Blossoming Soul

WikiConf2011 - A Malayalam Wikimedian's perspective

2011-12-04T21:58:00.000-08:00

When Shiju ettan* (Shiju Alex) suggested that I apply for a scholarship to attend WikiConf 2011, I dismissed it as joke. The very next day, Santosh ettan (Santosh Thottingal) urged me to do the same and gave me the link to the scholarship form, I blankly told him that I am not the right person for attending a program that involves technology.

If either of you are reading this, I’m terribly sorry for not listening to your suggestions right then – for, I did apply for the scholarship weeks later, and surprisingly, I qualified (!)– to be among the 100 scholars out of the 7000+ applicants!

Later, the organizers asked me if I could speak at the conference. A third year medico talking about Wikipedia to techie geeks was the last thing I could imagine of. But as it was Shjiu ettan who pressed me to do it, and because I admired him so much, I thought I’d give a try on a talk on “Gendergap in Indic Wikipedias – A statistical analysis ”. regarding female participation in Indic Wikipedias, but I couldn’t find enough of relevant data, so I eventually dropped the plan.

Finally, the big day arrived. On 17th November, I flew to Mumbai to attend the first ever WikiConference of Wikimedians from all over India. During the flight, I was busy working on the presentation “The state of Malayalam Wikiprojects of Wikimedia foundation”- which, luckily, was later replaced by a better one created by the ml-wikipedia team led by Viswam ettan. My accommodation was at Hotel Sea Green, with Noopur and Dipali (both from Gujrat). Dipali, if you are reading this, I miss the morning walks with you along Marine Lines.

At the conference, I met many Wikimedians from various parts of the country and abroad. Most of them had heard about ml-wikipedia, and some of them even congratulated me for the good progress ml-wikipedia is making overtime! The news about me that appeared in DNA newspaper had made me famous, and many people recognized me as the medico girl who edits Wikipedia (:))! Being an Online Ambassador for the India Education Program, I had contacts with many Campus Ambassadors, and I could meet a few of them. I had been aware of only the virtual existence of Junaid ikka, Rajesh ettan, Vijaykumar ettan, Ramesh ettan, Ditty chechi*, Vaisakh ettan, Sivahari ettan, Jagadeesh ettan and many other ml-Wikimedians till then, WikiConf helped me to meet them all for real.Though I hung around with Malayali Wikimedians most of the time, I didn’t fail to meet Wikimedians from other languages. I met a few Kannada Wikimedians, and discussed with them the present state of Kannada Wikipedia. They were so lovely, and meeting them made me want to work with Kannada Wikipedia too. Talking with a few people from Marathi Wikipedia helped me know about the challenges they are facing, and we discussed the solutions for the same. Tinu ettan and Naveen ettan were the two Malayali Wikimedians whom I had the privilege to meet.

Jimmy Wales speaking at WikiConf 2011
Attribution : Victorgrigas (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

I had feared that only geekish stuff would be discussed at the conference, but I was wrong. Jimmy Wales, in his highly inspiring speech, urged the Wikimedians to change everything they could for the welfare of Wikipedia. He described the strategies to be adopted while working in small communities like Indic language Wikipedias. He was patient enough to answer to many questions from the audience, though he had other appointments to attend to. I see of him as a humble man who has inspired (and continues to inspire) many people across the globe to de-commercialise knowledge.

Netha Hussain speaking at WikiConf2011
Attribution : Rameshng (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Other talks that really got me think over were :
1. WikiBhasha : A powerful translation tool that helps in translation from one Indic language to another.
2. GeoWiki : About the creation of a tool that could add geographical data to Wikipedia articles. The existing technique is laborious and time consuming. Geowiki would make the process simpler and also updates the information in the pages of other language Wikipedias.
3. Wikipedia and Environment : How Wikipedia plays a role in conserving wildlife by providing accurate details about existing flora and fauna was discussed among other issues. The participants were asked to upload photos of rare plants and animals they see even if they do not know their scientific names.
4. Project Indian roads : How editors from different parts of India helped to make Wikipedia a complete reference guide for data related to National Highways.
5. WikiWomenWeb : About bridging the gendergap by increasing female participation in Indic Wikipedias. A ‘7 day challenge’ to identify 7 women from different social and educational backgrounds and help them become Wikipedia editors.
6. Digitising a book using Dejavu : An informative training session where the speaker explained how a book could be digitised using Dejavu. This session was very useful for those working with Wikisource in Indic languages.
7. WikiQuiz : This was the funniest of all sessions. Questions about Wikimedia projects were asked (most of them were trivia) and audience were let to answer. I didn’t fail to shout the few answers I knew!
The session on ‘State of Indian language Wikiprojects’ helped me know the present status of other Indic Wikipedias. As sessions were held in parallel at three halls, I could watch only a few talks.

On the final day, we took a group photo. I spoke during the ‘Noteworthy Wikimedian Award’ session when a Lady Wikimedian was called to speak. After the talk, I was interviewed by a reporter from Hindustan times!

Malayali Wikimedians on stage
Attibution: Rameshng (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Considering my liking to Kerala food and intolerance to sandwiches, the food wasn’t very delicious. My dancing skills are below average sort of, and therefore the only program I failed to enjoy was the disco at Panache bar.
One person I wanted to meet (but couldn’t meet) was Bishakha Dutta. She is a dynamic person and an awesome speaker, and seemed to engage in work all the time. I didn’t feel like disturbing her, and so I missed the opportunity to meet her in person.
It was hard for me to say goodbye to Mumbai, which was my home for three days by then. It was the first non-medical conference I had attended. I really loved being around with so many Wikimedians whose interests and ideologies were similar to mine.

Looking forward to participating in the next WikiConference!

* Among Keralites, it is indecent to call a person older than you by their first name. So their names are usually suffixed with ettan/chechi to give them due respect.
For those of you who don't know me as a Wikipedia editor, I am User: Netha Hussain on Wikiprojects.

Added after going through the comments I received on this post on facebook :

Abhi was at his creative best during the conference and clicked many beautiful snaps. Many thanks to Manoj for seeing me off at Churchgate station. :)

noitulovE

2011-11-07T07:47:00.000-08:00

Imagine Him pressing
32X on his system.
The heat-dead molecules-
virulently mobilized, realign
into suns and planets.
Tiny space capsules emerge from them
and move earthward.
We leap up from our graves.
Lizards creep into seas.
The primordial soup unchurns
to split proteins into amino acids.
Galaxies condense to a
single point mass, waiting
for an impulse to explode
and create life
again.

2011-08-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

Words as smooth as honey on spoon
do not make full sense
unless they are said quietly
by the one you love
in the backdrop of a full moon night
while tracing with a finger
the curve of your cheek.

Illness and Cure

2011-04-29T10:09:00.000-07:00

While I was busy recording the B.P of the patients, my mobile phone rang. It was Diya on the other end.

"Diya, how are you? It has been long since......"

"I will die soon Netha", Diya spoke coldly.

"All of us die sooner or later", I corrected. Diya had this habit of speaking about death whenever she had had a terrible failure in exams.

There was a pause.

Where are you? I enquired.

I am admitted in ward number 36, in YOUR hospital.

"Are you kiddin......"

Before I finished the sentence, the phone went dead.

I didn’t have to think to find out to which department Ward 36 belonged to. If she is not playing tricks on me, she is terribly sick. I packed the BP apparatus and set off to ward 36, which belonged to radiotherapy department.
*********************************

Diya was being examined by bearded doctor. She was supine on bed. Her face had grown pale, and she had lost hair. Clearly, she had lost weight, too. I waited till the examination was over and caught the attention of the returning doctor.

"Sir, I am an MBBS student here. Could you tell me about Diya’s prognosis?", I asked, looking intently at his beard. Why so many males wish to conceal their facial characteristics behind their beards is beyond the comprehension of us ordinary mortals.

"She’s been diagnosed of leukemia. She is nearing the terminal stage and perhaps she might not live for more than six months. We have been doing our best to......"

Seeing that my face has grown transparent, he stopped in mid air and left.

Diya was my best friend at school. She is an engineering student at a prestigious college. During our school days, her encyclopaedic knowledge in medicine always amazed me, while she used to give a hats off to my skill in untying complex numerical knots. But fate gave us a cruel twist in life- she joined engineering and I medicine.

We met the last in 2006, at the farewell function at school, when she wrote down in my autograph book “Last night Santa Claus asked me what I wanted for this Christmas. I said him that I want a best friend. So, if a fat man comes to your house and packs you up, please cooperate.”

I had appreciated her exceptional creativity till I discovered that those eternal words were copied as such from a cheap comic.

“Netha....” Diya called me in a weak voice.

I sat beside her.

I don’t know how long we discussed about our golden days at school. Finally, after an hour or so, she cried. I too.

***********************************

I made it a habit to visit her ever morning before going to my ward. Her health seemed to deteriorate every day, but I tried my best to keep her in good moods. One day, she asked me if I could go with her to Poothakkaavu. I didn’t like the idea. Now, Poothakkavu is a place famous for Satan worship. This particular Satan is called ‘Chathan’ in Malayalam. Because I thought that it was my duty to keep her happy, I decided to take her to the place.

I had the privilege to see the life-sized statue of chathan in front of the main priest’s residence at Poothakkaavu. It was a funny looking figure, which looked like a human except for the two horns on its head and a tail. The tip of its tail bore a triangle. It was naked except for an underwear, and had a spear in hand. Reminded me of the Onida guy and Luttappi. The Chathan, I must admit, is a cool guy (it was his abs, 6 pac), at least with respect to looks.

It reminded me of a funny episode at the Moral science class. The nun asked in a dull, monotonous voice:
Who is the greatest enemy of mankind? – The question was aimed at Diya.
Satan was the expected answer.
“Mosquitoes”, Diya exclaimed happily. Considering that there was a chikungunya outbreak, Diya was not to blame. But the nun was not pleased and she sent her out of the class.

I waited for Diya outside the hall where the rights were performed by the priest to please the Chathan.
After an hour or so, she came out, with flowers and a laddoo wrapped in a banana leaf. She looked less desperate, and this was exactly what I wanted the chathan to do to her. Love you, Chathan.

On the way she wanted me to stop at the temple. She prayed at the temple and returned, looking happier. God, I love you too.

The paradox of seeking the mercy of both God and Satan was acceptable to me as long as it kept Diya happy.

In the coming days, I took her to the cinema, park and beach. She happened to love it all. Besides, she started loving me more, too. I took up the responsibility of checking her BP and pulse every day. I worked out a diet chart for her and gave her the medicines in time. We discussed current affairs and weather in the evenings while I poured her tea. She started feeling happier in my presence. Diya, I love you.

******************************

It has been one year since. Diya has crossed the limits of existence by six months, and is at the pink of her health. All lab diagnoses ( which I get done routinely every month) show that she is perfectly normal. She is back to college, and is at her academic best.

A scene from the biochem lab

2011-04-23T23:56:00.000-07:00

How it should’ve gone:

The Medico is provided with a beaker of urine. She is asked to report the abnormal constituents present in it. The Medico is a genius, you know. She knows the whole biochemistry lab manual by heart! She performs all the tests in a flick of the second. She also performs the advanced tests mentioned in the PG manual. She diagnoses the disease as Acute tubular necrosis. None of her lecturers know this diagnosis. So they take The Medico to the HOD. The HOD performs certain tests and confirms it to be Allergic interstitial nephritis. The Medico then points out the fifth paragraph in the 1543rd page of the Text Book of Biochemistry. On reading it, The HOD gets convinced that The Medico’s diagnosis is right. The HOD weeps with joy and hugs The Medico. He confers upon The Medico the gold medal for Clinical Biochemistry.

How it went:
The Medico was scolded for being late to the lab. The Medico was instructed to go to the toilet and collect the urine sample. Yes people. You heard it right. Medicos use their own urine samples for urine analysis. The Medico got only half a test tube of urine (That’s why they say, don’t empty your bladder the day you have biochem labs). So she borrowed one beaker of urine from her neighbor. The Medico performed the tests and reported proteinuria. The lecturer scorned. The Medico repeated the test and reported ketonuria. The lecturer mocked. The Medico repeated the test for the third time and reported hematuria. The lecturer agreed and gave her a C- for the experiment. Then the lab assistant came over and announced that she had, by mistake, given The Medico the wrong sample and the actual diagnosis is proteinuria. If murder wasn’t a crime, The Medico would’ve killed the lab assistant. Armed with this stunning information, The Medico rewrote her lab record. She was the last to leave the lab.

The Medico loves biochem lab hours- because of the floral smell of ammonia, because of the colorimeter and urinometer which never give the accurate values, because of the water bath that never fails to choke her, because of the unconditional love extended by the staff. Yes, The Medico loves biochem labs. Indeed she does.
This post was first published on google buzz.

The aeroplane driver

2011-02-16T04:15:00.000-08:00

Turning the pages of the big blue photo album, my mom spoke about your mom.

“Remember Sumithra, my roommate at college?”

From the album, she showed me a photograph of your mom, whose edges had soiled in the course of time. In the photo, your mom and my mom were sitting on a stone bench in front of a fountain in a garden full of red roses. Your mom looked beautiful in the blue saree whose end was draped around her clavicles, just as one wound wrap a shawl around one’s shoulders. The photo was taken during the college trip to Ooty five years before I and you were born.

I remember your mom vividly. She had gifted me a stuffed white rabbit (which I named Loonie) for my second birthday that played a tune if a key at its throat was turned - a toy which remained my favorite till it lost its fur after I gave it a bath in the shower. I loved her because, as a pediatrician, she only gave me sweet round pills (that came in a small white bottle) for every illness and never bitter ones like the doctor at my neighborhood. Unlike my mother, she used to wear a red dot of saffron on her forehead between the parting of her hair and sandal paste above her bindi. I, as a child, loved her for everything she did, even for the perfume she used and sarees she wore. I was five years old then.

Afterwards, your family shifted from Calicut to Thrissur. My family arranged a party for yours the day before you planned to leave Calicut. You were left with me in my room while our families dined upstairs. I gave you my building block set and yellow tricycle to play, just because my mom had instructed me to do so. You created a tall castle with the blocks, and rode around the room on the tricycle, blowing the horn everytime you crossed my chair. You said you had video games at home, a thing I hadn’t heard of. You refused to play with my dolls, saying that it is girly stuff. You flied my toy aeroplane using its remote control, and told me that you will grow up to become an aeroplane-driver. Your name was Arun.

Afterwards, you were called upstairs for food. You refused to eat the fried rice my mom had painstakingly made and settled for a bowl of icecream. Afterwards, you fell asleep on the sofa and you were lifted to the backseat of your dad’s car and you were driven home. That was the last time we met, apart from meeting each other after 14 years, at Ooty, as classmates.

After moving from Calicut, we seldom spoke of you. Both the families shrinked more into themselves that by the time I joined college, you were entirely forgotten.

One morning, your mom called up my mom on phone to convey the news that you were joining Calicut Medical college. I was about to join the same college, too. The phone call from your mom after a long time lifted up my mom’s spirit greatly so that she kept talking about Sumithra all the day and showed me your mom’s photo in the album.

As I turned the pages of the album, I looked for your photo, anticipating that at least one would be there. There weren’t any. Your form had long vanished from my memory, and remembering you wouldn’t help me much because you would have changed a lot over years.

After my first day at college, mom asked me whether I had met you. I said no because in my batch there were six people whose name was Arun. She asked me to look out for Arun Prayag, so I carefully watched while your name was called out when attendance was called out so as to see you.

And I saw. You had bushy eyebrows like your dad and almond eyes like your mom. You weren’t very tall, but you looked attractive in the black rimmed spectacles, black shirt, blue jeans and white sports shoes you had worn. I hadn’t expected you to be this handsome.

In the coming days, I saw more of you. You used to reach the lecture hall first, ahead of everyone. Sometimes, I used to reach first, but I would wait in the corridor outside the hall for you to collect the key and open the door of the hall. We would enter together. Although our eyes would meet, you never seemed to acknowledge my existence. You didn’t care to notice me, or anyone, for that matter. You seemed to be busy pressing buttons on your cell phone all the time, which I assumed, was an iphone. You had a very few friends, and you absented yourself from every non-academic function held in the college. People thought of you as a tough guy. You were indeed one.

New Year came. Our batch decided to celebrate the New Year at Ooty. I thought you wouldn’t attend the trip, but you came. We traveled in the same bus, you sitting at the far end of the back row, alone, and me with my friends in the first. You didn’t seem to be interested in sightseeing, and were fully absorbed in your Dell laptop.

Even as the bus stopped at various tourists spots, you hardly came out of the bus. Unlike others, you did not bargain for the goods you bought from the wayside vendors. You were, in total, a different guy.

I and my friend Sona took a snap from the same stone bench where my mom and your mom had posed for a photo 26 years ago.

At the end of the tour, it was time to exchange the New Year gifts. Everyone would pick up a random bill from the lot and would give her/his new year gift to the person whose name is on the bill which she/he picked up. The name of the new year friend was to be kept secret till the gifts were exchanged. Everyone had bought a gift for their respective New Year friends during the tour, but you hadn’t.

The gifts were to be exchanged during the campfire. I gave the gift I had bought for my New Year friend and wished her a happy new year. In about half an hour time, everybody had identified their respective new year friend and had exchanged their gifts. But I didn’t get any.

“Netha…” a voice called me from behind. I turned back. It was you. You gave me the gift you had in hand – a small rectangular package covered with shiny blue wrapper with a red ribbon tied around it, the ribbon knotted on top.

“Open it”, you said, which sounded more like an order to me.

I sat down, on the grass, a little away from the campfire. You sat close to me, looking only at the blue package I had in hand. I pulled one end of the ribbon, and it unknotted. I carefully removed the cellotapes around the package and took the gift out.

I was surprised.

It was framed photo. The frame was golden in colour, which had the words ‘friendship’ etched on it. The photo was of two kids, you and me, taken during the party at my house, 14 years back. I was wearing a pink frock, and you blue shirt and black trousers. You were holding my aeroplane in hand and I was holding my doll. On the background was my yellow tricycle.

For about two minutes, neither of us spoke.

“Liked it?” you broke the silence.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am bad at choosing gifts”.

“You are not”.

We sat for some more time, speaking nothing, staring at the twinkling stars in the dark blue sky. A few metres away, our classmates were dancing and singing near the campfire.

“Netha…….,” you spoke.

“Yes?”

“I am leaving our college”.

Why?

Medicine is not my passion. My interests lie elsewhere. I have been awarded a scholarship….by the College of Engineering, at Glasgow, in the United Kingdom. I will be dropping MBBS course and will be joining aeronautical engineering.

Do your friends know?

I hardly have friends. You are the first person with whom I shared this news. I got the confirmation letter via mail today. I haven’t even told my mom about it.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Good luck,” I finally managed to say.

“Thanks,” you said. You got up and walked away.

Throughout the return journey from Ooty, we didn’t speak anything. After about a week or so, you obtained your clearance certificates and left the college. You didn’t even pause to tell anyone goodbye.

She

2011-01-31T07:39:00.001-08:00

I first knew her as Manish’s girlfriend. It was Manish who gave me her e-mail id. I looked up her profile on facebook to send her a friend request because Manish wanted me to do so. Because Manish was my best friend, I did exactly what he said.

“Hi, I am Manish’s friend. I have heard so much about you from him. Would love to be your friend, too. Plz accept my fb friend request. – Neethu.”

Once after she accepted my friend request, we started to meet each other regularly on facebook chat. In the beginning, we exchanged only formal greetings and talked about studies. I was extremely formal. Later I started knowing her well, and eventually, we became good friends overtime.

Her name was Shilpa. She told me that she had long hair, black eyes and lipstick free lips. That she wore hair in ponytails or braids. That her face was dark in complexion, and apart from a few blackhead outbursts, it was not special at all. That she always wore cotton salwar kameez with dupatta. That she arrived at the classroom organized and composed, with the assignments for each of the classes neatly stapled and placed in their individual folders. That she barely paid any attention to makeover and clothing. That it amazes her how she fell in love with Manish. That her parents think that she was shy and too devoted to her studies to bother with boys. That she was plain, boring and studious. That working on her laptop typing up her notes, marking off the books she read and sitting for hours alone in her room were more fulfilling for her than anything else.

We grew close, and so we started meeting on facebook chat every evening. I could tell everything about her- her future plans, her outlook about life, her philosophical views and everything else a girl could tell to another girl. I came to know that earning a Ph.D in Chemistry was the most important thing for her. I straightaway asked her if she could join me for pursuing research on biochemistry once she and I finish our studies, and she readily agreed. She taught me chemical kinetics and I told her about the patients I had attended to and the surgeries I had made note of. She became the kind of friend I never wanted to lose.

One day, after I asked to, she showed me her photo blog. It was her secret possession, and less than 20 people including me and Manish had the privilege to gain access to the private space. There were countless photographs, each arranged as thumbnails which popped up into a bigger size once clicked, against a black background. It contained all photos she had ever clicked, but none of her own.

***********

I was happy when you asked me to arrange for your accommodation at Calicut. You did not want Manish to know from me that you were going to Calicut, because you and Manish had decided to separate. I booked a room for you at Hotel Seashore, where you could enjoy watching the sea through the bedroom window. You said that I need not come to the Railway station to pick you up, and that I could come to meet you on the second day of your arrival, because you had to attend the interview on the first day. I was overjoyed that you would be residing at Calicut pursuing research for the next two years if you were to be successful in the interview.

You rang me up on reaching the hotel at Sunday night. You said that your classmate Komal has also come with you for attending the interview. I wished you good luck for the interview and assured that I would visit you on Tuesday morning. You said that you were excited to see the sea, and that you will be going to the sea in a motorboat arranged by the hotel for the tourists on Monday evening in order to take fine snaps. The last thing you said me was that you wanted me to talk with Manish again and that you would reconsider the relationship with him.

I fancied having breakfast with you on the roof of Hotel Seashore, sitting among small brown birds that hopped at our feet eating hot dosa and fresh chutney under a glaring blue sky in the backdrop of the roaring Arabian sea.

I would be seeing you for the first time…

On Monday night, I was watching Six O’ clock news, as usual. The news reader was asking pointed questions to a minister who was alleged of a scandal. I was getting bored and was about to switch to another channel when I heard the latest news that an unexpected wave hit a boat owned by Hotel Seashore, and all four tourists who were aboard were missing. On TV, I saw the image of the Indian coastline and a red dot marked at the point which had to be Calicut. I saw an excited news reporter who enthusiastically reported that there was very less probability that the missing tourists might survive because the motorboat did not have life jackets.

A chill passed through my spine.

I rang you on your phone only to receive the automatic message saying the user is out of coverage area. I looked up the hotel’s number in the directory and rang many times but the number was busy. I then drew up your blog and saw the last images you posted. A seagull perched on a lighthouse. Three smiling people in the backdrop of the sea. A faint silver shoreline.

I closed my eyes in horror. Clearly, you have had a boat ride.

The next morning, when I should be on my way to your hotel, I rushed to the newspaper stand and bought the papers, reading each news, studying every picture, looking for the details of the missing people. I found none. I gathered from a news website that one unidentified body which was found from the sea was sent to the Medical College mortuary.

At about 11 O’ clock in the morning, quoting the travellers’ record (which had the names of the tourists who bought the tickets) a news channel produced a report giving the names of the four tourists who were aboard the boat.

YOUR name was there.

That afternoon, my forensic medicine class was held in the seminar hall just adjacent to the mortuary. I didn’t have the nerves to visit the mortuary, but I attended the class. Besides, For an hour, I listened to the class on ‘Death by Drowning’ without imbibing a word.

My mind was so full of you, my best friend….

***************

After the class, while I was leaving the seminar hall, I saw a girl sitting in the Visitors’ room of the mortuary. She was too young to be present at a place like this where corpses outnumber alive humans. She asked me politely if she would be permitted to see the body of her friend which was now in the mortuary.

While I was explaining to her that she needs prior permission, she read my name from the ID card which I had pinned to my white coat, and in a quick movement, before I could do something, she hugged me tightly.

“Neethu, I am Shilpa. My classmate Komal is no more….And I am alive just because I canceled the boat journey and exchanged the boat ticket with her.….Komal had my camera with her, and uploaded three photographs before death took her away…Her body is now in this mortuary, Netha….And I am here, waiting for her parents to arrive from Jaipur…”

Did I cry?

Soiled Giggles

2010-12-21T09:08:00.000-08:00

“Ttoo…”

The balloon went off with a blasting voice. I, who was on my bed, sleeping peacefully, got shocked for once and sat upright on my bed. I rubbed my eyes and saw two girls whom I recognized as Chinnu and Ammu.

The two girls looked alike, except for the height difference. They were wheatish in complexion. Their faces were heart shaped and lovely. The elder one who wore a red sleeveless blouse and a long tight skirt had ponytails on either side of her head, tied tightly with red lace ribbons. The younger one had a white hair band on her head. Her green emerald eyes seemed to reflect the green frock she had put on. She had a row of chocolate brown teeth, minus a front one. Both of them were giggling uncontrollably, their hands on their mouths.

“Giggling must be made illegal”, I thought, as I squinted to look for my spectacles. The idea of waking me up by blasting a fully blown balloon with a pin right under my ears should’ve been Chinnu’s.

Now, for those of you who don’t know Chinnu and Ammu, I shall give a brief introduction. The girls are my uncle’s daughters and therefore, my cousins. The elder one, Chinnu is 10 years old and the younger one Ammu is 6 years old. Both of them were born and brought up in Riyadh. Today, they have come to my home during their two week visit to Kerala.

“You promised us that you will take us to the beach”, Chinnu reminded me. Before I could set my foot on the floor, Chinnu caught hold of a pillow and began hitting my face. Ammu took another pillow and did exactly what her sis did. The girls are a lot more lovelier without the pranks.

“Okay guys. Stop this”. I said with an air of authority.

They stopped hitting.

"I will take you to the beach this evening", I declared.

They were overjoyed. They hadn’t seen a beach in their whole life, apart from the quick view from hundreds of metres above, while the plane landed in Mumbai airport.

Now, both of them kissed me hardly, one on each cheek. Looked like both of them were genuinely happy in torturing me.

"Sorry Neethu. My girls are naughty. Shouldn’t have let them wake you" , their mom said, while entering the room.

"It is okay, Aunty. Shall I take them to the beach?", I asked.

"I’m afraid, you can’t Neethu. These girls will eat off your head. You won’t be able to manage them".

On hearing this, Chinnu got hold of her mom’s saree and stated pleading. Ammu soon joined.

Finally, after about an hour of pleading, whining and weeping, we were granted the permission to visit the beach. The girls jumped up and down in ecstasy.

We left the home at 4 O’ clock in the evening. I let the girls enter the car through the back door. The back of the car had my medical books, stethoscope, lab coat, compact discs and a laptop. “Sorry for the mess, I said absentmindedly as I made space for them amidst the rubble on the backseat. They fastened their seat belts carefully, Chinnu helping Ammu. I too buckled my seat belt, copying the kids, although I did not have the habit of wearing them. I stepped on the clutch and as I was about to reverse the car, the girls’ mom said, “Take good care of them, Neethu”.

I nodded in accent. I turned back, winked at the girls, and set off to the city. On the way, I slowed down the car when we reached my college (Medical College, Calicut) and Chinnu remarked that my college was bigger than her school.

I showed them the Mananchira square, Railway station and Lion’s park. The girls, who used to question each and everything asked no questions this time, each one steadily looking through the side window. Ammu had her face pressed to the window glass. It was for the first time that they were passing through Calicut city. What they were thinking, I could not say.

We stopped at an ice cream parlour. The parking lot was crammed with cars of the families who had come to the theatre for the film show.

I led them to the parlour. Ammu spelt letter by letter, P…U….S….H, and Chinnu said ‘PUSH’ on seeing the PUSH sigh on the door. They weren’t as playful as they used to be, the strange surroundings would’ve bewildered them. It is not easy to adjust to India once you are used to the comforts of Riyadh.

“Which flavor do you prefer?”

They stared at the selections, Ammu straining on tiptoe, Chinnu with her mouth slightly open and her tongue planted in one corner of it. I lifted Ammu and placed her on top of the counter in order to give her a better view.

“That green one”, said Chinnu, pointing at pista flavored ice cream. The girl had an uncanny knack of choosing the most costly ice cream at the display. Ammu too wanted the same.

"Make it three", I said the waiter, and chose the round table at the corner. The girls sat opposite to me, and the chair next to me was left vacant. They began eating enthusiastically, exchanging glances. Occasionally, the elder one gave the younger a few sisterly comments. Though I was just 19, I wondered, just then, what it might be like to have a child.

They took longer than me to finish their bowl, Ammu left hers half finished and announced that a second tooth is loose. So Chinnu ate the rest of the ice cream left in Ammu’s bowl as I held a napkin on Ammu’s jaw to arrest the bleeding. I put the loose tooth (a little, chocolate stained one) in my purse, and got up to wash and pay when we had finished.

Now Chinnu is going to pay the bill, I said, handing over a hundred rupee note. She curiously examined Indian rupees, since she hadn’t seen one ever since, or any currency, for that matter. She unfolded the bill and marched towards the cashier.

As I and Ammu stood away and watched, Chinnu tiptoed and placed the note on the counter. When she received the change, she said ‘Thank You’ to the waiter. That was her first transaction in her life.

"Now to the beach", I said while igniting the car to life. They smiled.

As soon as I stopped at the drive-in at the beach, the girls ran out, on the sands, bare footed. I locked the car and followed, because they didn’t know how dangerous a beach could be.

I held Ammu by one hand and Chinnu by the other while we chased the waves. The sand seeping from beneath their own feet was a terrific experience for them, I guess, because whenever a wave receded, the two would shriek and squeeze my hand tightly.
Then, we built a sand castle, and named it ‘Daffodils’(that was the name of their house at Riyadh).While Chinnu was a great architect, Ammu kept interrupting our efforts by fitting lumps of sand at odd places and collapsing our little castle.

Afterwards, the Ammu wanted a ride, sitting on my shoulders. (this sadistic event has taken place twice a day ever since the girls arrived at our place. The result- backache) When I offered to lift her, she raised her hands and came into my arms. Meanwhile, Chinnu was collecting sea shells. After giving Ammu a ride on my shoulders, we sat down together and I told her about the tooth fairy. She checked my purse to make sure that her tooth isn’t missing.

“Hey, look!” an elderly man tapped on my shoulder and pointed to the sea.

The sight I saw caused my heart to miss one beat. Chinnu, looking for seashells, had gone so far into the sea and a giant wave had toppled her down. She was drowing.

Three men, who were playing volleyball, jumped into the sea for saving her.

The guys were expert swimmers, I guess. They got Chinnu out of water and laid her on the sand in no time. I checked her pulse, she was normal. I sighed with relief. Ammu cried loudly. Random people gathered around us, and I politely requested them to leave us at peace.

No one spoke while we drove home. I had to report the accident news to the girls’ mother without getting her faint. I was thinking of apt words to convey the news when Chinnu interrupted.

“Don’t tell the mom about the beach accident”, she said.

“But your mom ought to know”, I replied, without looking at her, while signaling an overloaded truck to overtake.

Chinnu told something, but I didn’t hear. Her small voice was muffled by the loud noise of the truck toppling on to our car.We were crushed under the weight of the huge truck. I felt an excruciating pain at the neck. All I could hear was Ammu’s stifled scream before I fell unconscious.

*******************
Silence was punctured by the beep-beep of cardiac monitors. Occasionally, I heard a few voices- could be those of the doctors and nurses. But I couldn’t open an eye or move a muscle. My abdomen was hurting badly. I lay there, on the bed, listening to voices around me. It didn’t take me a lot of time to guess where I were. I was in the casualty. At my college.

I tried to recall the accident. The very thought made me squirm and shudder. What would have happened of Chinnu and Ammu ? I didn’t know. I wanted to ask someone, but my tongue wouldn’t oblige.

There I lay, on the bed, unaware of the happenings outside, within the safety of the casualty - Half alive, or better, half dead.

Thanks to Adeeba Fathima for the title suggestion.

Cunningham Syndrome

2010-11-19T03:00:00.000-08:00

If you love reading The Cunningham’s Manual Of Practical Anatomy, God save you.

If you don’t,

Welcome to the club. Feel free to have a drink.

If you have no idea about the book I am speaking of, hold on.
The Cunningham’s Manual is every medico’s nightmare. The peculiarity of this book is that it is un-understandable. Most of them who tried to interpret Cunningham have perished in the attempt (May their souls rest in peace. Amen.). Rest of them are either nuts or are Professors in Anatomy department.

Cunningham is known to have tortured medicos from times immemorial. He is the lone survivor in the dissection hall. His lesser known (and therefore, less toxic) counterparts – Chaurasia and Dutta were mercilessly thrown out through the window when they tried to enter the dissection hall. Ever since, medicos are striving to legalize the entry of Chaurasia to the dissection hall.

The fatal disease in which the patient has an irresistible urge to read Cunningham is called ‘Cunningham’s syndrome (CS)’. Such patients are referred to as Cunninghamists. They are normal individuals, except that they smell of formalin.

Cunningham’s syndrome is of two types: congenital and acquired.

(i) Congenital CS : These Cunninghamists are born with silver scalpels in their mouths. This syndrome is usually found in individuals who are genetically related to Henry Grey. They have an irresistible urge to dissect every corpse and have a continuous craving for gold medal in anatomy. Incidence is one in 200.

(ii) Acquired CS: Acquired syndrome is not evident until PG entrance. Once the victims crack the PG entrance and enter Anatomy department, they are forced to read Cunningham. Due to the constant, uniform and slow Cunningham poisoning, they become Cunninghamists. The striking features are gloved hands and presence of forceps in coat pockets.

Cunningham contains a neurotoxin called somnabulin, which when administered orally causes the paralysis of orbicularis oculi and the consequent drooping of eyelids. It is also known to cause sudden involuntary, jerky movements of the intrinsic muscles of the tongue when a question is asked by the Professor at the dissection hall. Further research on the toxic effects of Cunningham is still under progress.

The Cunningham’s Manual contains numerous diagrams, which are as abstract as Salvador Dali’s paintings. Medicos use these diagrams to scare those kids who refuse to eat their vegetables.

The Cunningham is also known to have caused ‘exam madness’, which is characterized by blah-blahing, unstoppable writing and excessive consumption of answer sheets.
Cunningham is lovingly (pun intended) called ‘Kannettan(കണ്ണേട്ടന്‍)’ by Malayali medicos. Medicos love Kannettan and Kannettan loves the medicos in return. They make such a happy couple (sarcasm intended).

P.S : Non-medicos may substitute the name of their most ‘horrible’ textbook with Cunningham.

The curious case of a missing radio

2010-10-23T21:32:00.000-07:00

I've only had a very few opportunities to stay in my hostel room. Still, I've had numerous memorable experiences there.Let me share with you one, in which I played a prank on my roommates.
We, a gang of five girls, lived in a room, that was at the farthest end of the corridor.All my roommates happened to be music freaks.They had a blasting radio which roared Hindi songs all day.Place potato chips on the table near to the radio, and you can see them dancing up and down-such was its wattage.
For me to put my brains to work, perfect silence is essential and this radio was the permanent source of distraction. At once, Marconi seemed to be crueler than Hitler. I always had had the urge to crush it with a huge stone, but I resisted myself from committing the crime by convincing myself that this crap instrument, under heavy workload, will one day tense its vocal cords and stop singing forever.
After about two days of continued annoyance, I decided to damage the radio.On a fine evening, when all my roommates went out to watch a movie, I secretly approached the radio.'She' was perched on top of the shelf.As I placed her on the table, an evil grin erupted on my face. Baby, you won't sing again. One fragile second passed, and without knowing how, I suddenly had an irresistible urge to find out what lay beneath the mesh like holes on the speaker. The physist in me awoke. I poked a metal wire into one of the tiny little holes to receive-only to receive-an electric shock.How exactly this happened still remains a mystery.
This incident hardened my views about the radio. The furious me locked the radio in an unused cupboard under the stairs. I secretly smiled for having had my revenge and slept peacefully that night. No more of 'Dhoom machale' anymore. No more of 'Desi girl' anymore. Life is beautiful.
Late that morning, when I woke up, my roomie was upset, since the radio was missing.
"Netha, seen my radio?"
"Yes. I saw your radio. I wanted to drown your radio in the well, instead I locked it in a cage - and the cage is under the stairs", I replied, sarcastically, with an air of coolness.
She looked confused. The whole idea of 'locking it in a cage' seemed hard for them to believe. Apparently, they thought that I am being cynical. They didn't believe me.
The suspects were two girls who lived in the opposite room. They often used to complain that the radio was noisy. Since they had taken away the radio once, naturally they were suspected. They had much pain and difficulty in convincing the others that it was not them who took the radio.
Finally, the day before my departure from the hostel, I felt that they've had enough with the missing radio. I organized a meeting to solve the case of the mysterious disappearance of the radio.
All of us gathered in the mess hall.
I stood up.
"Friends, we all know that Sruthi's radio is missing. Considering that a radio can't walk away by itself, I seriously doubt-or I'm rather sure-that it has been taken away by one of us.Whoever has stolen the radio, is a genius. We've been trying over a week to find you out, but you are too clever to be caught. Now, you don't have to come forward and admit the guilt, just leave the radio where it was previously. If you do that, I and my roommates will be grateful to you for a lifetime".With that, I eyed everyone with suspicion and retired to my seat.
On hearing this Sruthi's eyes welled with tears. Mentioning the radio alone can drive her to tears. Suddenly, she stood up, and asked us one by one :
"Swetha, did you take my radio?"
"No".
"Elizabeth, did you take my radio?"
"No".
"Netha, took my radio?"
"Yes.I took your radio".
"Netha, for heaven's sake, this is serious.Don't go joking around. Vaisali, did you take my radio?"
That night, I placed the radio right besides Sruthi when she was fast asleep. It was found the next day. I had packed off from the hostel by then.
Many months later, I admitted that it was me who took away the radio.
"Why the hell did you not admit it when you asked you at the meeting?", Sruthi was furious.
In fact, I DID admit. But nobody believed me.
Sometimes, it is only the idea that people keep in mind, not the words.
Hence, I learnt a great theory in human psychology.

Reconciliation

2010-10-14T01:09:00.000-07:00

Last night, from the next room of this hotel,
I heard the sound of shattering glass
in the middle of nowhere, followed by
the loud voice of a man and the stifled scream
of a woman. When I placed my ear close to the wall
I could hear curses, masked by the humming of a radio.
I wished the wall separating us didn't exist
so that they would stop quarreling at the sight of a stranger.

Today, from the next table of this restaurant
I saw her smile at the joke he just said.
As the soft music played, she held his hands in hers
while he loosened the grip around the wine glass.
After what seemed like an eternity,
they moved around the table a little closer.
She held a mysterious smile at the corner of her lips
and he hid tears behind his eyelashes.

The hotel was empty except for me and the couple.
I wish I had their children by my side to witness the scene.

Whity, You'll be remembered

2010-09-25T22:01:00.000-07:00

I never told her that I loved her the best,
even though she did not fail to tell me so
every single day.

Every morning she'd sit near the window
waiting for me to wake up
to sunrise and to life.

She'd comfort me with purring
and I'd fatten her with smiles.
I the earth on which she moves
and she the ocean I once saw.

The only world my Whity knew
was the earth within my compound wall.
The only people my Whity loved
was the family under my rooftop.

Whity should've been a hunter's cat
with forests to run and mice to hunt,
instead of the cardboard box and the kitchen carpet.

One morning, I didn't see her at the windowsill.
She was gone, never to return again.

People must have thought me crazy
yelling Whity,Whity, out in the fileds,
as rain came falling down and around me.
(I was umbrella-less and shivering)
Oh God, Protect my Whity from rain.

I'd like to think, a little hunter girl
snatched Whity from my window sill
and she's happy hunting mice now.

I now am a free girl.
(I once was owned by a cat named Whity)

Whity's been the only human thing
who gave me more love
than I ever gave back in return.
Miss you, Whity.

Palestine

2010-09-07T01:33:00.000-07:00

By Sgt. Pete Thibodeau [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

I can't believe in a war
on the other side of these mountains
In the holy land
Out of sight, out of earshot.

I can't place my hand on your wound
and feel the marks of the bullet and the spear.

I can't feel the weight of your grief
on my chest when
your mom breathes her last.

I can't melt or burn when
your unidentified heart
explodes with sorrow
or shrinks with fear.

Stone cold hands, bone white flesh
eyes lolling upwards, this night-
in my dreams, I saw you staring
at the vultures circling above you.

No wonder why I am sleepless these days.

Poetic Confessions

2010-08-18T20:46:00.000-07:00

The poems always come to me
or I feel so.
I usually turn away,
pretending to be busy.
It is as though they hide
at nooks and corners
waiting to turn up
as soon as I come.
The longer I turn away,
the more they arrive
one after the other
in torn clothes
like mendicants,
like babies on the doorstep,
like penniless relatives
with stories so desolate.
I'd need a heart of stone
not to listen.
I therefore,
bleed my pen for them.

Deception-Filled,Corked and Sold

2010-07-30T05:33:00.000-07:00

Last week, I stepped into the supermarket in my locality, run by a corporate giant, where I am a regular customer. I handed over my privilege card to the guy at the counter and discovered that I have been gifted a voucher worth Rs. 100 for being their loyal customer for the past two years.
Cool. Their business is moving pretty well- I can see that from the number of customers entering and leaving the showroom.
Two years back, before this air conditioned bazaar revolutionized my shopping habits, what kind of a consumer was I ?
I used to pedal my way to the grocer's shop and the fish monger's stall with a jute bag dangling freely on my bicycle handle. The grocer seemed to know everything about the people of my locality. It was from there that I learned about the recent deaths and latest gossips. The fish seller never failed to feed my cat with cheap fish while I made the transaction. The 'coconut man' always used to smile at me as he weighed the coconuts on his weighing machine and occasionally gave me an extra large coconut for free because he knew that I liked 'coconut chammandi' (a pasty dish made from grated coconut).
I remember the first day I visited the supermarket. I picked a push cart and rolled it along the infinitely long rows of shelves that contained everything from snerples to zombies. I was mesmerized by the huge volume of products dumped into the market by the producers. If you want to buy a floor cleaner, you have Brands A to X, and if you are particular about buying Brand Y just give a quick note at the counter and you'll be provided with it the next week. I who used to be satisfied with the single brand of soap offered by the local grocer suddenly got curious to try out different brands of soaps that came in gleaming packages with half the price. The end result was a long bill and an almost 'empty' ATM card.
Dumb was what I were.
The basic principle on which commerce exists is trust. Trust is what I see in the eyes of the fish seller when he refuses to sell me stale fish even if I ask for it. A civilized society cannot endure without trust. It is interesting to note how customers are deceived by the manufacturers.They make you think you're getting the same item in the same packet at the same price when you are actually getting less. Go complain, and they'll say that they are saving you from price rise by reducing the contents. The manufacturers pack shampoo and dish wash in funny shapes of bottles that make the real estimate of contents impossible(Yeah, they do print the volume of the contents, but in a font too small, merging into the colour of the background).Every item is marked with lovely phrases 'New', 'Activated', 'Jumbo' and so forth. We see 'New' and we reach for it.
Why do we allow this to happen even after being aware of it?Not because we are dumb or careless. But because we are too engrossed by the packet than the content. We are too tired to take a calculator and a Harward graduate to the mall to figure out what we are buying.
Just look at the advertisements on the showroom's wall. Ads exist not to satisfy our desires but to create them. We are taught that possession is happiness, and that possessing is responsibility.We buy things which we don't really need, and grow tired of it when a newer model is released.Most of the luxury goods we buy are bought only for the sake of buying.And we end up draining our handbag after every purchase.
I still go to the local grocer and fish seller for a purchase. Because I see in them trust and generosity. I know that I am being deceived at the supermarket and the gift voucher they offered is their token of love for my acceptance to remain deceived. But I can't get rid of their privilege card just because I am addicted to the comfort of shopping in an air conditioned room.

In Justice

2010-06-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

I see Bhopal in my dreams.
A city that encloses a demon.
The sky, rainbowless, still
unable to wash off the toxins.
Clicking sound of metal gates
of a Colosseal building, wreck.
Men-flesh packed tightly
around the bones, bloodless.
Hundreds of them, stitching up
the wounds on their scaly skin.
Their heads are bare, voice
a wisper and footsteps calm.
They concentrate on pain
to ward off despair and agony.
Dear brother who has suffered
twenty six eons of pain,
If the only paper you had
was the flesh on your back,
what would you have written
with the motion of your scapulae-
"Justice..................................."???
Also read posts(malayalam) on the same theme by :

The poet responds to Bobby Fischer

2010-06-17T09:34:00.000-07:00

("Chess is my life"- Bobby Fischer)

Each in our own way Bob, we have said yes-
to squares of black and white, battles fought and won.
You brood over the pawns and knights while
I pluck the words and rearrange them insanely.
I,like you,respond to echoes, the call of a cuckoo,
the wail of a beggar woman and the purrs of cats.
You and I are bound by the delicate laws of
arithmetic and the invisible code of grammar.
You lead success, while I am accompanied
only by the ringing voice of yearning.
Give me a crowbar and Archimedes to help,
I shall lift the moon and stars. I wonder,
how can we lift our dreams, Bob, they're so-
heavy and without wings.Forget Archimedes.
Nights, I still float on my dreams, as you-
do in the skies. Bon nuit, Bob.......

Birthday note

2010-05-25T05:56:00.000-07:00

It is my birthday today. I could be happy or sad. Happy because I have added one more year of celebration to my life. Sad because I am nearing death as every birthday passes by. I choose to remain happy- now and always.

I am most greatful to my parents. They not only gave me the gift of life but the unrelenting passion to live it fully. They taught me that the limit of my vision is not the limit of the world. A big thanks to you, dad and mom!

I have woken up healthy this morning. I am luckier than one million people who will not survive next week. I had my breakfast this morning. I am luckier than 50% of the world population who are underfed and 45% of the world population who are thirsty. I'm into a professional course and I belong to the elite 1% of the inhabitants of this planet who are privileged to have higher education. I'm lucky to be born into that part of the country where girl children are not mercilessly aborted or killed. I'm lucky to be born without any congental anomalies and lethal defects.

I understand that I am very very lucky.

A billion children went to sleep hungry last night. One hundred and fifty eight people lost their lives in the plane crash in Mangalore last week. In next 50 years my hometown will be submerged in the sea due to the ill effects of global warming. And I worry about being late to the college on my birthday.

It is easy to put yourself first. It is easy confine our thoughts to little things. But what takes guts is to stand for something bigger and something more important. On this birthday I have decided to make this world a better place to live in my own little ways.

My report cards never failed to mention my passion for vigorously exercising my vocal cords on a near constant basis. I get my voice heard everywhere. I let everyone know my opinion about anything under the sun and above it. On this birthday, I've chosen to remain a good listener than a worst speaker.

I shall work harder and longer to finish efficiently those tasks which are entrusted on me.

A trillion thanks to my real and virtual friends who wished me on my birthday.

I am tagged!!

2010-04-25T10:58:00.001-07:00

I was tagged by Amal on October 21, 2009.

Here is the tag...

1.What is your current obsession?
Physiology,anatomy, physics and networking( when it comes to studies, I am restless).

2. What are you wearing today?
Long top and jeans.

3. What’s for dinner?
Rice and curry..I'll have a dessert if I am lucky :)

4. What’s the last thing you bought?
A new lab coat.

5. What are you listening to right now?
My sister's 'music monsters'.

6. What do you think about the person who tagged you?
A very good friend of mine( Thanks for the tag, Amal)

7. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
In Switzerland, just besides the Alps.

8. What are your must-have pieces for summer?
Ice cream.

9. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Utopia. Full stop.

10. Which language do you want to learn?
Greek.

11. What’s your favourite quote?
"For me,the difficult tasks are always easy. It is the impossible that takes a little more time."

12. Who do you want to meet right now?
My schoolmates.I badly miss them.

13. What is your favourite colour?
Blue and yellow.

14. How long do you spend reading books?
As long as I can :)

15. What is your dream job?
An astronaut, but unfortunately I am a medical student, I will have to treat the patients to make a living.

16. What’s your favourite magazine?
Digit

17. If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
A dinner party for my friends :)

18. What do you consider a fashion faux pas?
I dunno...no idea about the fashionable stuff :(

19. Who according to you is the most over-rated style icon?
Shilpa Shetty, I guess.

20. What kind of haircut do you prefer?
Long

21. What are you going to do after this?
Write physiology lab record.

22. What are your favorite movies?
Long since I saw a movie...I guess 'Chemmeen' is a masterpiece.

23.How many tabs are turned on in your browser right now?
Gmail, orkut, a few poetry blogs, 3 tabs of wikipedia.

24. What inspires you?
The sky.

25. Give us three styling tips that always work for you:
Be friendly, truthful and benevolent.

26. What do you do when you “have nothing to wear” (even though your closet’s packed)?
Ha...never confronted such a situation...Don't care about looks..

27. Coffee or tea?
None. I prefer a glass of water.

28. What do you do when you are feeling low or terribly depressed?
Read my favourite books, listen to soothing music..Believe me, it works!!

30. Which other blogs do you love visiting?
Look the list below..

31. Favorite Dessert/Sweet?
Milk peda.

32. Favorite Season?
Autumn.

33. If I come to your house now, what would u cook for me?
Anything you wish to have. I'm an expert cook !!

34. What is the right way to avoid people who purposefully hurt you?
I don't avoid anybody, even those who hurt me.

35. What are you afraid of the most?
Hmm....AIMLESSNESS..Don't tell anybody, Promise?

36:What brings a smile on your face instantly?
Easy to make me smile..A strategically planned prank would do.

37: What is the first thing you do once you have booted your system?
The most obvious thing- Run browser.

38: My question: What do you love to do when it is drizzling?
I'd love to have a ride on my bicycle (Common cold will follow, but I don't care).

Rules for those who are tagged:
Respond and rework – answer these questions on your blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own, and add one more question to the list. Then tag eight or ten other new set of people.

I would love to pass on the tag and award to :

1. Vaisakh Krishnan, whose write ups I love,
2. Latika Mishra, whose poetry I admire,
3. Sid, who keeps me laughing,
4. Tanvi, whose write ups put me into thinking,
5. Anya, who like me is a big cat lover,
6. Ajith, whose poems I adore,
7. Deepak, whose stories I eagerly wait for,
8. Dr.Bibi, a multifaceted doc who blogs for a purpose.

I don't want to meet him again

2010-04-15T01:11:00.000-07:00

Let me introduce before you Mr.Ronak ( his name itself is weird, isn't it?), better known as 'padaakoo' in my close circle of friends. There is practically nothing under the sun or above it which Mr.Ronak has no idea about. If you go to him asking help for a seminar, he would snatch your notes as if those were his own property you had run away with and keep you hanging up for a good length of time teaching you how ignorant you are on the topic. If you want me on my knees begging for mercy, ask Mr.Ronak to give me a lecture on 'black holes', or let him visit my home with an idea for an essay when I am planning to go for fishing. I feared him so much that whenever I saw him coming towards me from the other end of the lane, I immediately crossed the road. The most horrible fact is that he is my classmate.

I remember our first class in Physics. Our Physics teacher was enthusiastically explaining the properties of light, Corpuscular Theory and so forth( I was too busy to listen because I was having a good look at the girls sitting in the front row). "The velocity of light is approximately three hundred million metres per second", she said.

"Two hundred ninety nine million, seven hundred ninetytwo thousand,four hundred and fifty eight as estimated by Michaelson's method",Ronak interrupted.

" You are right",Ms.Physics(let us call her so) said dryly and continued her tale on Corpuscular Theory( I was half asleep by then). "Long back Issac Newton had said-"

" In 1675, exactly", it was Ronak again. We all stopped writing notes and gazed at him. He was beaming with pride. Ms. Physics turned red. She opened her mouth and closed again, showing a set of pearly white teeth (false teeth, I doubt) without uttering a word.She continued the class, keeping her eyebrows knitted. Occasionally, she asked a few questions, all aiming Ronak, but he was too intelligent to be outsmarted.

Ms.Physics turned our attention to Electromagnetic Theory(Now I was admiring the beauty of Mother Nature). Without any provocation, Ronak stood up and said,"Proposed by Maxwell, in1873".

This time,Ms.Physics burned with rage, surpassing red and becoming maroon. "Well, if you are thorough with the subject, why don't you handle the class yourself?", she asked him with a bit of sarcasm in her tone.

Ronak rose. He proudly stood near the blackboard and lifted a chalk piece. He explained all those stupid theories one by one giving accurate facts and figures. We listened,in a horrific sort of silence,wondering what Ms.Physics would do next. Fortunately, the bell rang soon and Ms.Physics left the class, keeping her lips pursed.

Day after day, his actions became more annoying.Whenever Ms.Physics or any other teacher explained something, he dramatically stood up and corrected the errors or simply added more details. He would submit his projects far ahead of time, and would win every quiz he had participated. He would work tirelessly in the lab checking and rechecking results. He even had written a letter to the publishers pointing out the errors in our Physics textbook. Anyone who stepped on the stray electric wires in his room and did not come out trembling, with spiny hair, blackened face and a permanently surprised look were far too exceptional.None of us fools could match his calibre.We feared the idea of being his partner in the chemistry lab because he made his partner repeat the experiments until he turned up with the correct value accurate to three significant figures (Morover,it stinks!!!,hydrogen sulphide smells much better).

One day,to everyone's relief, he was absent in the class. He did not come thereafter. Rumours spread that he had moved to another college.I was sure that the news was true because Ms.Physics looked more cheerful. Long after, we got busy with our own chores and forgot all about Ronak.

After three years,I passed out with a B.Sc degree(I shall not reveal my marks,they are tremendously good). I soon started looking for a job.Two months passed, and I got the first call letter for an interview.

On the day of the interview, I was particularly enthusiastic about the outcome.I was early to reach the scheduled office. I confidently walked into the interviewers' room, to meet just one person, sitting on a turn chair on the other side of the table."Good Morning, sir", I greeted. He raised his head and kept aside the note he was busy writing.

He was pale and skinny.He glanced me through his steel rimmed spectacles and said "Good Morning, Please take your seat".

His voice was oddly familiar. I examined his face carefully. I quickly scanned my brain and identified the person(After all, I am not a dung head) and I felt a kind of electric charge passing through my spine.I resisted the urge to kick him and walked outside the room, sweating.'No job' is better than this job, I thought.

A name board was nailed on the wall close to the door, which read, "Ronak Singh, Managing Director".

Tough times

2010-04-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

Entrance examination is the sieve into which every medical and engineering aspirant is poured. There are hundreds of entrance examinations, conducted both by government and private medical colleges, each testing memory and skill, not aptitude. The more you practice, the more are your chances to win.
Higher secondary course is a physiological laboratory that tests what material a student is made of. Only an A+ holder with more than 90% marks stands the chance of grabbing a medical seat. Each entrance question is a life or death matter. You answer one question right, and your rank shoots up to 500s, if you lose it, it falls to 1000s. This Olympic competitiveness makes it sure that only the fittest, the most single minded, would survive(Darwin had said it right). The sort of laid back, uncompetitive person who wants to 'live the moment' will drop out of entrance coaching, I'm sure.
Last month, I visited an entrance coaching centre. I met a junior student from my school, who was making last minute revisions for the model exam. As soon as he recognized me, he came to me with the big bound volume of an MCQ book in Mathematics. As he was talking, I noticed the sparkle in his eyes. (I distinguish entrance aspirants from others by their hollow eyes that resembles long, dark tunnels). Smart guy, I guessed.
He wanted the solution for some difficult math problem. I had forgotten more than half of the formulae I had learned, so I sat down and started writing down the basics, right from the beginning. He watched me silently for some time. After about two minutes, he said " I know all this stuff. I thought you'd know a shortcut method for answering this question."
"Why do you want a shortcut?", I asked.
"See, I need to finish the problem within one minute, so I need to be really fast. I can't waste too much time on one problem".
He said it right. And he said it professionally. I guess he'll crack the IIT entrance.
The changes I notice in an entrance aspirant are not too welcoming. Nowadays, I hear that they don't even share their notes. That they don't talk with the fellow competitors. That they wish more for their friends' failure than their own success. The end result of this training process is students who are addicted to work as patients to morphine.
All through my training process, I didn't forget to remain human. I gave my life the first priority, even when I went through all the agony of entrance preparation.

Straight to heart

2010-03-19T04:20:00.001-07:00

Heart,
you still try to
rule the world
although I've got you
identified, caught,
bound with arteries
and locked in a cage.
You are the sole prisoner
within my self, and the
guardian of my own soul.
How dare you beat
for somebody else
when you're sure that
you'll not leave me alive?

The Scalpel

2010-03-03T20:30:00.000-08:00

The most interesting part of 1st MBBS course is dissection.You'll be provided with a Cadaver ( a dead body intended for dissection) and you have to dissect the concerned region and identify the structures( blood vessels, nerves, organs) you are supposed to see. At the dissection hall, MBBS students use a dissection set which should contain at least a scalpel, toothed forceps, toothless forceps and a blunt knife.Dissection is a kind of dress rehearsal for a surgery.
Today's hero is the scalpel.The scalpel is a wonderful tool, a type 3 lever. It is not for pressing. It is for drawing across the field of skin. I always marvel at its power- cold, gleaming and silent. The scalpel is held in a special way, not palmed, nor gripped, nor grasped but lightly with the tips of the fingers- like holding the bow of a violin or a tulip. In a living body, blood chases the scalpel wherever it is withdrawn, but on a Cadaver, it is safe and easy to use it as it does not bleed.
The scalpel is made of steel. It is in two parts- the handle and the blade. At one end of the handle is a narrow prong upon which the blade is slid and then snapped to place. The handle is blind and decapitated without the blade, but once the blade is slid on it and clicked to position, it is ready for use. The spent scalpel sits silently on the dissection table once its purpose is done.

I encounter a curious problem while fixing the blade on the handle. Every time I fix it, the sharp end of the blade would be pressed on my thumb. A thin streak of blood and a cut on my thumb would be the result. So, you could tell how many blades I fixed that week, just by counting the number of line-like wounds on my left thumb.
I share my dissection table with a girl who is very enthusiastic about dissection. She knows the tips and tricks which one could gain only by experience. I love working with her because she finishes dissection within minutes, which would otherwise have taken hours. The saved time could be productively used for chit- chatting, or in my case, writing this blog post.
One day I saw this girl fixing her blade with ease. She simply slid the blade around the handle and pressed it. Click! it stood at the right place.No hurt.
"Wow..How do you do that ?", I exclaimed, open mouthed.
"Figure it out" was the answer.
So the next day I bought two new blades and started practising to fix it the way my skilled friend did. It was amusing for the other dissectors to watch me sitting at a corner of the hall and fixing blades while they prepared for the spotting exam. Some of the dissectors were kind enough to offer me their blade and handle to work upon. My skilled friend was trying hard to stifle her laugh while she unearthed every damn nerve and vessel I had no idea of. I went about with this business for about a week during every dissection hour until my thumb became absolutely raw.
Finally I couldn't take it any longer.I approached my skilled friend and said, " I give up.How the hell you fix the blade without hurting your thumb?"
Her answer was interesting- "Who said it doesn't hurt? It hurts me too.." and showed me two thin parallel streaks of wound on her right thumb.

Today

2010-02-21T04:42:00.000-08:00

Today I crumpled a poem and used it as fuel to boil a cup of tea.

After an argument

2010-02-17T03:23:00.001-08:00

Sometimes we chew each other to pieces
And go home with the scraps.
I got my share of scraps, when
I argued with you, my best friend.
The words that come to us are not chosen.
It all started on a trifle which grew,
as big as a heap of garbage,
as we threw each other rubbish.
The heat of our argument, I think,
could melt all snow in Siberia.
Back home, I stared at the carpet,
as though some loved one
is buried beneath the floorboards.
It was silent, except for the sounds-
of guilt that echoed in my heart.
I saw your red face instead of my pale one,
when I looked at the bedroom mirror.
Words are sharper than a two edged sword.
When I meet you the next time, I'll say-
"Sorry, my dear friend....."

Everything feline

2010-02-06T01:37:00.000-08:00

I have grown up with cats and I love them for life. Listen to a few things I know about cats :

1) Cats start eating fish from the head end and not the tail end. (Am I sounding ridiculous? Friends, I have experimented on over 10 cats to arrive at this conclusion. I'm pretty sure that cats know dinner etiquette. Note: A hungry cat is always an exception).

2) A cat fears his own voice the most! (play him his own recorded voice to scare a cat away. Believe me, it works!)

3) No cat will fall on all fours if dropped from a height of more that 8 metres ( No, I don't have any experiment to support my statement, I've learned this by observation).

4) If a hungry cat knows that you'll give him food, he'll smack his lips to indicate that he is ready for food( It is a kind of unconditional reflex, I think. Thanks to my medical books.)

5) Every kitten would have tried to catch its own tail, ending up in going around itself.

6) A cat spends an average of 6 hours a day licking his coat.

Random thought:
When I meow, he purrs,
And gives me long replies.
I'm sure, I'll never-
Learn the tongue feline.
B'coz when I mew,
His eyes tell it
loud and clear that
I make the most inferior cat.

Dedicated to my cat Whity, who is celebrating his birthday today. Happy birthday, Whity :)

Added after the first comment :

Here is my cute Whity

Digits and equations

2010-01-26T01:03:00.000-08:00

Courtesy: Rubik's_cube.svg‎

During my school days, mathematics was the subject of my interest. I don't claim that I was a wiz in maths, but I certainly was better than the guys who didn't know the difference between differentiation and integration(Many students learn this part by rote, come up with the correct solution, but don't know what it is all about).I used to carry a problem book, in which I'd note down all interesting problems and their solutions. I was enthusiastic about arriving the same result by following different methods.
My habit of playing with numbers earned me the title- GENIUS. In fact, I'm not a genius at all, but see how I create that impression. After the first period, one guy arrives at me with a very complicated looking problem. I look into the problem, study it for 5 minutes, look up the formulae for another 5 minutes and finally put it in my brains and solve it out in next ten minutes. The whole process takes about 20 minutes, and you can see that I am no genius.
Look the same problem from the guy's perspective. He gives me the problem, waits for two minutes or so, gets impatient and leaves the classroom to hang out with other guys. When he comes back, he sees me engaged in some other work. He asks me if I have done the problem, and I say ,"Oh that was a piece of cake..". He thinks that he didn't arrive in time to see me finishing the problem.
After a few hours, another guy would come to me with the same problem. Now that I had practiced the problem once, I'd do it in a flick of the second. When the next guy comes, I tell him the answer even without reading the question. Soon, all of my classmates get convinced that I am a 'supergenius'.
If any of my schoolmates are reading this, I swear, this is what happened. I'm not as smart as you think( If I were smart I wouldn't have posted this article in my blog at the first place).
I don't study maths any more. But Mathematics has made my thoughts logical, beliefs concrete and decisions fearless.

You don't belong here...

2010-01-22T02:54:00.000-08:00

Why, child, do you choose to remain in the library?
Don't the antique wood and dusted books
blow up your lungs and make you sneeze?
Are you here, looking for the Principia Mathematica
or a personal message from Einstein?
Careful...People down below may think
they've seen a ghost, when they spot you-
roaming or floating through the bookcases.
Remember, Halliday and Rusnik are too old
to reveal their inner self for kids like you.
I tell you, it is hard to travel through the woods,
And you are no Robert Frost or Shelley.
Oh kid, leave this haunted place and go back-
to where you belong... chewing gums, Harry Potter,
cricket bats, butterflies, video games and colour pencils.

This poem is dedicated to all tiny tots of 5th standard, who have started to prepare for the Engineering entrance exams.

Untitled

2010-01-08T07:32:00.001-08:00

It is discouraging to know
that I am a mediocre,
And will never do
anything of extraordinary value.
Like the painter who knows
that he is no da Vinci.
I sometimes get appalled
at the burden of life here
living as if I were the whole world,
Like the spider who got
entangled in his own web...
I hate to see things the way
everyone do,
although it is easier to see
things that way around.
It is tough to go against
what I am told to see or believe.
Much of what I think to be true
are lies.
I am done with the poem.
Friends, did I make any sense?

Compassion

2009-12-12T03:17:00.000-08:00

Courtesy : http://www.pdphoto.org

I was waiting impatiently for the doctor in the visitors' room in the hospital. My eyes drifted in the whole room and finally rested upon a large ornamental vase that stood opposite to me on the mahogany table. The glass vase, half filled with water, had white and red tulips, their tender stems dipped in water. My eyes caught the sight of a ladybird, that walked on the outer edge of the white petal of one tulip. As I was admiring the beauty of the little creature, the bug slipped and fell into the water underneath. It struggled in the water for want of support.

I had a strong urge to pull out the flowers from the vase, and rescue the insect. But I resisted myself, hoping over hope that it would catch hold of the fleshy tulip stem and climb out to safety.

Five seconds passed, the ladybird was still in water.I rose from the seat, went near the table, pulled out a few flowers, put my hand inside the vase the and rescued the insect, neglecting the puzzled looks thrown at me by the other visitors.

If I had let the ladybird die, I would never have forgiven myself. The dove saved the ant from drowning by dropping a leaf into the stream ( so goes the story). Hundreds of people work tirelessly in Australia to throw those starfishes back to the sea which had got buried in the sand after a high tide. Volunteers in Britain rescue the countryside frogs from the road who would have otherwise fallen prey to the fast moving vehicles. Every little act of compassion can make a big difference in others' lives.

Friends, let's nurture life.

Why I want to remain young

2009-11-11T00:44:00.000-08:00

I don't want to grow up.
For, if I grow, I fear that -
* I might end up shading my pictures in gray, instead of painting them red and blue.
* I might pull the teeth of a comb through my tangled hair, and may even trim down the tresses that curl around my ears.
* I may forget to run into the sea and feel the sand seeping under my feet.
* I may fail to notice the riverside flower when it is blushing at me with full beauty.
* I may sit under the grandfather tree and still neglect the falling leaves.
* I might have a half faked cheeriness in my voice and a false smile on my lips.
* I might start being afraid to go against what I am told to see or believe.
* I may find it difficult to break down my thoughts into words. I may even kill this blog.
(The very existance of this blog is a proof that I am alive and respiring, and not brain-dead.)

I fear that I may grow up to join that class of people who are burdened by ego, sickened by sorrow and blinded by emotions. I shall be disappointed if I become one.

But now I am too young to get disappointed.

Graveyard

2009-10-16T04:18:00.001-07:00

In the evening, the shadows of evergreen trees,
gently spill beneath the tombstones of the dead.
The heaving earth pays tribute to the dead
by pouring down her tears, the heavy rain.
The farmer, who found solace in a piece of rope,
rests here, his debts unpaid, tears unwiped.
The wealthy merchant, who died untimely,
rests here, his dreams unfulfilled.
Blessed are they, the buried dead,
for they are devoid of worries and fears.
They have not, the grey robes of their bodies-
to conceal their soul, in black and white.
Oh, unthinking mind, the graveyard of my thoughts,
did you weep quitely at the sight of these free human souls?

Silence

2009-09-23T09:32:00.000-07:00

This morning, I woke up to see-
no birds in the morning sky,
no messages in my inbox,
and no newspaper in the balcony.
Suddenly I felt so lonely............
Silence had rooted in my backyard garden-
and had borne anonymous flowers
which sent off a peculiar odour-
to ward off all birds, messages and newspaper.
So I sat in front of the fogged, frosted glass,
and drew figures on it with my index finger,
discovering random geometry on a window pane.
Who said, "Silence is golden"?

She is studying........

2009-09-23T06:36:00.000-07:00

Under the dim light of a kerosene lamp,
A girl is studying for exams next day.

Rain is pouring heavily on the thatched roof,
The drenched shanty is shivering out of cold.
The turbulent river is roaring near the house,
Strange insects are buzzing in languages unknown.

Her four year old sister,hungry,is crying for food.
Her little brother is fast asleep,his belly unfilled.
Her drunk father is grumbling and craving for more toddy.
Her mother is on bed,burning with fever.

She is sitting on a soiled carpet, wettened-
by rain dropping through the leaks on the roof.
She is wearing an ancient frock,torn and dirty,
which she had outgrown long long back.

Shaken by rain,hurt by hunger,weakened by misery,
There she sits,defeated,on a dirty carpet.
Under the dim light of a kerosene lamp,
The girl is studying for exams next day.

Eyes

2009-09-05T04:04:00.000-07:00

Your eyes, filled with ocean
are dynamic, restless and blue.
I mistook that the Great Artist, the God-
had made a mistake in His unique creation
by painting them ocean blue, not muddy brown.
Poured in your eyes is the turbulence of the ocean.
I wonder the salty drops you weep belong to the deep blue sea.

Masterpiece

2009-09-02T00:16:00.000-07:00

I want to lay the language open with a knife,
and make her bleed through a gore so deep.
(I could do that too, I could be cruel.)
So that I could drink the syrup of poetry
that runs through her veins, to my minds full.
She would lie motionless, (her face calm and serene)
like a frog, etherized on the dissection table.
(Would she endure the boundless pain?)
I shall not stop until I have licked
her syrupy blood to the very last drop.
I shall cut open every bone to see,
if the marrow encloses the secrets of prose.
I shall dissect her heart and brain,
to see if a bit of soul rests there.
If I find one, I would give it wings,
to fly to the aboard of happiness, the sky.
At the end, I shall be able to publish,
A pound of freshly peeled flesh, which smells-
of blood, cut neatly from her heart.
And that would be my masterpiece.

Leaves

2009-08-31T01:54:00.000-07:00

In autumn, leaves fall down

to the gutters, rivers and pools.

Then, the naked tree sighs-

at the loss of his ornamental dress.

Some leaves fall on the terrace,

which are later removed by the broom,

along with twigs and bird droppings.

Some of them swirl into-

the public tanks, blocking-

the passage of water in the pipes.

Food for the microbes and earthworms

most leaves become; and there-

were some which made its way

into the naturalist's potions.

A little girl picked one fallen leaf,

She pressed it inside her book,

and stacked weights on it until -

the leaf shrivelled and dried

to expose its veins and heart.

The leaf had started to give off

a little knowledge, when she-

showed it to me, pasted in her scrapbook.

When the doors of the rain open,

The scent of newly spaded soil erupts,

And none of the leaves are to be seen.

True, all leaves are buried, in the-

sands of time, except the one

owned by the little girl.

Delusions - II

2009-08-23T21:55:00.000-07:00

The magical dust, shed by the moon

and the melodious song sung by your lips

Woke me from my deep sleep,

I opened my eyes and I saw you.

Silhouetted in the mirror, I saw-

your image, receding from my window.

Your anklets were giggling,

with the rhythm of your footsteps.

You were singing a forgotten song,

Sorry, I couldn't make out the words.

Your hair, as dark as moonless night,

were dancing with the tune of your song.

You sailed away, leaving me

in the world of delusions.

I held you in my eyes,

Till your footsteps ceased to hear,

Till your song dissolved into the fog,

Till you vanished into nothingness.

Were you Dream?

Or was I dreaming?

Of papercrafts and children

2009-08-19T08:42:00.000-07:00

One fine July morning, I was lying half asleep on bed. I was too unlucky to be awakened by half a dozen kids who screamed into my ear with a toy loudspeaker. I got up terrified, to see six kids, each holding a balloon, jumping up and down and clapping. Their shoes were squeaking, which was infinitely more menacing. On the lead was my cousin, an LKG graduate, who grinned at me with worm-eaten, half decayed teeth, while licking a lollypop. She handed me a beautifully bound big book, like Santa Claus giving away an extra large gift on Christmas.

A two minute chat made it clear that I am to make paper roses by following the instructions given in the book she just gave me. I examined the book. "The Art of Paper Folding, Level 8", it read. I was happy that they found me eligible enough to handle a Level 8 book, instead of taking me through elementary levels. They gave me a box that contained the required materials, which I emptied to find coloured papers, a roll of cello tape, scissors and glue.

The picture of a colourful rose, printed along with the instructions lured me into making it. I started with a pink coloured paper, following the instructions. It took half an hour for me to fold the paper into desired shape. By the time I finished obeying the last instruction, I ended up with a homogenous ball of paper, wound with cello tape. I was reluctant to call this paper ball a flower, but my young counterparts were looking at this entangled mass of paper with rapt attention, thinking that a paper rose would sprout soon out of this shapeless material. When I was sure that I would fail in my attempt, I stuck upon an idea.

"Which of my sweeties want ice cream?" I asked in a fruity voice, imagining to turning their attention from paper rose to ice cream. "We want the flower first", they shouted in unison.

Their refusal to accept my bribe annoyed me. Determined to make the rose, I took a fresh piece of paper and started working. Let me teach these little devils how wonderful craftsmanship I possessed. I ordered for a stapler pin to join the pieces of paper when they got detached from the rose. I cut down pieces of paper, without any regard for instructions. I had my eyes only on the final, made up rose while I used paper clips, pins, nails and anything I could lay my hands on. Sweat flowed freely from my temples as I worked violently. I had started realizing that this newly made object is no better than the first , when I unknowingly stapled deeply into my thumb.

A sense of pain rushed through my nerves which electrified me. I managed to give my young monsters a faint smile before I disappeared into the washroom to nurse my injured thumb. I spent almost an hour inside the washroom, being afraid of the kids. I was sure that they would knock the door of the washroom and catch me 'red handed', but nothing happened.

So, I opened the door by a fraction, just enough to put my dumb head out. To my amazement, I saw the little Einsteins playing with the fine faultless paper roses they made!!!!

Lotus and buds

2009-08-17T04:33:00.000-07:00

My painting. May many more flowers bloom..........

Good bye, Rain.......

2009-08-14T00:42:00.001-07:00

All the rainy days are gone,

So I shall run the fields no more,

To feel the pleasure of morning rain

And to look for rainbow and happiness.

The croaking of the frog has ceased

The fireflies have merged with the stars

The butterflies have lost their painted wings

The cranes flew away, searching greener pastures.

The fresh smell of grass had lost,

Cotton candy clouds had left the sky,

Breeze was too distant to be felt,

The nightingales had stopped singing.

Looking out, though the window grills,

I see tired trees and withered grass.

My heart sinks to see the earth,

Roasting itself in the summer sun.

Pain

2009-08-12T22:12:00.000-07:00

I weaved

the threads of pain

to make a piece

of fine fabric.

I embroidered it

with needle

of sorrow

and studded it

with beads of suffering.

Could I use

this fine fabric

to wipe my tears?

A song

2009-08-12T04:24:00.001-07:00

My broken thoughts
once scribbled in my heart,
when inked on pages
becomes a tuneless song
and floats in the air,
crossing horizons,
out of sight-
to reach destinations unknown.
Oh! Deathless song,
Could you return,
so that I can
cherish you in my heart?

The fate of a mango

2009-08-04T21:14:00.000-07:00

On the roadside stood
a huge mango tree
full of flowers.

The tree bore a mango
coloured golden yellow
juicy and sweet.

The children eyed it
The squirrel poked it
And the birds pecked it.

The wind cradled it
cut its tender stalk
Down came the mango.

The golden yellow mango
fell on the road
wounding its skin.

A car to Calicut
rode on the mango
spilling its pulp.

A truck to Mumbai
ran on the mango
crushing its seed.

The golden yellow mango,
hit with a terrible fate,
died on the road.

Photographs

2009-08-03T20:57:00.000-07:00

You may not have forgotten the prototype of a camera, which stands on the high tripod stand, covered with a black veil. You may even remember that grumbling cameraman who shouts out instructions for at least half an hour before taking the first snap, his two light boys who hold up big electric torches and occasionally an assistant who holds out an umbrella at an oblique angle to prevent unnecessary light from entering the camera.The camera was an object of wonder to all the kids. A few of them actually managed to touch the camera when the cameraman is not watching. Let me share with you my experience of viewing two school photographs of 10 th grade students, one taken in 1975, and the other taken in 2008.

The 1975 photograph has a painted iron frame, rusting at the edges. It is covered with a thin glass sheet on the front and a cardboard on the rear end. The long and narrow photograph has yellowed with age. The school seal is pressed over the photograph. The school officials are sitting in the front row and the students are standing in two rows. None of them is smiling. The boys have oiled hair, parted neatly into two equal halves. They have pockets with flaps, one on each side of the chest. Only two girl students are seen in the photo, and both are wearing Saree. Their oiled hair is neatly pleated and stretches beyond their shoulders. Two people, one teacher and one student, are blinking. All of them are focusing on the camera.

The black-and-white-photo is an ample proof for the fact that that, back in 1975, God was yet to invent colours.

The 2008 photograph is laminated and the date of taking the photograph is printed in bold letters on top of the photograph. The school officials are sitting in the front row, the girls are standing in the next two rows, and the boys occupy the last two rows. All of them are wearing uniforms. A few boys have their hands in their pockets and the rest of the boys have their hand around the next person's neck. All of them are smiling or laughing. They are not staring intently at the camera, but are looking carelessly at it. Not everybody has combed their hair. Some boys have pierced one ear to wear an earring. Most of the girls have let their hair loose. Over one-fourth of the students are wearing spectacles. None of them is blinking. The background of the photograph is the crimson red sky.

This is how times change, and photographs too.

Print your photographs as in real life - HP Laserjet Printers - http://www.hp.com/in/laserjet

Delusions

2009-07-31T22:08:00.000-07:00

When my weighted eyes
slowly slip down to sleep,
When my heart listens
to the rhythm of breath,
My soul breaks-
the invisible chain of consciousness,
to drift peacefully
in the sea of delusions.
Let my soul be carried away
in a swirl of whirlpool
into the depths of the dark sea .......
For, I love-
to explore the unexplored,
And to see the unseen.

Designs

2009-07-31T04:31:00.000-07:00

Men shook the branches of all flowering trees to fell the flowers and melted them in the sea of plastic so that when the plastic was moulded into footwears and garments, there were designs of flowers etched upon them.
Now there are more flowers on garments and footwears than on trees.

Rain

2009-07-27T22:00:00.000-07:00

When the sun handed down
his empire, the sky
to the moon,
When the long spidery shadows
waned and diffused with
darkness,
The wool of silver yarn,
spun in the paradise,
uncoiled and divided
to flow down to earth
and knit the heaven's garments
to that of the earth's.

A walk by the seashore

2009-07-24T22:24:00.000-07:00

The evening sun had robbed the blue colour of the sky and had put in its place tints of crimson red mixed with shades of grey. A few golden streaks of light added to the beauty of the painted sky. The fluid line of the horizon was getting erased slowly as the sun plunged into the sea, burning or drowning to death , hard to tell which. A solitary bird, which perched itself upon the tallest rock on the shore, was looking sun ward, without blinking its eyes. A group of cranes was flying homeward in a symmetric V shaped pattern, symbolising oneness. The wind was blowing in full speed, letting me hear its murmur . Suddenly, I felt jealous of the freedom of the wind. A few evening stars were seen pasted on the sky and the fingernail sized moon had already made his appearance.

This is that moment of the day when the beach looks most beautiful.........

An evergreen leaf

2009-07-12T11:49:00.000-07:00

This post is dedicated to my friend Mounika, who gifted me a leaf long back.

Today,
I found a brown brittle leaf, pressed between-
the yellowing pages of my old music book.
A leaf, which is a frail memento of love,
A leaf which has a story engraved on its veins.

Years back,
We sat together on the same stone bench,
Surrounded by trees that touched the sky.
You picked an yellow leaf from the ground,
And gifted me as a token of love.

You then said,
"Even in autumn, it takes a long time,
For a single leaf to fall from the tree.
I have enough time for you that I can wait,
until all the leaves fall from this tree"

We parted.
I placed the leaf securely between
the fresh pages of my new music book.
It slept there, untouched by me,
till I forgot where I had kept it.

Yesterday-
Suddenly I got up this morning,
dreaming about that leaf of yours
I shook and scanned every book I owned,
In search of my bright yellow leaf.

Evening

2009-07-08T23:11:00.003-07:00

The evening sun set spidery shadows and-
watery rectangles on the smooth marble floor.
The lonely tulip standing in the glass vase,
withered and bowed to salute the sun.
The tiny spider on its transluscent web,
crawled edgeward and weaved no more.
The humming mosquito hit the window glass
in a lost attempt to fly out of the room.
The radio sang an old evening song,
in the background of an unstoppable grumble.
The evening is the time when,even-
the clock is lazy to tick off the time.

After the rain........

2009-07-08T23:11:00.002-07:00

The branches of the pine tree shook
And sagged with the weight of rain.
The carpet of mosses held raindrops
Like crystal goblets against green velvet.
The tall grasses and dandelions,
danced around with the rhythm of breeze.
Skeletons of kites tangled among oaks,
only to wither and wane with age.
The blossoms shed their pink petals,
like tears shed from a lady's eyes.
Th soft mud yielded to every foot,
leaving the imprint of every step.
Mother Nature is calling The Rain back,
Wanting and yearning for Her next visit.

Trifles

2009-07-08T23:11:00.001-07:00

I love the simple things of life,like-
Picking the white blossoms that lay on the road
Freeing a fly out of a delicate spider web
Saying 'Good Morning' to the newspaper boy
Following the path of a train of ants
Feeling the cold of the morning dew
Listening to the chatter of an innocent kid
Collecting seashells from the sand of the beach
Plucking fruits from the old mango tree
Wishing for a wish on an eyelash of mine
Looking for anything untouched by rain
Holding a ladybird in an open palm
Tearing a cordate leaf into symmetric halves
Touching the rugged bark of a tree
Blowing bubbles of rainbow colours
Flying a kite on a windy day
And more and more such things,
Which makes this list almost endless...........

Why

2009-07-07T20:58:00.000-07:00

I am a curious little girl
Who always asks 'why',
Why this?Why that?
Why me?Why you?
Why hai?Why by and by?
Why do we ask 'why'?

I ask why birds do fly-
and boys won't;
I ask why wood floats;
and stones won't;
I ask why scorpions sting
and rabbits don't

I ask why bees make hive
And birds won't
I ask why we speak
And turtles won't
Why milk turns sour
and sugar does not.

Some of my 'whys' go this way,
You may answer some,
Yet there are questions which
I wish to ask and ask
Because I know not,you know not,
Nobody knows WHY.

Dew Drops

2009-07-05T22:26:00.001-07:00

Image courtesy: http://pdphoto.org
My parents named me Netha.

'Netha' in Arabic means 'dew drops'.

I don't know why they named me so,

Still I love that name.

I had always loved rain,

Coming down from heaven to earth.

Still I was not named 'rain'.

I fancy watching the clouds-

like powder puffs dusted away.

But they didn't name me 'cloud' either.

I feel that my name is so unique because

So far I didn't meet a person named Netha.

I am named not 'wind', not 'storm', not 'blossom'

But I am named Netha,the name I love.