The Secret Life of Walter Mitty - Movie Review

I watched 'The Secret Life of Walter Mitty' with a bunch of friends again yesterday. There's something about that movie that takes me back to it again and again. I sat down and tried to distill everything about the movie that appeals to me and figured that it was several little things that together, make it one of my all-time favorites. The list of those little ingredients is below:

• You can easily relate to it – The movie is about everyday folks - people like you and me. Ben Stiller looks like an Average Joe while Kristen Wiig isn’t too extraordinary looking either. The protagonist (Walter) in the movie has problems, fears and insecurities, is financially constrained, lives from paycheck to paycheck (or very close to it), is sold to routine (he’s worked there for 16 years) and doesn’t know what comes next… But like ordinary people everywhere, he is a day-dreamer and dreams of heroic deeds, extraordinary achievements and in those brief moments when he lives in his day dreams, he becomes a totally different person – strong, confident, adventurous. It’s this innocence in his character and his demeanor that make him so easy to relate to
• The awkward clumsiness and the subtleties – The awkwardness in the movie is very endearing. Be it the interactions and communication between Walter and his love interest Cheryl at various points in the story or the small half-hug between Walter and his co-worker in the elevator after they are fired or the conversations that Walter has with various people on the rusty boat or in many other places during the movie, awkwardness is the main ingredient to many of these interactions. I particularly love the clumsy way in which Walter asks Cheryl out and her shy and awkward response. The look on both Walter and Cheryl’s faces when he holds her hand in the end is beautiful too – there is a cute shyness and beautiful subtlety to that scene. I also love the clumsy way in which Sean responds to Walter’s accusation of his stupidity to hide the cover photo negative in a wallet fold. The subtleties in the movie are lovely too – the look of quiet pride on Walter’s face as he sees Life’s final cover leaves you with a warm glow and a tiny lump in your throat. It is this very awkwardness that is inherent to most scenes and the tiny subtleties in the movie that makes the conversations and relationships all the more real – very few real people have the swagger or the confidence to pull off all interactions with another person with élan! In real life, where emotions or feelings are involved, there is awkwardness and the movie captures that essence beautifully
• The music – The background scores to the movie could not have been more appropriate! Be it “Step Out” when Walter suddenly decides to take charge or Cheryl singing “Space Oddity” when Walter jumps onto a rickety helicopter with a drunk pilot or “Don’t let it Pass” as Walter and Sean play a ball game with Afghan kids with lofty, snow-capped mountains in the background, the music captures the emotion of the scene wonderfully and takes the audience with it. There’s a lilting and quiet outer-worldliness to the music that transforms each scene into something beyond surreal
• Comic dialogues and brilliant one-liners - The movie has some fantastic one liners and dialogues including the piece where the new and improved Walter ticks off Ted Hendricks or when he puts down his fake beard in his day dream which provide a lot of comic relief. However, my favorite ones are al from Sean O’Connell and I’ve pasted them below from imdb:

1.       Sean O'Connell: Beautiful things don't ask for attention. (When talking about the snow leopard)

2.       Walter Mitty: When are you going to take it?

Sean O'Connell: Sometimes I don't. If I like a moment, for me, personally, I don't like to have the distraction of the camera. I just want to stay in it.

Walter Mitty: Stay in it?

Sean O'Connell: Yeah. Right there… Right here.

3.       Walter Mitty: What was the picture?

Sean O'Connell: Let's just call it a ghost cat, Walter Mitty.

• The fluid cinematography and the spectacular landscapes – Iceland is outstandingly breathtaking. Period. However, the movie has done a fantastic job of infusing more life into those beautiful landscapes. One has to see the movie to realize what I am alluding to (and I do not want to go into more detail on this, for the fear of escaping into another of my many day dreams of Iceland). The other amazing point to note in the movie is the flawless cinematography. Take for instance the initial credits where the motto of Life magazine is meshed with the everyday scenes from New York, to provide a seamless view into Walter’s daily routine. This is just one of various such transitions in the film that enhance the experience for the viewer
• The movie is not about the underdog beating the cruel, heartless manager, and thus, the system: No, the movie is not about Walter Mitty beating Ted Hendricks, though the viewer does get a vaguely triumphant feeling when Walter tells Ted off at the end. No, the movie is something beyond that – it’s about overcoming your own fears and inhibitions and seizing the moment, it’s about going for something you crave for, it’s about courage and going in to the unknown, it’s for searching for something and finding it deep within. Sure, the movie does have some unrealistic elements to it – for instance, despite Walter’s seemingly absent fitness routine, he is able to climb to 15,000 ft and look none the worse for wear at the end, or that he is able to travel from Greenland to Iceland to Afghanistan in search of an elusive Sean, in just a little more than a week (and I’m sure there are other things like this). However the movie offers inspiration for those who are stuck in a routine for a long time to let go and provides inspiration to move beyond dreams and make them a reality. The movie takes “Carpe Diem” to heart, urges its viewers to do the same and the effect is profound. Finally, the movie is an excellent tribute whether intentionally or not, to the motto of Life. As Walter puts it, “To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other, and to feel. That is the purpose of life.”

Book Review: Escape from Camp 14

Imagine a world where every minute of your life is watched, where your days are filled with hard labor for more than 14 hours but where you are perpetually hungry, where your diet only consists of the same two things everyday, where punishment consists of not just denying these meager meals, but further physical assault including beating, cutting off of fingers, slapping, kneeling on your knees in extremely cold weather for hours on end or even having to hang upside down from the ceiling till you are forced to confess to crimes that you may or may not have committed. Imagine having the best moments of your childhood being those few moments when your belly is full, albeit with rats or snakes or whatever you could find that did not attract punishment. What if I told you that in this world, that the words 'mother' or 'father' did not elucidate any love or affection but anger and resentment, and where you view your parents as competitors for food and shelter and those who must be watched carefully and reported if caught doing anything abnormal? Furthermore, what if in this world, you would be oblivious about the existence of telephones, internet, technology or modern means of transport? Where the only two things you felt were fear and hunger? Does this not sound like an extreme form of 1984, magnifying George Orwell's extreme fears? Or maybe a concentration camp at the height of the Nazi rule? Now what if I told you, that this situation exists. Today. Playing out as you read, in a corner of the world that people choose to either pity or ignore or worse still, are unaware of its existence - a prison camp in North Korea. 

Escape from Camp 14 is a chilling account of life in a prison camp in one of the most oppressive countries in the world. Several documentaries (like this one and this one) from the recent past, have made the world aware of what life looks like in North Korea. In 2009, the North Korean News Agency issued a statement that read, "There is no "human rights issue" in this country, as everyone leads the most dignified and happy life." However, any mildly aware person would know that the truth is far from it and that under the garb of a caring state, the military-led government and the first family control every aspect of life and dictate where one lives, what one does for a living and where one is allowed to travel. A state where everyone is subject to repeated brainwashing of the extreme kindness and greatness of 'The Great Leader' Kim Il Sung and 'The Dear Leader' Kim Jong Il, repeatedly violates every aspect of basic human rights, much to the chagrin of human rights agencies world-wide. The book however opens our eyes to something deeper and far worse than our wildest dreams and exposes us to the life of one person who was born and bred in a prison camp - Camp 14, but who managed to escape from there, and through his eyes, paints a vivid picture of life in the camp. While the existence of these camps have been repeatedly denied by the North Korean establishment, the utter breakdown of not just human rights, but even basic human values is appalling.  

Shin's life is one of horror - born of a forced marriage orchestrated by the camp establishment between his mother and father, who were themselves paying for the "crimes" of their relatives, Shin is doomed to an existence within the camp's boundaries. Shin's boyhood and teenage years are described in shocking detail through his eyes and shows how terrorizing living in a world where schooling is just a sham, where children are encouraged and even rewarded to report on their parents' and each others' wrongdoings and where kids had to invent lies just to avoid harsher punishment, or worse, be denied meals, can be. When all the things that make us human - our ability to think and empathize, our ability to feel powerful positive such trust, love and affection break down, we become worse than animals. Driven by constant hunger and fear of punishment, we become slaves to the establishment and are willing to spill on anyone, even our own kith and kin, if it comes with the mere possibility of a few more scraps of food or easier work. Shin's is a remarkable story that portrays courage, action and extremely good luck and takes us through his journey from near death to escape through the electrified fences to China, the United States and South Korea. The book also beautifully describes the emotional journey of the man who gradually evolved from mere animal instincts to feel happiness, confidence and also extreme guilt. Shin's years in the camp marred him for life as he still struggles to cope with life in a free world today. This book written in a lucid and gripping style is highly recommended to anyone who wishes to know more about North Korea or oppressive regimes, but above all, I would recommend this book to everyone who cares about human rights and values and most of all, being human. 

You can be as happy or as unhappy as you want to be. It's all a friggin' state of mind.
True words.

The nice guy who finishes second...

There is a rumour that Dravid might retire soon from Test cricket. There are enough and more people baying for his blood, especially after his recent poor performance with the bat in Australia. His habit of “always being around” has been taken for granted and people typically tend to be unforgiving when it comes to him. I’m not sure if he’ll actually retire today or even soon, but knowing him, he’s very likely to pick an ordinary day, when there’s no media glare or when the press is busy reporting something more important, to hang up his boots. No Lights, Camera, Action for him. A few articles will be written about his contribution to the game, his style, his character, his status of being “the quintessential unsung hero”, his absolute love for the game and people will move on to something else or someone else of a more Godly status. And Dravid, in his typical style will smile, shrug and move on.

However, I for one do not want to wait for the day when he retires to write something about him. Yes, I belong to that motley crowd of people who support him, no matter what and who constantly rue the fact that he does not get sufficient praise or attention…but not today. Dravid’s been someone I’ve truly admired for a lot of things. What started off as an innocent crush when I first saw him on television way back in 1996, has over the years, blossomed into a fervent admiration for a man, who has, on many an occasion brought India back from the brink. I followed him throughout his playing career, observed and learnt several things from him - lessons in life, that I could not have gleaned from any other public figure, sportsman or otherwise. The next few paragraphs are dedicated to those valuable lessons.


Persevere, do your duty. The rest will follow.
Dravid did not start off too well in the game. He was brought into the side as a replacement for Kambli after the 1996 World Cup, but was dropped subsequently. However, over the next few series, he struggled and slowly picked up his game and went on to become India’s highest run getter in the 1999 World Cup. Over the course of his playing career, he has been dropped several times, but always came back improving his technique, his style, his game. He developed the reputation of being a defensive batsman who shouldn’t be playing one day games due to his slow run rate and was dropped from the side. He came back stronger and went on to win the ICC Player of the year. Time and again, year after year he has reiterated his worth to the side. He’s never once complained or pinned blame for his bad performance on anything else. His game mirrors the struggle of our daily existence. We do not always get what we what, but we should plod on no matter what. Life has to go on, and we just have to keep fighting personal battles and getting better at what we do. The joy is always in the struggle, not in the reward; the beauty is always in the journey, not the destination.


Love what you do, truly, madly, deeply. And do it right.
No one worships the game more than Dravid. In the entire Indian lineup, it is only him who probably understands and reveres cricket, especially the pristine Test format and its history, significance, purity and tradition. I can almost imagine him surveying the field on the eve of every match, taking in the stunning silence or maybe the chirping of a sole grasshopper in the background and smile while he thinks of the game that will be played the following day. I heard he once got upset when some pressmen walked on the pitch, the day before the game. To him, the ground is like a temple, a place of worship to be treated with all due respect.

No one seems to care about technique more than he does. If someone did an analysis on his strokes, each one would probably be in accordance with the description laid out in the Wisden book of cricket. Each shot of his, be it a cover drive, square cut, defense or sweep are a joy to behold. Not for him the helicopter shots and the random hitting that T20 cricket has brought in. The beauty, tradition and the purity of what you do ought to be preserved.


Adapt, for change is the way of life!
No other cricketer in the Indian team has worn as many hats as Dravid. He’s given up his #3 position in the lineup many a time and has opened the game, played down the order, been night watchman, etc . He’s bent to the whims and fancies of other players in the side, and has taken up positions that may have been least desirable at that point, but done his duty well. Uncomplaining, yet unfailing. When India lacked a good wicketkeeper, he willingly donned the gloves, would squat for 50 overs, after which he would put on his batting gloves and come down to open with the bat. When he was not keeping, one was sure to find him fielding in the slip, watching in rapt attention and waiting for the ball to snick off the bat and come towards him. He was even called to bowl once and has a wicket to his credit. He, like no one else, has taught me the importance of reinventing oneself to suit the current circumstances while maintaining one’s identity.


Be a team player
Dravid does not play for records. I’m willing to stick out my neck to say this and take any amount of criticism or counter arguments for this statement. Unlike many others in the game from across teams (and I’m not taking any names here), Dravid has never played for having his name etched on the trophies or inked in the record books. That he is the second highest run getter in the history of Test cricket, or is credited with the most number of catches, is only incidental.

Throughout his career, Dravid has played under a shadow of someone else. Whatever he does, someone else outshines him. Whether it was during his early playing years when he was outplayed by Dada with his stylish strokes and his aggression, or the times Down Under when the focus was always on the Very Very Special performer or during all those times when he’s been outperformed by Sachin… People have almost forgotten that he was the highest run-getter in 2011. A few years from now too, when all the stalwarts of the game will no longer be playing, people will remember “Sachin’s shot of Warne during such and such a match” or “Sehwag’s century during that series”, etc., but Dravid’s ever-present support in all these innings will be forgotten. After all, teams win matches, but it is always the individual performance that stands out in time. He has been the stable backbone of many a great partnership – with Ganguly, with Tendulkar, with Laxman. Records have been made on his support and Dravid has watched, smiled and offered his strong shoulders for other giants to stand on. During a crucial partnership with Sehwag, Dravid told him, “'Just keep enjoying yourself, mate. I'm having a great time watching you”. He had been severely criticized when, during a series as a stand-in captain, he declared the innings when Sachin was batting on 194 with sufficient overs remaining. However, what people then failed to notice was that, for him, someone’s record of scoring a 200 was pointless in the face of the game. Whether India later won the match or not, is immaterial. He did what seemed right at that point of time and proved that no single player is ever above the game.


Live your life with humble, quiet dignity
When Dravid gave the Bradman oration last year, it had everyone spellbound. No one had ever thought that a player could so astutely observe macro factors that were having a quiet influence on the game, and form a clear analysis on what had to be done to preserve cricket. What however had me stumped, was the way he began the speech, acknowledging the venue (the War Memorial) and remembering all those “men and women who lived out the words – war, battle, fight - for real and then gave it all up for their country, their lives left incomplete, futures extinguished”. On such a grand stage, while delivering such an honourable speech, he first chose to pay his respects to the holy ground on which they stood. Such is the man.

His game too is similar. It does not have the flamboyance of Saurav Ganguly, the aggression of Dhoni, the timelessness of Tendulkar or the urgency of Sehwag, but has the stability and a calming effect that stems from his strong, well-grounded personality. Dravid is the Mr. Darcy of Indian cricket, always in the background doing his duty and expecting no rewards, unassuming, unpretentious and solid. He’s always one of the faces in the dressing room, applauding another’s performance, encouraging another during a bad form, giving the much needed thump on the back. As a stable supporter, he’s taught a competition obsessed nation that it is okay to come second. “You never win the silver, you always lose the gold” is not a quote for him. Like silver, he’s passed the test of fire several times and has always come out pure on the other side.

I’m not sure if he will retire soon. He will, in all probability stick around to coach the newbies and to pass on the baton to younger hands. And one day he will go, walking into the twilight, looking down at his feet in his typical, non-descript way, and time will stop for a brief moment to honour him and his invaluable contribution to the game. For, cricketers may come and go, but there never will be another “Wall”, another perfect role model, another Rahul Dravid.

In Memoriam: Steven Paul Jobs

For the last 36 hours, there has been only one thing on the news – the death of Steve Jobs. An outpouring of tributes, news articles, quotes, videos and gushing eulogies have been doing the rounds, as have "R.I.P Steve", "We'll miss you, Steve" and the entire gamut of "i-___" messages. Yesterday, when I first heard the news of his passing away, I felt completely blue for most of the day and was nearly on the verge of tears. Today – a day after the magician left this world for good, I still feel empty inside. Thus, this piece of writing is like any other – a tribute to Jobs, filled with feeling and emotion, yet a tad different. This is because I am not an Apple user, save the ubiquitous iPod (which does not count for obvious reasons). Yes, I do belong to the rapidly shrinking, rare breed of people who look forward to every new Apple launch with glassy eyes, but shy away from buying one despite being able to afford them, because they are "grossly overpriced" and "not worth the premium".

Despite this, Jobs' death has affected me immensely. Maybe it was because it was so sudden. Maybe it was because he was young and all his technocratic counterparts are still around - alive and kicking. Maybe it was because he had that invincible air about him - something that was all the more evident each time he stepped on to the stage in faded blue jeans and a black turtleneck to unveil the next mind-blowing masterpiece with a passionate glint in his eyes coupled with "And one more thing...". I’m sure I wasn’t alone in thinking that Steve would be around for a long time, despite his illness. However, I think the biggest reason behind my hollow feeling is because Steven Paul Jobs managed to touch billions of lives, mine included – a feat not many have been able to accomplish since the invention of the light bulb. After all, when was the last time a person managed to inspire geeks and business leaders alike, without being an engineer or an MBA himself. I do not wish to take anything away from Bill Gates or any other person, but, to a person who loves science, thrives on beautiful design and demands perfection in everything, there could no better role model than Steve Jobs. People have called him the “modern day Ford” and the “digital world's Edison”, but Steve Jobs was different, he was more. There was an aura about him that inspired, was mischievous, was rebellious, was powerful, was dark, was passionate... No one has managed to create many a world, maybe even a parallel universe, before him. He was the Che Guevara of our generation - the ultimate rebel, the iconoclast to a generation that has cauldrons of restlessness bubbling within.

I've read a lot about Steve, from various perspectives and through the eyes of many different people. Eerily, most of what I’ve read about him has been in the last few months. I've read about his fall from glory, his mercurial temperament, his phoenix-like resurrection and the magic he created... I've watched Pirates of the Silicon Valley and loved and loathed him at the same time. I've read John Sculley's "An Odyssey: From Pepsi to Apple" and stopped midway because I gave up on Sculley as a narrow-minded nutcase who could not recognize Genius, though he was staring at him in the face. At different points of time, I've disliked Steve and credited all his success to good luck, loved him for his passion, revered him for the beauty and elegance that each product of his exuded, been awed by the determination of this tall, gangling marketer and admired him for the confidence he exuded, the endless charm he spun and the surefootedness he seemed to possess in unending measure. No one belonging to this day and age has inspired me or intrigued me more. His arrogance, his sheer brashness, his strong presence, his quest for perfection, his ability to see the big picture – they are all stuff of legend. Steve Jobs saw potential where others didn’t, saw brilliance in what others thought was different, saw magic in the mundane… He was able to put in the palm of one’s hand, what had occupied an entire room when he was born. Yes, Steve Jobs was a marvel – Stevie Wonder, if you may. And he will be missed a lot. However, what he did, what he created, will continue to inspire the generations who live, and the generations to come. In his own words, he managed to “put a ding in the universe”.

Goodbye Steve. Hope you’ll be happy up there. And as a facebook message aptly puts it, “If Heaven is not white, shiny and beautifully designed, it will be soon”.
Bon Voyage.

A touch of silver…

Tomorrow I turn 25...

I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal of it. It’s after all just another number right? It’s probably because I will no longer be in my “early twenties”… 25 seems like a milestone and a huge one at that. Yet, I’m actually just a day older than I am today right? So why have I been a little more restless than normal during the last couple of weeks, I wonder? People have told me of a phenomenon called the “Quarter Life crisis” – a phase full of uncertainty where questions like “What am I doing with my life?” plague a person. For some, it remains a passing phase – something that soon gives away to other materialistic and mundane aspects of life like career, marriage and household affairs and ultimately ending precisely where it all started, with the same questions but a different name – the “Mid-life crisis”. The Circle of Life eh? For some lucky and brave heart others, this “quarter life crisis” results in a plunge into something different, the quest for “one’s true calling”, the first step off the beaten track.

I’ve had a good and comfortable life till now. No complaints, a few regrets – but the kind that will ebb away in a few years and bring a smile on my face when I think of them while sipping hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day by the fireplace. I’ve smiled, laughed, cried, loved, pursued ambitions, won, lost, talked… I’ve seen the magical power of a smile, experienced the beauty of love, tasted the joy of true friendship, felt the pain of losing a loved one, experienced the ecstasy of winning and the numbing silence of a loss… I’ve met some very interesting people and some not so nice ones – but those from whom I have learnt the importance of making the right choices, of separating the wheat from the chaff… I’ve learnt where to hold tight and where to move on. Interests have come and gone, like the coming and going of waves. Some have stuck on and turned, or are rapidly turning into passions – travel, music, Nature, books, photography. I have a long, ever-growing bucket list, and with it, the burning dream to tick off each and every item on it. I’ve learned to find joy in the simplest of things – the twinkling laugh of a child, the chirp of a bird, the crash of the waves, the dew on the leaves, the wind in my face, and to appreciate the beauty in everyday events – a surprise hug, the voice of a long lost friend on the other end of the line, a quick commiserative smile from a total stranger… I have been shaped slowly, but surely by experiences - both mine and those of others, have grown, and am in the process of discovering the mystery that I am – little by little, day by day. Yes, it has been a comfortable life but still, there is that slight unease, those minor palpitations… A quarter of a century has passed since I arrived on earth and I wonder if I have indeed arrived at all.

To an outsider, I probably come across as a person who has life all figured out, who has achieved almost all that she could have in 25 years of existence. However, those that know me well also know of the turbulence that lies under the cheerful exterior. They also know of the non-conformist, the rebel in me. I still have the same questions, the same confusion that I had a few years ago when I stepped out of comfort of my parents’ home and into the serene campus of Surathkal. The “Where?”, “Why?”, “How?” and “What?” still haunt me just the same. The only difference is that I am just somewhat surer, a tad more confident and have a lot more courage in my convictions than I did when I was 17. I also know that answers to these questions will surface in due course of time and that paths will open, sooner or later. Today, I look towards the next quarter of the century with hope, courage, joy and the anticipation of doing something more meaningful with the wonderful gift that is this life. Yes, 25 is just a number, something of little significance to someone who believes staunchly in “18 till I die!”

I sign off with my favourite Robert Frost lines, with some improvisation
“I shall be telling this with a smile,
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

Is it just me?

A few years ago:

I used to be able to sit in one corner of the room with a book in hand, completely oblivious to everything that was around me, food and drink forgotten, a screaming grandmom and mom ignored and could focus completely, totally and wholly on the piece of art in my hand, completely lost in the black print. Of late, I can't seem to focus on any book or movie for more than ten minutes, without fidgeting a million times, looking around the room, completely tuned in to the slightest noise or disturbance in the space around me!

I could listen to the same song over and over again and completely get lost each time in the lyrics, the melody, the voice... Today I find it difficult to listen to a single song from beginning to end without skipping parts I don't like.

I used to be able to remember the most insignificant detail of any conversation or bit of information someone had shared with me, including when and where that bit of knowledge had been imparted to me. I could recognize articles I had read years before and recite its contents almost effortlessly. I could remember whole poems after reading through them once. Statistics, numbers, names, figures, pictures came naturally to me and I could recreate the same vividly in words. Today, I find it difficult to remember my own aunt's phone number! I read the same articles again feeling only a faint sense of deja vu... I look up blogs, articles and other stuff on the internet, read it out to those around me and poof, forget everything that I've read almost the very next minute!

I still remember the physics formulae and equations I learnt years ago, nay a decade ago, but can't seem to recall a simple economics theory I came across in B-school not so long ago.

I used to be able to hold a conversation for hours on end on the most boring topic on earth. Today, I can't focus for more than a minute on the topics that interest me most!

Whenever I visited a place, I used to observe the most intricate details - the shape of the tiles on the pavement, the kind of trees along the road, the colours of the billboards, the building styles, the moustache of the bhelpuri wala standing near the pavement and map it to those details I saw in other places. Today, I noticed for the first time, that the road I walk on for a good ten minutes everyday is not tarred but tiled!

Is it just me? Or is there a larger, darker force at play?

Maximum City

I’ve long toyed with the idea of writing about Mumbai and life here, but have been putting it off for no apparent reason. It’s probably just the sheer magnitude of the task. After all, how can one capture the madness, the spirit, the pure essence of this city in a few hundred words? Movie after movie has been made about Mumbai glorifying it, berating it, romanticizing it, personifying it, but they all seem to be dealing with disconnected, disparate aspects – the rains, the trains, slums, poverty or the crowds. Not one of them has captured the city in its entirety. I’ve been here for over a year now, but I still haven’t come to terms with this city. Each time I think I have Mumbai all figured out, it throws up something that completely catches me unawares and I discover a whole new side of Mumbai, not always pleasant. When I was new to the city, someone told me that one can only love or hate this city, that there’s no in between. Black or white, no shades of grey. But even after a year here, I’m sitting on the fence unable to make up my mind.


Do I love this absolutely mental city? Yes, at times - When an absolute stranger on the packed local train flashes a smile despite being elbowed from all directions, when people queue up at the bus stop in an orderly manner despite the horrendous peak hour rush, when I go jogging on marine drive and the sun peeks from behind the Trident, when I’m sitting on the broad pavement and watch the grey waters crash onto the rocks below me at Nariman point, when the first rains hit the city with a vengeance in June, when I spend a sunny Sunday morning just walking alone along the broad wide roads of Fort, when I saunter around the meandering old roads named after long bygone Parsis in Colaba with a camera in hand, when I see kids running to school in oversized raincoats, when I stand on the footboard of that rare empty train and feel the wind in my face, whenever I visit Café Madras and the guy behind the counter flashes me a familiar smile, when I step out on the streets alone at 2 AM and still feel absolutely safe, when the auto and cab drivers take pains to give me exact change even if it’s just a rupee, when I see people going through the same routine for years on end to earn an honest living… Yes, this city does bring a smile to my face.


Do I hate Mumbai? Oh yes. It drives me mad that I cannot find a moment’s peace here – a minute without all the honking and din, that I just HAVE TO leave my house not a moment later than 8:02 to catch the 8:12 local so that I can get to office in one piece, that it invariably rains nay, pours non-stop every weekend in the monsoon causing all weekend plans to go kaput, that there’s no place outside my home where I can be completely alone whenever I want to, that I’m still to find my “happy place” here, that I cannot find time to do anything apart from work and home on weekdays, that I have to put my life on the line every time I attempt to board the general compartment of a local at peak hours, that everything is a fight here, a challenge that one must face every day and every moment, that we have to live in houses that are more like matchboxes… ok shoeboxes and proudly call them “home”, that a few potted plants on one’s balcony are labelled “gardens”, that ten trees lining a road is considered a “green locality”, that a substantial amount of one’s income has to go on rent, that mountains of garbage lying on the side of the road is considered normal, that taking 2 hours to cross 12 km to get back home is “acceptable”… Ufff.


Despite all this, do I defend Mumbai? Yes, and vociferously especially whenever someone compares it with Delhi. After all, how can Delhi with its corrupt politicians, snooty uber rich people (no offence to friends staying in Delhi), spoilt brats and its “oh-so-perfect” roads even come close to honest, hardworking, matter-of-fact Mumbai? I agree Mumbai comes nowhere close to Bangalore on any aspect, but its miles above Delhi.


But does life at Mumbai sadden me? Yes, enormously. It pains me to see the colossal rich-poor divide in this city… it probably compares to no other city in the world and is just getting worse by the day. This is a city where models sporting Louis Vuittons and stilettos, super rich business honchos in their expensive suits and movie stars in their BMWs and their Mercs whizz past millions of people living on footpaths on less than a dollar a day without a second glance. It distresses me that people spend thousands of rupees to buy clothes they don’t need, but cannot spare a rupee to an old homeless lady, that hundreds of people die on the locals every year but nothing has been done to make the trains safer, that Mumbai’s famed “resilience” is actually sheer apathy, that the infrastructure is crumbling and living standards dropping by the minute, that thousands of children have no childhood but have to earn just to be able to eat. It’s depressing to see a little girl of about six squeezing her body through a six inch ring to earn a few rupees, a little boy of five selling odds and ends on the local train and an aged blind beggar singing so that people who have eyes and can see but are blind in every other way can take notice of him. It almost kills me.


Yet despite all this, something about Mumbai binds everyone together. It’s a melting pot, a smorgasbord if you may, that offers something for everyone. “One for all and all for one” they say. Everything comes to a grinding halt when Sachin scores a century, when another bomb explodes, when the millions of Ganeshas are taken to the sea for immersion, when the roads flood and both prince and pauper have to swim back home… and then life goes back to normal - the machine starts running again after a brief pause.


Is this city for me? I don’t know… I think not. Will I ever be able to make up my mind about Mumbai? Nope. I don’t see myself getting off this fence any time soon.

The beautiful game...

I'm writing this note just a few hours before the big match, the WC finals. India and Srilanka, Ramayana v2.0 - who would've thought! The behemoths, Australia and South Africa lie fallen like warriors with broken swords along the long, winding path to the glorious cup. The excitement and impatience on the street below is palpable! The honking is a tad louder, the walking a step faster, the smiles on the faces of Mumbaikars are a few millimetres wider. On the trains too, the talk is about cricket and cricket alone according to a friend of mine who's on his way to the stadium. For the last week, 90% of all the posts on my facebook wall have been about cricket! Post match analysis, Sachin's 100th ton, speculations about match fixing, Sachin's 100th ton, articles by former cricketers, Sachin's 100th ton, vintage videos of India's wins, Sachin's 100th ton are doing the rounds on any portal that's connected to the cloud. I think the question "Will he, won't he" has been posed more times in the last few days than all the women in the world, through all the ages have pondered plucking at rose petals. And if cricket has not been on the front page of all the leading dailies everyday for the last 40 days, then I'll give up watching the sport! National news, inflation worries, terror threats, GDP growth and its woes, everything lies forgotten for cricket. Sab chalta hai Bhai, it's cricket after all. And this crazy nation goes impossibly berserk when our men in Blue are on the field.

My association with this game goes as far as I can remember. Having an athletic father who worshipped the game, having played it at district level and a grandmother whose razor sharp memory could hold statistics and numbers better than databases, ensured that I received copious doses of the beauty of cricket right from the age of 6 or 7. I saw cricket transition from the classy whites with a red ball to a splash a colours (92 was it?) played with a white ball and I was hooked. So much so that, plumb in front of the wicket, silly mid on, silly point, cover drive, long off, yorker were a significant part of my early english vocabulary. I loved the cracking sound that was made when the wooden willow hitting the ball for a boundary, the slight knick of the bat before a caught behind and the sound of the crowds roaring on television. I read about the history of the game in the school kid's version of Wisden, spent hours neatly cutting out colour pictures of favourite cricketers from the newspapers and tacking them over a cricket scrap book and read anything I could lay my hands upon about Steve Waugh, Shaun Pollock, Hansie Cronje, Anil Kumble and the new kid on the block - Sachin Tendulkar.

Over the years, several days were spent in front of a rickety old television with my father and sometimes a few of his friends, my grandmother, my sister and I at the edge of our seats, cheering for Team India, cussing them for dropped catches and misfields, screaming "what a beauty" at every classy ball at the top of our voices and celebrating every success with loud screaming, jumping and dancing. My mother, not so much an ardent fan of India mainly because of the insanity it invoked in the rest of her mad household, would hover in the background reminding us when wickets fell that "cricket is the ultimate winner" only to be met by blank stares from all us devastated souls. As the years progressed, my love for the game just increased. From 1996, where India crashed out to Srilanka in the semis (and for which we are seeking revenge today!) to the infamous 1999 world cup where I was smitten by the beautiful English cricket grounds with even more beautiful names (Oval, Old Trafford, Lord's, Edgebaston, Trent Bridge), I watched every series whether India played in it or not. Rahul Dravid with his fresh, sharp look, his heartwarming smile and "by the rule book" batting was my newest crush. Having always hated Australia for no reason whatsoever, I cried unstoppably during the Semi Finals of the 1999 World Cup when South Africa crashed out when Father Time stood still, turned around and threw his hands up at Allan Donald. The match fixing scandals that rocked the cricketing world soon after followed by Hansie Cronje plane crash rocked my world and I hoped that the game would come out clean again. The Indian final crash to Australia in the 2003 World Cup was the hilt where I spent the day watching the match and then stayed up all night in a blend of severe depression over India's loss, fear that I would flunk my Chemistry final exam the next day and palpitations that I may sleep through the paper! Which sadist keeps an examination the day after the world cup finals?!

University and MBA came and my love for the game dwindled. My dad being an ardent Sampras fan had already given me a substitute - Tennis, to fall back upon, and Federer with his ballet-like grace and his classy forehand caught my eye and grabbed a significant portion of my mindshare. Interest for cricket picked up only during the World Cup 2007 (and crashed after India's disastrous early exit), India Pakistan matches and the occasional interesting tri-nation series. Twenty-20 never really sparked my old fire for the game and IPL (and my hatred for it and the fact that it's just not cricket!) is a topic for a future post! However, before this world cup, something just sparked my interest again. I don't know if it was just the fact that the Cup was being played in the sub-continent, or that India had a good chance this time of lifting the trophy again, but my old fire is raging again. I resolved to watch atleast one match at the ground, and when I did, the insanity and passion that the game once invoked in me was reborn! I screamed, shouted, cursed, laughed, jumped, sang and cheered like I used to 15 years ago and all I can say now is that this love is here to stay! I don't know what magic is there about this game that brings a nation of 1.2 billion people to a grinding halt and unites them like nothing else! After all, as a friend puts it, "It's a game where 13 blokes play with a piece of wood and a ball to a random set of rules, but something about the game makes it so endearing."

So here's to an old love that's come back in full force, a life-long alliance with the game, to good sportsmanship and the true spirit of cricket! I don't care who wins the game today as long as it's India! :D

A year flies by, yet memories live on...

I still can't believe a year's gone by since that memorable spring day in a sleepy town called Ahmedabad when 280 black cloaked, bright eyed youngsters took the short walk up the stage to collect a piece of parchment that would "brand them for life"! I wonder what emotions might've effervesced in the majestic grass covered quadrangle enclosed by the massive red brick walls that day. Pride, joy, happiness, relief, ambition, hope... if those walls could talk, I'm sure they would be bursting to sing out too. And Louis Kahn, wherever in heaven or hell will sure be proud to have been a part of the making of this wonderful place that was my home for two years and will forever hold a special place in my heart.

As I stepped off the dias, I could think of only one person, the promise that I had made and kept, and the dream that I would continue to strive towards. While walking down the aisle holding the coveted parchment in hand, my eyes sought out my mother and there she was in the distance, her eyes sparkling with tears of pride, shining out like a single daffodil in a field of heather. Wordlessly, I handed over the degree to her and hugged her. The victory was as much hers and dad's as mine. The journey from being a fresh, naive engineer out of college to a strong and more mature "manager" ready to take on the world was a long, winding and hard trail. This was the befitting end - too short maybe, but heart warming. Two years spent there flashed before my eyes as I went around taking pictures with all my family members who had come there to celebrate my success and my dear friends who were setting out on their own paths in life... Words failed me once again. Time seemed to have stopped and yet seemed to be flying... Probably, the best lessons learnt in those grey cement and red brick classrooms were not of Accounting, Finance, Strategy or Marketing, but of those in life - dealing with different kinds of people, learning when to step forward and take a challenge and when to back off, knowing the right time to strike the iron, doing things and more importantly, getting things done...

I have cursed and loved this place in equal measure, but as I left I could feel only one thing - nostalgia. I called this place a torture chamber, a concentration camp, a boiler room, a prison and every other synonym possible during all those sleepless nights in the first year spent feverishly completing assignments, while getting "cold-called" when dozing off in class, after seeing a quiz notice on a totally random subject at 1.30 PM outside the mess and while getting screwed up grades in subjects where I felt like a champ. However, the same brick walls felt like heaven when I lay down on the wet grass all alone, in the wee hours of the morning at the LKP gazing at the stars and feeling the serenity of the place. Time would stand still at those moments and sigh...

Those countless coffees, late nights reading case materials while knowing that I wouldn't remember a thing the next morning, the long discussions at the CT eating maggi and drinking "chai", those countless movie sessions, nights spent playing card games, frisbee evenings, case discussions, forming competition teams and giving up just a few days before the submission, the "WAC runs", the countless treats (many a time, for no reason), the birthday parties, CCCFs, Section tempo shouts, dorm dunking nights... they're all just memories now. Memories that remain fresh in my mind a year since that wonderful day, memories that will always hold a special place in my heart, memories that may fade but will always remain in a small corner of my mind, to materialize on some days like dusty old and yellowed childhood photographs...

These memories may jade over time, but I know that the friendships I have forged during those two years will remain with me for a life time and only get stronger. Irrespective of the forum through or frequency with which we choose to remain in touch - be it random twice-a-year calls made on birthdays, facebook updates, regular gtalk chats, once-in-a-while meet ups, weekly or daily calls, I know these are friends I can bank on to get me out of a sticky situation, to pull me through in times of need, to give me fundae when I need them and when I don't, to join me in all my successes, to stand in 5 hour long queues in the hot sun to get cricket match tickets for me, to provide shelter to me after randomly turning up at their door and to take my calls at 3 AM in the morning.

Guys, it's been a year since that unforgettable day, but the journey will only get better. Here's to friendship, love and luck. And always remember - not one of us is "just a brick in the wall"

Life...

What is life really?

- Is it a bed of roses? Or a bed of nails? Or is it something where the “roses have thorns” argument holds?

- Is it a struggle? Or is it a celebration?

- Is it a bunch of little things that manifest themselves over time? Or huge things, that with time, become memories one would chuckle and laugh about?

- Is it emotion that defines it? Or is it reason? Or is it passion that grabs it with a vice-like grip?

- Is it defined by acting on the spur of the moment? Or by long deliberation?

- Is it about getting totally involved with everything one does – laughing out loud and crying one’s eyes out? Or is it about being able to see everything from a bird’s eye and never wading through the turbid waters?

- Is it about loving someone with all one’s heart that one would be willing to give up one’s very life for them? Or is it about compartmentalizing?

- Is it about expressing oneself and letting everything out? Or is about closeting everything, digging out the skeletons in the cupboard and burying them deep in the murky marshes of one’s mind?

- Should the innocent and naïve heart be allowed to rule one’s thoughts? Or is it the more pragmatic and insensitive brain that should be allowed to take over?

- Is it about living the happiness and smiling through the tears?

- Is it what we become in life that should define us? Or the people we have turned out to be? Or a combination of both?

- Is life black? Or is it white? Or is it just a chequered landscape in multiple hues of gray on whose squares stand tall the ghosts of the past like pieces on a stone chess board? Do these hues change with time?

- Is life determined by one’s choices? Or is there something inexplicable that governs it all? Or is it the hand that Chance doles out, that makes or breaks the deal?

- Is life easy? Or is it complicated? Or is it one’s mind which makes it the way it is?

- Is it about clinging on and blowing into the glowing embers to rekindle the flame? Or is it about letting go and blowing out the candle yourself?

- Is it about cursing the rain and trying to stay dry under the futile cover of an umbrella blowing in the wind? Or is it about letting the rain soak your very soul and bringing a huge smile on your face while making you catch a cold in a matter of minutes?

- Is it about momentary pleasures and long term pain? Or momentary pain and long term pleasure? Or momentary pleasure and pain?

- Is life about the gentle musings of beauty and wonder? Or is it about aggression, passion and achievement? Is it about the green and the blue? Or the red and the black?

- Is it about the moments that tug at our heartstrings and make us cry? Or is it about the countless memories of pleasure and pain that make us sigh? Is it about the withering roses in the dry rosebed? Or is it about the tender rosebud peaking out from beneath the sepals?

- Is it about letting your hair blow in the wind and getting the dust in your eyes? Or is it about staying warm, snug and dust free inside?

- Are we masters of our destiny? Or is there a sadistic master up there pulling at the strings and ridiculing us while we tread, fall and err?

- Is life non-existent without pain? Is pain the underlying base of the dish that life is?

- Is life just determined by time and space? Or is there something else too?

- Does time heal all wounds or does it wound all heals?

- Is life ruled by randomness, a Brownian phenomenon? Or is there an underlying pattern that lies obscured to all human perception?

- Is life a mission with a purpose? Or is it just one long meaningless pursuit?

- Do our deeds live on? Or do we just crumble to dust in our tombs and blend in with the same dust that would become new life?

- Is it dancing like the wind, singing like a lark, flying like an eagle and hunting like a cheetah? Or is it going about a mundane existence like the ant or the honeybee?

- Is life music? Or is it dance? Is it even an art where colors express themselves and have an identity? Or is it a meticulous science determined by equations, precise, but also having an element of error – the delta?

- Is it about blending in or standing out? Is life like a dazzling array of colors that mix together and presume a whole new identity to paint a rainbow together? Or is it like a sculpture etched in stone, stoic and stable for all eternity?

- Is life love? Or is love, life?

- Is life or love about rainbows and butterflies and violins playing amidst the rustle of leaves and the gusty wind? Or is it about compromise and settling for something?

What really is life? I yearn for an answer…

The Song of the Spheres

Dont you think we all are connected? I mean, by us I dont just mean people. I mean all of Creation. The dense green trees, the chirping birds, the wispy clouds, the tall and lofty mountains... 

I think we are. 

Else how could one explain the feeling one gets while one is alone on the beach? If you listen carefully, you feel like the sea is whispering something to you... memories of a time long gone by... like images flashing across the sky that is one's mind... thoughts long forgotten come tumbling by... 

While sitting in a meadow, just reading a book or doing nothing, one feels a sense of calm, of utmost peace that is not felt while sitting on a comfortable couch with not a worry in the world. The top of a mountain, by a gushing stream, lying on the grass in a garden, smelling the flowers, listening to the wind, getting soaked in the rain... one feels this connection, a sense of discovery... one feels closer to himself... It's as though somewhere somewhere wants to talk to you... is trying to reach you... At these moments sometimes, you feel your name being whispered. You look around and find no one. Is someone or something really trying to say something? Are we hearing but just not listening? Or have we got lost in this mundane world to an extent that we just have forgotten the language?

Wordsworth in one of his poems said "To her fair works did Nature link, the human soul that through me ran...". Yes, I kinda believe this too. There must be a link... I guess man is moving too fast to realize this... Else, how is it that birds and animals always know something is wrong before an earthquake but man doesn't? How is it that there seems to be such harmony with a well established food cycle in animals while there is only utter chaos wherever man is involved? 

Man must learn to slow down.. In his pursuit for power and glory, he must not forget that he is just nothing but a small insignificant, infinitesimally small speck in the grand order of things... Just one amongst millions of other species in a small blue planet called the Earth in one of the many solar systems in a little galaxy called the Milky Way, lost in the corner of just one of the infinite number of Universes there are... 

Yes, man must slow down and listen to the Song of the Spheres. Let there be Peace. 

Ode to my Dearest Friend...

I wake up in cold sweat... yet again for the third time this week. I reach out to take a sip of water, but somehow water seems to have lost the ability to quench my thirst. My head is spinning and little balls of light seem to be popping all over in the otherwise pitch darkness of my room. I lie down back again and stare up at the ceiling... I can see her in my mind’s eye so clearly... spread all over the canvas that is the ceiling. I sigh... I miss her a lot. My heart pines for her company. A glimpse of her, just the sound of her voice... anything! I shake my head to clear my thoughts but I somehow just can’t get her out of my head. It’s as though she’s calling out to me, reminding me of the times we’ve spent together. I reach out for another sip of water though I know it’s going to be of no use. My throat is parched and I know exactly what is going to quench my thirst. Oh God. For another glimpse. A few moments with her sometime soon...

My first day on campus at NITK was when I saw her. My mother and I had arrived a day early and after having spent the entire morning setting up the room, we were left with nothing to do in the evening. We decided to take a walk and after crossing NH17, we continued along the sandy road, and that’s when I saw her. Aah.. I still remember that first sight as if it were yesterday. Pristine, sparkling, perfect. Decked in golden orange like a blushing bride, she was there – vast and infinite, stretching up to horizon – the Arabian Sea. I shook off my slippers and ran across the sand feeling like a bird. The very first day and I had found my favourite place on campus. Little did I realize that it was also the beginning of a wonderful lifetime friendship - absolutely pure and delightful.  

The very next morning I was back for a glimpse of her again. The moment I stepped on the sand, a totally different feeling engulfed me. I felt liberated, light, like a bird being released from a cage after a long long time! I looked at the water – all green and gold. She looked so fresh, like she had dressed up to greet me. Now that I think of it, I guess she had... as was the case every morning after that. I smiled and walked towards the edge of the water and she withdrew. Like a little girl who responds to a stranger with a shy smile but withdraws immediately as he approaches her. I tried again and she withdrew again. I gave up. The tide was too low. I sat down on the wet sand and looked around me. Not a soul for at least a mile on either side. It was such a wonderful feeling. I felt at peace. I closed my eyes and the very next moment, I was surrounded by water. Before I could even realise what was happening I was totally wet and when I opened my tingling eyes and spat out the sand and salty water, she was running away again. Giggling like a little girl, a little girl who had accepted me as her friend. And so it began... a wonderful beginning to a wonderful friendship.

Every morning, within 15 minutes of getting up I had to be at the beach. I just HAD to see her everyday else I would be restless for the rest of the day. And every morning she greeted me like she did the very first day – like a little girl clapping her hands in glee when her father comes home after a long day at work, so eager to sit him down and show him all her drawings. And on all those happy mornings, she would either be dressed in green sparkling with the gold the rising sun showered on her or in a wonderful blue hue – the beauty of which can only be experienced, not described. On those happy mornings, she would laugh out loud several times, splashing on the rocks, playing “catch me if you can” with the scurrying crabs. And then we would talk. I told her everything about myself. I know it may sound funny, but I actually did. And when I did, she listened. She would stop her fun and frolic and listen. And she would tell me all about herself. Stories so vast and magnificent that they cannot be penned. Stories of dolphins frolicking in the sun, of shoals of fishes, corals and treasures buried deep inside her – secrets from the depth of the ocean. I was fascinated by each one of them. Sometimes when I visited her at night after dinner and lay down on the sand listening to the waves, we both would look up at the twinkling stars and she would tell me of stories from up above – of angels and elves, flowers, the sun and the moon. I felt like a little child at those times.

In the second year, when the jogging bug had bitten me, she had a ball. Every morning, between fits of laughter, she would watch my desperate attempts to run on the sand for more than half a minute. The moment I gave up and stopped, she would burst out laughing. At times, I would get irritated and chuck a stone at her but she would duck and start laughing again. Even louder than before and that would set me laughing. At other times, her laughter would spur me on to run some more and when I did, she would stop laughing and give me a proud smile.

Not always was she so bubbly and cheery as she was on most mornings. There were times when I understood that she was in a bad mood the moment I saw her. On all those days, she was dressed in gray. A cold steely gray. She would ignore me at times and I let her be. Sometimes, I would ignore her longer on purpose until she herself came to talk to me. And when I would leave after the talk, I always noticed that her mood was invariably lighter. She would seem so much more cheerful. I still remember a particularly gray morning she was in a terrible mood. The waves were crashing down on the rocks with the intensity of a sharp sword. Strong enough to break them down. She seemed like a child throwing a terrible tantrum when she did not get what she wanted. She was furious that day and managed to make me feel pretty gray too. When I visited her again that evening to check out how she was doing, she was back to normal and looked particularly beautiful. Decked in pure gold, she rushed out to greet me as if to apologize for her behaviour that morning.

I always marvelled at her ability to be so cheerful and childish at times, at other times so grown up. She always seemed like different people to me – a little girl with her toys, laughing and playing with her best friend, a younger sister – a friend and confidant, an older sister – a patient listener who always gave great advice, a mother who always understood my moods and somehow always managed to get the smile back on my face...

Though I felt she was like a little girl most of the time, she would sometimes exhibit the wisdom of Queen Sheba. When I became particularly interested in Philosophy in my third year at college, she gave me answers to so many of my dilemmas and would pose so many more. On mornings when I wasn’t feeling so chatty she displayed the tenderness of a grandmother. I would just lie down on the sand and she lapped against my feet quietly – just to let me know that she was there if I felt like talking. At times when I was feeling down, she understood immediately and would sing for me - a song more enchanting than a pied piper’s song, a voice more beautiful than that of a nightingale and before I knew it, I would be smiling again. She never failed to cheer me up. Not even once. Her ability to switch roles totally amazed me. She would spend the entire morning listening to me and advising me when I felt down, but within minutes after she felt I was feeling ok, she would turn all childlike again, splashing me with water and running away laughing. Truly marvellous.

Well, Time and Tide wait for none they say. Tide I say definitely waited for me, like she did every morning to greet me with all the innocence of a child. Time unfortunately wasn’t so considerate and there I was with just two months left in college. They were a blur. Goodbyes to good friends, normal friends, “hi – bye” friends... the list was endless. A week before I left, I was with her in the evening. She seemed to be feeling down. I felt pretty gray too. NITK had been a part of my life for four years – the best years of my life till now and it wasn’t easy to say goodbye. I hadn’t shed a single tear till then though my friends had been crying buckets for weeks. I felt sad yes, but I hadn’t cried. I just sat there gazing at her. And then before I even realized, the tears were flowing. I looked at her. It felt like she was crying too. Weeping... My heart still aches thinking of those first tears. After that, the tears never stopped. And I always cried when I was with her. She was so much a part of me now that leaving her behind would be like leaving a part of me forever. She had helped me grow stronger, helped me build my confidence and character, had taught me the power of thought, had made me ponder over life’s eternal questions, taught me the joy of wonder, of beauty that is so abundant in nature, of joy that life is filled with but is somehow overlooked by everyone, given me answers when I wanted them, nurtured and cared for me whenever I needed someone to look after me... She taught me to appreciate little things in life, reach out to people and make them feel better, the way she did to me. She had been my mentor, a caring teacher and I had never realized that till then. She had been with me through ups and downs, highs and lows... she had always been there.

On my last day, I sat down with her again. She looked like a bride once again. Someone who was wedded and was leaving her mother’s place to go to her husband’s. Exceptionally beautiful and very sad. A bride who knew the future held beautiful promises but still did not want to leave her mother behind. The only difference was that it was I who was leaving. I felt terrible, crushed. I didn’t want to go. I walked down to the edge of the water. The tears on my cheeks were glistening in the moonlight and the salty water running down my cheeks splashed into the salty water beneath. We had connected again, albeit in tears. I bent down and touched the water, told her I would miss her and reassured her I would be back again. She returned a smile – a sad one. I knew how much she would miss me and I knew how much I would miss her. I turned around and walked across the sand. Before I left the beach, I glanced back at her again. She seemed to be pointing upwards. I looked up and saw the most spectacular thing I’ve seen in all my life. The stars seemed to be spelling out “I will miss you” very clearly. I rubbed my eyes and looked once again but everything seemed normal. The great Orion with his broad belt stared down at me. I didn’t know what to make of it. I turned to her to see a broad smile and a quick wink and I knew that what I saw was true. She would miss me... a lot...  and I would miss her too.

10 months it has been since I saw her. 10 whole months. I’ve come to a place where probably many would die to belong to, but somehow, everything’s not complete. I miss my dearest friend. Her gushing giggles, her loud laughs, her quiet cackle, her calm reassurance, her warmth, her love... I really miss her. I promise myself, I’ll be seeing her soon. Very soon. And I’m waiting for the first glimpse once again, when I can smell the salt in the air and feel the sand in my hair, when I can see her beautiful golden self, feel the heat of the sand, smell the fragrance of the ocean, the gaze of her blue eyes, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her embrace... I’m longing for the moment I would be see my little girl running towards me with all her drawings of the day, eager to show me everything. Dearest friend, I’m longing for the day I’ll be with you again... the day when I can feel like a child once again. I promise you... I’ll be there soon! I will!

Happier times ... the beach from atop the lighthouse... NITK beach - the best in the world!

A Silent Death...

Today was one of those days… those days when one does not feel like doing anything and sits around idly… thinking about the mountain of tasks left to be done but not taking the effort to move a limb and do them! I was idly skimming through a 3 days old paper when an article caught my attention. It was called Rangoli Days. Interesting, I thought and I read on.

The writer of this article describes how she heard the Rangoli seller shouting out her wares on the street one day and how it brought back fond memories of two decades ago when Rangolis were ubiquitous. In her own words, she says, “those were the times when the lady of the house would wash the front yard, pick up her bowl of Rangoli powder, bend double and with deft fingers, dab dots and dashes into an interesting motif. Then the bowl would be tucked away into a corner, usually on a window sill, and she would vanish indoors to complete her other chores. The Rangoli was a sign of welcome, and indication that the house was ready for a brand new day.” She goes on to describe how she and her friends would skip around the designs carefully on their way to school and back and how, on festival days, the Rangolis were a lot bigger and more colorful with the sprinkling of petals and flowers for the festive effect.

This article pulled a few chords in my own heart and I reminisced about the time when I was about five. There are some events in one’s life which, however insignificant they are, one never forgets. They stick in our minds. Memories of everyday, insignificant events. Insignificant memories, but priceless, when one feels nostalgic and reflects on the past to remember the good old days. My Rangoli memories were some of them. I was always amazed by how my Grandma would draw huge, beautiful patterns outside the threshold every morning. Perfect to the minutest detail with not a line, nay, not even a dot out of place. Regal peacocks, burning diyas, flowers, beautiful ladies holding lamps… each pattern had its own story to tell. She would allow me to dot the plot once in a while, gently correcting my grip and teaching me the right way to hold the powder in my fingers to get thin and straight lines. I still remember my first pattern - one with lamps and a flower in the middle. The lines were awry and the dots were out of place but my grandma applauded me and gave me one of her special laddoos as a reward. And gazing at my creation, I experienced a joy I’d never experienced before. I’m sure Rembrandt or Picasso wouldn’t have been happier after their first painting!

Then there was the time when the neighbor aunty got a permanent Rangoli pattern painted on her threshold. When my grandma saw this she marched to her house and demanded:

“Why Savithri? Why did you get a Rangoli painted??! Your Rangolis were always so good!”

Savithri aunty said “I know Kamala, but I’m not getting any younger you see. It’s getting really difficult for me to get up so early in the morning every day. And my daughter in law does not have time in the mornings for a Rangoli.

“Well, that’s really sad! But that’s not going to happen in my place! I’ll never get a pattern painted outside my threshold however old and blind I become!” retorted my grandma.

To this day, the first thing that welcomes me when I go back home from college is the beautiful pattern on our threshold complete with fragrant incense sticks sticking out of the mud in the tulsi pot. I always smile at this and look around. I see either bare thresholds or painted patterns at the neighbors’ doors. Or even a car and a two wheeler parked in the place which rightfully belongs to the Rangoli!

It’s really sad actually. Globalisation and modernization are doing a lot of good things – double incomes, lots of other facilities… but they are also eating into our lives. Into the time which was usually reserved for things which truly matter. Things like eating dinner together as a family, or taking a walk together or decorating the our homes on festive occasions. Why, even celebrating festivals has become perfunctory now…

And simple traditions like drawing a Rangoli… well, they just seem to be dying a silent death…

COORG!!!

It was just after the mid sems! In fact, on the very night of the last exam, that six enthusiastic gals (Shish, Sab, Ro, Sonal, Prarth and yours truly) set off to the beautiful place with cloud-capped mountains, gushing streams, beautiful scenes and coffee estates that is Coorg!

After much planning and speculation and of course the stabs (is anyone feeling guilty out there?!), we decided on this beautiful destination. Well, we considering Ooty (which was ditched due to financial constraintsL ) and Wayanad (which is considered a little unsafe) too but finally, Coorg it was! Sab, Shish and Prarth did most of the planning, contacting the hotels for acco et al (since the rest of us had to “study” for our last exam- Marketing Management).

The happiness was evident on our faces when we boarded the bus to Mangalore, with each of us quivering with excitement! We got off at the main bus stand and boarded a bus to Madikeri. We were off at last! Well, for the remaining part of the journey, I slept blissfully, thanks to my wonderful ability to be able to sleep anywhere regardless of the noise and the confusion! But of what I heard, Sab and Sonal had a wonderful time gossiping throughout! The next thing I remember is Ro waking me up at 2 saying “Madikeri is here”. We hopped off the bus and instantly froze! Boy, was it cold! Thanks to a kind soul who was awake at that hour, we managed to get to the hotel and into our rooms. I don’t remember anything after that except taking a pic and posing for one! The first two in a long stream of pics!

The next morning, we woke up at 6:30 (when we were supposed to be up by 5!) and after a hurried hour of getting ready and gulping down hot idlis for breakfast, we were off by 7:30 to Thadiyandamol! For all the folks out there who dunno what this strange word means, it happens to be the highest peak in Coorg District! We got onto a bus at Madikeri main stand to Kaikamba, the town closest to Thadiyandamol. I made some good friends on the bus journey having seated next to an old man (who told me all about Thadiyandamol, Bhagamandala and Talacauvery) and later, a Coorgi lady (who told me quite a bit about Coorgi customs and even invited me to a wedding later that day!!). After an hour’s journey on a surprising good road, we got off at Kaikamba. The bus conductor had promised us that the actual trek to Thadiyandamol was just ½ a km away, but we ended up walking 5 km on a steep uphill road! Our foolishness not to take a jeep actually!

My fellow trekkers!

The trek though not difficult at all, is extremely scenic. We were still not even halfway up, when the views were breathtaking! Surrounded on all sides by mountains, we could see sparkling streams that looked like glistening silver threads from the distance, lush green fields in the valley below, the little houses and the ubiquitous coffee estates! It’s beautiful how God plays with colors! On one side, u have the sky sporting different shades of blue in different parts, the mountains in every imaginable shade of brown and gray covered by the rich green forests, whose trees are capped with a pink cover of tender new leaves, the fresh green of the lush paddy fields, the white, gray and black of the clouds, the myriad of flowers each of a different hue, red and purple, yellow and blue, the golden sunlight which makes everything sparkle with glee and above all the wonderful fresh raindrops on the leaves which cast rainbows everywhere after their game with the light! No poet, no artist, no photographer can capture the essence of the beauty of Nature in all her glory! She changes colors and shades faster than it takes to blink and smiles mischievously when u try to create a copy of her beauty on paper or canvas! Well, I just can’t go on! It ought to be experienced- the beauty and the magnitude of that moment can only be captured by the eye and perceived by the mind, nothing else! I was spellbound as Nature mesmerized me with her beauty and tried in vain to capture a few snapshots of that beauty with my camera but I honestly failed miserably. Nothing and nobody can do full justice to Nature and her charm.

A view from Halfway up en route to the Thadiyandamol peak.

This pic is one of my personal favorites!

There wasn’t much to do after that with heavy rains pounding down on us and we slipped with every step we took, so we decided to head back and go elsewhere. We managed to get hold of a jeep to take us back to Kakkabbe after a visit to a nearby coffee estate which had its own waterfall! We got back to Madikeri and after a much delayed lunch (at 4:30) we headed to the Madikeri museum (which frankly does not have much!) and then to Raja Seat, another place with a breathtaking view! If Thadiyandamol has treats for the eye, bathed in sunlight, this holds feasts for the eye by the twilight. After a round of chaats and the musical fountain, we trekked back to the room to rest our “tired” limbs.Shrouded in mist... near Raja Seat.

A pic on the fort near the museum.

The next day, we set off to Dubare Elephant camp (located near Kushalnagar). We had the cross the river Cauvery in a boat to reach the elephants. Sadly we could not go river rafting here coz it cost an outrageous 600 bucks per person! At the camp, we made friends with Parashurama (aged 3), Ranjan (aged 8) and Maithili (aged 52), all of them the trunked inhabitants of the camp. Sadly again for us, we could not go for an elephant ride as most of the elephants had gone to the Dasara procession at Mysore.

Parashurama at Dubare

From Dubare we went to Nisargadhama after an amusing auto journey with 6 of us (7 including the driver) in one auto and me sitting on the window bar! Nisargadhama happens to be a quiet place with tree houses, bamboos, rabbits, deer and monkeys. A huge garden where one can spend many hours in solitude, reading a book, penning down thoughts, pondering… I felt at peace there. Nature was placid and calm. Time seemed to stand still. The bamboos seemed to create music with percussions in the breeze with the chirping rendering beautiful melodies in the soft green light.

Nisargadhama

After a good lunch at Kushalnagar, we moved to the famous Buddhist monastery and what a treat it turned out to be. The meditation hall was an architectural marvel with beautiful and huge statues, marvelous pillars, rich paintings and the quiet solitude and calm that can only be experienced. I clicked more than I blinked there. Monks dressed in maroon walked everywhere, chanting with prayer beads, talking on the phone, moving in line… Little monks running around and playing… devout ladies bowing their heads before the deity…

The prayer hall at the Buddhist monastery.

After a bit of shopping at the Tibetian shops in the complex, we headed back to Kushalnagar and then to Madikeri at around 5 in the evening. We visited the Omkareshwara temple in evening and then headed back to the room. After a series of card games, “Badam Saath” being the most popular, we trooped to East End Hotel and tasted good food for the first time in many days! Then back to the room, packing, checking out, going to the bus stand at midnight and boarding a bus going to Kundapur, getting off in front of the guest house early next morning…

We cheered! We had finally made it back, safe and sound after having a wonderful time at the Scotland of India, Coorg! Two days filled with fun and rich experiences. Hope there are many more such memorable trips to come!

Highlights of the trip:

1) Sab’s birthday on the day we went to Dubare and the “green eyed” cakes we got for her! Hope u had a wonderful day!

2) Prarth’s birthday on the day we were travelling back and our “Happy Birthday” song for her sung on NH 17 after we got off the bus. Hey kiddo, welcome to the world! J

3) Sonal’s explanation of “intern monks” when we were all wondering aloud as to why some of the monks were staying outside the Vihara.

4) Sonal: “Hey!”; Little monk: “No!” (Ask her for more details! I’m still rofling coz of this!)

5) The sleepyard pics in the bus(es).

This post is dedicated:

1) To Mother Nature, the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen.

2) To Divya and Pragathi who unfortunately could not make it. U guys were terribly missed!

3) To Varun and Shashank for giving us very useful details on the hotel, trek and gen stuff.

4) To my wonderful camera which helped us capture the wonderful memories of this trip and record them in places other than our hearts and minds.

5) To the 9 leeches which managed to draw blood from some of us ( Sab – 7, Shish and Prarth – 1 each. Sonal, Ro and I were very fortunate indeed to escape their bites).

6) To all those who managed to read this post and reach this point.

7) To Prarth, Shish, Sab, Ro and Sonal – my fellow trippers. It was truly great fun guys!

8) To William Wordsworth, my idol, for giving the world some of the most beautiful descriptions of Mother Nature and one of the very few who’s gotten closest in doing justice to her beauty through his works.