and meeting the shore.
More importantly he saw something that was not SEA.

He thought he would get answers to all his questions. This is it. The end. No return from here. Final stop. No more of rising and falling and rising and falling again and again. No more traveling without knowing where. That was what he thought.
He was so wrong. As he touched the shore, he remembered how helplessly he was pulled back to the sea, and a few repetitions of pulling and tussling, he was back finally to what he knew he always was - part of the sea.
Since the, he has visited many shores, seen many beaches, many lands, many times over and learnt much more, but he could never forget the feelings he had when he saw the shore for the first time, the eagerness and the helplessness.

He looked up ahead, he could sense some movements again, he could see the tall ships from a distance, he could see the rocks, people-trees and people. He took and deep breath, one hard look at the sea and it was ready, ready for one more time.

three people and four stanzas

When lost in the ocean of life,
a friend is a beacon of light,
and ensures the shore is never out of sight.

Words: mere carriers of thought
Expressions: just manifestations of thought
But when silence speaks the lot
Your friend is your family long lost.

When wars are fought and battles are lost.
when the days are full of desperate thoughts
and you want a place for your tears to burst;
Remember your friends, and you will never feel lost.

When time and distance cease to matter and
crutches of words not needed to send messages through.
Know that you speak the language of love,
Know that your friendship is true !!

(Well now, this is a joint poem : contributers Narasingh, Chinmay and yours truely.
I am not going to point out which lines were contributed by whom, as it hardly matters to the world which flower in a bouquet sends out what smell, it is the smell in totality that matters. I need not tell how am I related to them, because it is too obvious and I really can not exactly.)

Mumbai Chronicles - I and II

This is my third visit to the city.
The first time I was in Mumbai was in 2004. I was with a group to participate in Mood Indigo, the annual fest of IIT Bombay, arguably the best fest in the country. I was only writing poems then and I did write one called 'Lonavla - An invitation'. I must say the city was love at first sight.
The next time I was off to Mumbai was for my summer internship with BPCL in 2006. Two months. What I realised during this time is that one values leisure the most when one has limited access to it. So, whenever I got an opportunity in Mumbai I wrote. In local trains, at the train reservation counter, at the reception counters, at fuel outlets, at cafe's, near the marine drive and some other places I don't remember. I called these pieces - Mumbai Chronicles. I wrote them all on diary, could never put them on a blog.
But now, since I have a blog which I update at some intervals I present Mumbai Chronicles. They are not exactly meant to give you an idea of the city, not as a tour guide, they might tell you about the culture or the cuisine. what they are going to tell you is what I saw, felt and wrote down.
And a promise here - These writings are two years old, and I would not change the language, style or words. I am going to present them as they were written.

date/not/recorded
The world that she could not see and the enigmatic smile

I was looking for a seat near the window knowing that Andheri is some distance ahead of Bandra, and the sweltering heat of June is going to affect your sense of distance. I was lucky to find one seat in front of this little girl to the window of the local train. She was bright, of fair complexion, neatly dressed and wore a fake jewellery. The best and unusual thing about her was her spontaneous and unbridled smile. Then I noticed something more.
Her eyes were damaged. She was very beautiful otherwise but her eyes betrayed. I paused for a moment and my mind crept back into the realms of deep thought.
It really amazed me that she could smile. No touch, no smell and nothing else that se could sense without the sense of vision, but she could find reason to smile.
A stark contrast to all the people around her, who had one more sense organ than her but could not find enough reasons to laugh or even smile.

Is her world more beautiful than the one we see around us ? Is she able to see something beautiful. Looking at the general turmoil and strife all around, I had to concur that her world would be more beautiful in a different way,
She is spared of all the horror that we are forced to see daily with our eyes. She is spared of the unfriendly glances and frown on the faces of men. She is spared of the look of disappointment and helplessness, the stares filled with lust and carnality, the faces painted green with jealosy and uneasiness, of sugar coated bitter hypocrites, of blandishments and above all of falseness. She doesnt see all this.
She is definitely deprived of the loving glance of a mother, the reassuring sight of a father, but then these are relations that were established even when one did not have the distinction of eye, ears and limbs. These relationships do not need the faculty of sight for their existence or fullness unlike many others that we get into as we grow older in life. The balance tilts in her favor I thought.
How many people do we meet who walk with a jump while returning from or going to work, who smile just at the mere sight of birds, who love the paintings made on the canvass of the sky or just when the first drops of rain fall on their faces.

What does she see with her closed eyes then. What light guides the darkness all around her. I could not imagine. I was lost and moist.
Then she got a new seat near the window. A gush of hair kissed her face, ruffled her hair and that gave birth to a smile on her face that I would never forget. The man sitting right there on the seat a while before her could not get that joy. He did not deserve it. She did. Truely !! Fully !!


date/not/recorded
The nightlife at VT - onto thy hands I commend my life

We were walking out of the VT station ( I am going to call it VT only, sorry Shiva Sena and co. but that place was VT, is VT and would remain VT). It was quite late by our standards, midnight to be exact. We saw a somewhat large group of women sleeping on the footpath. It was quite a large group. I doubt they were probably a bunch of travelers or daily laborers. Their children and husbands were all sleeping there on the footpath tiles. They just managed to put something under their heads, mostly their own hands. I was sad at their plight. Now, as I write this I have put on a T-shirt just because I have had a Butterscotch ice-cream today and am fearful of catching a cold.
But those people! No roof, no cover, no protection.
They were sleeping right there where thousands of people and even beasts walk by. Come on, that is called footpath for god's sake.

Suddenly one woman caught my attention. She had her hands raised in salutation to the Great One. She was just about to sleep and in fact had already lied down. I can say with the hunch of a seeker that that she was not complaining. It was a prayer that in the true sense asked for nothing and thanked for everything.
There she was, sleeping on the footpath alongwith her children having nothing yet she could find enough reason to thank god and offer her prayer dutifully. What about us?
How many time we do that - Asking for nothing and thanking for everything.

I remember my grandma or 'Mama' as I called her, even in those days preceding her death would always say her prayers aloud in the evening. She was just another village woman whom you would dismiss as mundane or worldly. She had a very hard life, details of which I reserve. But the regularity of her prayers, her dev0tion to Lord on a regular time was absolute.
Now, who would do with such regularity and for so long if there isn't any sense in it. Who knows what thoughts she had during those few minutes, what blessings she received, what curses she was saved off, what sins were purged or forgiven by the ever-merciful Lord.

As I passed by - I could hear the voice of the woman "Unto thy hands my Lord, I commend my life".



are two years old, and I would not change the language, style or words
03/04/06
The beach at Juhu and the sea

It so happened that I woke up at 5 AM in the morning at did not get back to sleep.This time there was no shock or awe but the city still amazed me with it's joire' de vivre', its magnanimity, its vastness and its pace. Truely 'Amchi Mumbai' has a charm of its own. I meditated or so to say tried to meditate and bring back the broken and shattered pieces of mind together and then went put to the balcony. There waves were barely visible but the noise was ringing in my ears. The lure was compelling. I put on my denim trousers and ventured out to the sea, my feet unaccustomed now to such morning raunches were not in sync with the mind which was speeding past to the sea faster.
Somebody said the last day that Mumbai beaches are nothing compared to the beaches back home at Puri, Orissa. The beaches they said are small, black in colour, filled with dirt and people and that the entire sewage wastes were left out to the sea without any treatment.
The first thing I saw was the sea , and then the sky above it. Colour of both was greyish. I wondered which of these changed its colour to match the other. There was a ring of red colour surrounding the entire skyline. The sea, the sky, the redness; they are the same everywhere. The beach may look different at different places. God made the things same everywhere. Infinite Justice.
The sun rays are impartial to one and the other. The sea wind soothes one and all. The great god and his nature never differentiates.

Then I saw the people. People young and old, mostly old couples walking hand in hand on most occasions. There were a few people who were there alone but most of them came there in groups. Young college students, middle aged men concerned about their ever-increasing waistline, health and fitness freaks, old men troubled by some chronic problems, all were there. Like death, the sea seemed to be a great leveler. All there were walking across the beach, running, exercising and jogging. I wanted to sit there and be a silent observer to the quintessential observer-the sea. But they were all running around me, so I did the same - strolling past the beach with disinterested steps.

Then again I looked at the sea. It was calm on the surface, there were no high waves but it was dynamic and moving nevertheless. Planes were flying past above at regular intervals.
People say that the sea is calm and I thought the same way, but today I saw the sea as an ever-moving, ever changing fast and dynamic being. Beneath the calm extrior there lies a whole world of activity contrast with the lives of men where you find lot of activity outside but little within.
Truely the sea gives you a new lesson each time you visit it.
Let our lives be like sea. Calm, staid and steady outside but a pool of silent activity within the soul. Beneath the calm mind and sedate body let there be ever speeding current towards God. Let the soul fly away and touch the divine shores everywhere.

The city was gearing up slowly for its daily routine of speeding vehicles, noisy horns, running people, busy malls and offices. The city was stretching itself to activity. The giant has woken up.

दो गज कांक्रीट - एक कब्रिस्तान की कहानी

अभी मुंबई आए हुए जुम्मा-जुम्मा दो ही दीन हुए थे | दो ही दिनों में सात घर , चार एजेंट्स ( क्या यह शब्द ' ब्रोकर' से कुछ ज़्यादा इज्ज़तदार है ? ) और तीन लोकेशंस में अपनी शाम इन्वेस्ट करने के बाद मैंने अपनी ' खोली की खोज ' को एक दीन का युधिव्राम देने का नीर्णय ल्या

guys i tried my best........but this translator in blogger is simply not good enough....
i had written in Hindi after a long long time...and this was about a cemetery in Mumbai and the conversation the graves have among themselves....i started with humor but then the discussion veered to sth serious and then it ends in dark humor again....but but..
i really wanted you to read this ...but look at the attempt above ...disrespect to the national language...
so i stop here..till i get better technology or learn to use existing ones better .....
if you want to still hear the piece of writing... call me up or ask me to !!st

Chronicle of a Death Foretold

It's a pleasure to read a book that is not so well known, not a part of 'new arrivals', not a best seller and perhaps not the best work of an author. Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a name that is synonymous with magic realism, writings from the Carriebean, Buendias(from 100 years of solitude), Love at Times of cholera but 'Chronicle of a death foretold'? Well to begin with those who said said do not judge a book by its cover should take a look at this book if they have read it somewhere else or should read it if they have already seen it.This is a very good looking/reading book!
All that a typical Marquez book has to offer, is offered here - the smell of beer, the glory of the protagonist, the wit and insight into the core of the characters, the beaches, the mystical women, the disheveled linen sheets on beds, the shrouds, the solitude, the the blood and the sweat, the earthiness and rawness of the whole writing.

This book recreates a murder that took place in Colombia in 1951. The character who gets murdered - 'Santiago Nasar' is based on a good friend from Márquez's childhood. The other characters, as with Marquez are too based on people whom Marquez knew during his lifetime; one can find similar shades in his other novels. The plot in the book moves backwards: it starts when a reporter, a native of the same town starts documenting the murder, and tries to recreate everything 27 years later when Santiago was murdered and tells who kills them: the rest of the book moves moves back and tells us why, when and how. The writing style is a delightful mix of journalism, detective story writing and quintessential realism of Marquez. Blatant accounts of the murder have been taken from several people - his friends, casual people on the street and even his murderers. Just like a journalistic account. The book also maintains suspense till the end and keeps the reader on the edge, eagerly waiting for the truth to unfold-as with detective stories.
But where Marquez departs into a class of his own is the interwoven realism of the book where the weaknesses of the characters, their strengths, their one-mindedness and repentances are described with brutal honesty. Their reflections and observations on each other provide clues into the thick of the skin of the people. The analysis of the motive of the murderers, their intentions, their hesitations and derived from them the insights into their deepest characters leaves one sympathizing the murderers as much as Santiago. The forcefulness of events and the destined way in which fate acts is portrayed breathtakingly to the point where the reader is left praying that the murder somehow doesn't happen.
After reading the book though all but one questions that still lurks in mind is - WHO ? (and we already know who is the murderer!) The novel was also adapted into a film by Spanish director Francesco Rossi.

transformation

Transformation: Is it a process of evolution, a strategy to grow, an em-betterment, an improvement on the past ? It could be, but most importantly, it is not a matter of choice, it is something we all have to go through, whether we want it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, whether we are currently ready for it or not, it is a process that happens by itself but sometimes it is even a matter of survival.

There is no option but to shed the scales of past and crawl out of it, no matter how painful or long the process might be, how much unfriendly the environment be, how much the odds be stacked against; into a new beginning. The process eventually opens up new realities and makes newer dreams and brighter hopes possible. Could the caterpillar ever dream of flying in the open air, without the process of transformation without the wonderful wings of a beautiful butterfly?

Transformation is essential, and hence the environment that incubates transformation becomes critical. The whole effort is to create an environment conducive and as helpful as possible for that transformation to take place. To put many signboards that would help the builders, the planners, the observers and anyone willing in any way, to find their respective ways to create such a large pool where thousands of caterpillars would find the right impetus to turn into butterflies and get their rightful wings to soar in the skies, at their own will.

well i had written this poem some time back and posted it too..but it has relevance here...

different will

Gratitude in the eyes
of those differently willed,
The touch of acceptance
obtained with patience,
The smile mingled plainly
with the tears on the cheek,
tell a story.

Of courage to face each day
that arrives like a hangman,
ready to perform.
Of hope, despair,
their relation and co-existence.
Of a will preserved with determination
like a pearl,
amidst the portent sea.

and blink

He liked to see her face the first thing in the morning, her eyes mostly. They gave him a strange sense of excitement, a reminder that all playfulness is not lost, an invitation to see past them, a tickle to his curiosity.
He only had to seek them, and they would respond. Sometimes there was nothing to be said, but only an assurance to be sought, a presence to be felt. Sometimes their eyes started the conversation, their words filled in wherever required and again let the two pairs continue. Sometimes, they shied away from each other, a fear of being caught too long on a hope maybe.
Sometimes he sought them earnestly, when he said something not readily acceptable to a patterned thinking, his thoughts-not easily digestible to a conditioned appetite, his values-too old for an atrophying morality.

He wanted her to feel, what he felt on the top of that mountain, with clouds close to his feet, and sky almost within his fist. He wanted her to hear what the wind whispered to him that night.
He wanted her to see those things, which moved him to tears and laughter but none around him noticed.
He wanted to tell her tales by the night lamp, with their feet cuddled up in blanket in the winters. He wanted her to look at the smile of the little boy at being offered a chewing gum, look at the wrinkles of the old woman who served him hot tea and momos , see the sweat on the brow of the old potter making tea cups.
He wanted her to run on the beach; free, without care and inhibition.

He thought they had time for all of these : she blinked.
Perhaps he wanted too much.

the orange rain

It rained the whole night. And he kept staring at it through the half-open window of his room.
He could not see much due to the darkness of the night and the mango tree that acted as an unwanted umbrella shielding the moonlight.
The sound of the falling raindrops, the noise of the moist, cool wind jostling with wet, washed, shy leaves (were they scrambling for cover or enjoying the flirtatious breeze's advancements?), the occasional croak of frogs and intermittent guffaws of thunder made him constantly remember the rain though. He crept out of his bed, opened the lock of his gate slowly so as not to disturb the sleep of other people in the house, pushed it open with care to reduce the noise of steel against steel. He was out, staring at the duly washed roads: neat, as if someone had just cleaned them with Her own hands for ablution, shining black and wet, reflecting the stray moon-rays that had found their way through the spaces between the jasmine tree branches, like attraction finding way through prejudices. All of the day's dust had been washed away.

Was it utterly necessary to envoice all that he had in mind, did he really mean all that he said or did she ? All his choices directed by reason and reason alone ? No pride, no temptation, no revenge, no desire hidden ? Were his motives all noble ? Did he not know the answer to all his questions ? Did all her words have sincerity behind them; no flippancy, no mock? Was not that a moment's nay many more moment's weakness, a slip-up, an attempt to be something he really did not want to rather was not prepared to be, a hope to see, to find something when that was not there. He knew it, but still he hoped for things to improve. Time, he thought would teach the best. It did, but it was he who was the student.

A lot of dust had settled in. He waited for one more shower of rain.

spilt

He lied to her. And often so.
She saw the milk she was boiling for her lonely cup of tea in the evening, spill over. As an involuntary reaction, she caught the handle of the container to lift it up and allow the violent bubbles of milk to settle down to the bottom. She had thrown caution to the window and forgot to use a cloth, in hurry, in misplaced trust, in inconvenient familiarity or in self-belief. Burnt her palm in the act. She had to drop that container back on the burner and spilled more milk.

The gas was still on, the fire still raging . By the time she grabbed her hand with the other, and put her mouth into it to reduce the pain, some more milk spilt.
She finally put out the burner knob.
Ice ! She dashed towards the refrigerator. Her stray elbow dashed against the fateful handle, and some more split.
Few minutes later when she was pouring out the tea out to the cup, the phone rang. It was his phone - she had assigned a different ringtone to his number. She turned around to look.
A lot of milk had been split this evening.

understood silence

He was looking out of the bus window, out of no particular desire of his, but to avoid wearing a few fake smiles he no longer wanted to after a long day at office. He wanted to breathe out all the general angst and lack of warmth he had come to identify his office and his colleagues with. A familiar scent of deo disturbed him, a familiar change in the temperature; he looked around, a very familiar face. She paused for a moment and after exchanging hushed greetings took the seat besides him.
Last time he talked to her over phone, she was curt - "yeah" "hmm" "maybe" "i would not know" "nothing" "hmmmm" "everything's OK". It was as if she was struggling to say and few words and really struggling to hold back a few more. Silence, one realizes is the most palatable form of communication. Words, voice only complicate things with and without our permission. They exchanged civilities, asked a few questions that had the answers in them, replied with few more questions and deviations. The silence in between, his raised eyebrows, her downcast eyelids, his rubbing of palms, her looking at her the torn sheet cover, his strange smile, her shifting in the seat and the pauses between their sentences conveyed so much more that what they actually uttered.

Sometimes too much understanding becomes a problem. Then no questions are asked, no anger is expressed, no explanations are given, no excuses necessary. It all becomes so redundant. Nobody is blamed, not even the time, nor the circumstances; everyone is sympathized, understood. Hopes burnt, are seen as clothes that we could do without, dreams crashed are negated as 'mere' dreams, possibility is deemed as inevitability and action or inaction as fate.

another day at the office ??

The grand trunk road, the Imambada of hooghly, the church of our Lady of Bandel and Chandanangore Strand were a few things on my mind other than of course my work i.e visiting the Hooghly district hospital at Chinsura for a citizen stakeholder workshop meeting when I started for Chinsura from Kolkata. I could not help but feel being a part of history as my vehicle, an ambassador set on the G.T. road.
Well, the road would have not been the same as it was made by the great Sher Shah Suri, but you could feel the stones, the dust, the old Banyan tress on the wayside looking at you with a warm lively smile on their faces. I read about this road in 'Kim' by Rudyard Kipling and the one thing the small hero 'Kim' felt all the way on this very road was 'the hustle and the bustle of life'. 100 years later lot of things must have changed, except this one. It was still full of life and activity and other than people like me, people there were all busy with life - the young butcher by the road-side playing with the unsure chick, the cycle-repair shop guy with a million holes on his undershirt (ganjee), the fat grocery shop owner by the road side with a thick pair of glasses covered with thick layer of dirt, the improvised (a trolley attached to the back of a very powerful motorcyle of yesteryears - Yezdi) pick-up vehicles carrying ganni bags, the dark woman ducking the smoke out of the chulha while brewing tea on a stained kettle, the youth with finely combed hair and denim with all the time but none of the care in the world, the school girls returning home with umbrella and books in their hands pushing each other, giggling and throwing a short-shy glance at passers-by, the housewives wiping the sweat on their faces with their sarees and haggling with the vegetable vendors over the right price and the price at which they bought the same items last time, the old, bearded rickshaw puller ( who should have been at home and taken care of) waiting for a passenger or something else.
The hot Indian Sun - which made everything so clear and so real and in so your face, on the road forced me to hide from those very things and get into my own cocooned A.C. world in my car. I was trying to hide from a part of myself that told me that I belonged to all this. All this that I saw - the sweat, the toil, the noise, the crowd, the smartness, the folly, the silent understanding, the go-getting of all that.

I reached the District hospital of Hooghly. Got an express entry to the Medical Superintendent's chamber because of my regular calls and my voice. The surprise on his face and more so on the face of a very garrulous lady doctor on the mismatch of their mental picture of myself derived from my voice on phone and my actual appearance with respect to my age was momentary but certain. The Super's room was at the heart of the emergency ward or should I say 'War'. It was a stress test to stand there and keep your sanity - the policemen looking through the corners of their eyes, the nurses crying hoarse among themselves to be heard, the patients, their relatives and unrelated relatives, the group D staff, the 'middlemen' and the 'aam janta'. The noise levels were deafening. During the first few minutes no one knew who was a part of it, who was not, who is speaking, about what and what is the issue. Then the Super asked again (the first time he did that he forgot that he had asked a question and was supposed to listen , yes LISTEN to an answer) - What is the purpose again ? I had to stand up and deliver the same speech I have been delivering at other hospitals - two minutes flat. Silence. Silence again. Then I had to look into the eyes of that garrulous doctor and beseech for a response. She more than obliged me. Then thanks to Super and his Super advices and recommendations and my one-to-one conversations within the noise, the meeting was conducted and I got mostly what I expected. Then thanking everyone two, three times - the first one is always lost to the noise and phone rings! I left for a Ward visit accompanied by the Nursing Superintendent.

They took me to two sample wards - two extremes they said. One was free male ward. I have never seen a war-hospital , neither a disaster health centre but having 120 patients another 200 patient party with patients being kept on ground at spaces between beds, all within a space of a two cricket pitches and only 4 nurses to handle all this, is dear reader 'a disaster'. Disasters we have chosen to ignore, consider normal, call inevitable and even think as unalterable. Yes I had the lenses of the nurses. I saw these young, middle aged and old women, working 8 hours non-stop, without 'coffee' breaks, without a proper place to sit, doing things they are not supposed to do, not being able to do things they ought to do, being physically assaulted, crying hoarse to be heard, without canteen and without safe drinking water facilities available. How could they serve (not work mind you) in such adverse conditions ? I have heard an answer to this question of mine - Money. That was in relation to the army jawans posted at inhuman conditions in Arunachal Pradesh, Saila Pass, Bomla Pass (Indo-China border) and they will or motivation they generate to get on with all this and take all this every single day. I still don't totally agree to it.
She then took me to her room, all white uniformed ladies, shy at first to a stranger, looking with curiosity to this guy from big town (Kolkata). I wanted to tell them how much I was reminded of Anand's(rajesh Khanna in a film by same name) dialogue "why do they call you sister - you should be called mother" , I struggled for words, for expressions to tell them that. Few inquiries, (as a consultant and as a man) later I took their leave. I asked one question in full earnest - I am hungry, where could I get good food here ? The response was the best thing of that visit - their arguments with each other about what would be the best place, which of them would be open now, where could I go fastest, where I should not go. That response was not the kind they would have had for a consultant, for someone from the head office : that was for some other reason. Bannerjee Cabin was the one they settled for and detailed instructions later I was sitting at the place and having my delayed but satiating lunch. It was a most filling and savory one though the taste was not exactly only those of the spices, oil or the physical ingredients.

The rest -
Imambada of hooghly - (pics & video),

Bandel - could not go :(

Note - (from wiki - The Grand Trunk Road (commonly abbreviated to GT Road) is one of South Asia's oldest and longest major roads. For several centuries, it has linked the eastern and western regions of the Indian subcontinent, running from Bengal, across north India, into Peshawar in Pakistan.Today, the Grand Trunk Road remains a continuum that covers a distance of over 2,500 km. From its origin at Sonargaon in the Narayanganj district of central Bangladesh, it reaches India, passing through Kolkata, Bardhaman, Durgapur, Asansol, Amritsar, Varanasi, Allahabad, Kanpur, Agra,JALANDHAR, Delhi, Kurukshetra and Ambala. Within India, the major portion of the road – the stretch between Kanpur and Kolkata – is known as NH-2 (National Highway - 2), the stretch between Kanpur and Delhi is called NH-91 (National Highway - 91), and that between Delhi and Wagah, at the border with Pakistan, is known as NH-1.

From the Pakistan border the Grand Trunk Road continues north through Lahore via Gujranwala, Gujrat, Jhelum, Rawalpindi, Attock District and Nowshera before it finally reaches Peshawar.),

what makes us US?

In relation to men and women, what both don't realise sometimes in their incessant efforts to get better or get different is that, the core of their beings is almost unchangeable/unalterable and what they may do at best is manage an impression of it and that too for a very short interval of time. It would also be very ordinary and foolish on their parts to seek regard and care of the other for anything other than that core. Change, if any is to be measured by the magnitude of it and with respect to the core of that person. Again, we have to guard against the perception of change (for the concerned person and for concerned observers) as against real change - look for the actions rather than the words, look for behaviour rather than the claims, look for results rather than the intent.

The best features or rather the main features that makes a man him(what he is) and makes a woman her(what she is), other than of course his/her actions could be many and vary according to taste but that they would be of something of more static and permanent of nature is beyond debate.

With respect to a woman :
the light in her eyes
the liveliness of spirit
the tenderness in her touch
the perseverance in her breath
the depth of her forbearance
the strength of her soul

With respect to a man :
the sincerity in his eyes
the intensity of his brows
the trust on his forehead
the truth in his voice
the assurance pronounced by the sound of his footsteps
the strength of his character

Now how much can one do about one or some of these things. If we reflect upon the way we spend our days and things we do to make a change, to ourselves and to what we want to project of ourselves, we would realise that we hardly scratch the surface of those core areas. Even if we realise that these are the things we should do something about, how much can we actually do; say with only our volition?

kolkata_nokia_aawargi