Nottingham library system

Nottingham library system is simply fantastic. the cards are barcode enabled. There are automatic rfid checkout machines( all the books are tagged and are read when you place them on the chekout machine. You can renew over the web or the phone. Sadly unlike the californian library system ( santa clara county I was there a long time back in 1997) dvd and cds are not free, there is a cost ( 50 p for music cds and 2 pounds per week for dvds. In california dvds cds and software were freely available. Can anyone confirm if that is the case now ?
Right now I am devouring the comics section of the library . Ther are several genres of comics including the graphic novel high art types like sandman by neil gaiman or alan moores V for vendetta, and there is also the cheesy stuff like amazing spiderman, Justice league of america , etc etc. I'm not picky - I like them all.
I have not been keeping up witht he blog lately but I will try to do so from here.
cheerio
Robin

22nd floor: The Bong

Hilarious!
Devastatingly funny!!
I am still rolling with laughter!!!
Please read this............

22nd floor: The Bong

Loving You

What will be the reason for,
Underestimating freedom,
What will be the reason for,
Loving You.

What will be the end,
Of this continual tirade against destiny,
What will be the outcome of,
Loving You.

What will be the alternative,
Of sacrifice and sorrow,
What will be the punishment for,
Loving You.

What will be your answer,
To the questions of my heart,
What will be my retaliation for,
Loving You.

What will be the history,
Of this unidentified love story,
What will be the moral of,
Loving You.

Hello all,
Im sorry this is not a post in the true spirit of the Bibs Club, but i'll be leaving TCS soon and dont want to be disconnected from this wonderful thread. So I've started blogging under
http://ramblesofaninsomniac.blogspot.com/ and taken the liberty of re-posting my posts here...hope you guys take some time out to continue visiting my blog ...all the best to the Bibs Club...may the post be with you!

The Sands of Time

Here, there, everywhere,
The sands of time will fall,
The facts, the laughter, the fears, the hopes,
The sands will all fall off.

Times change as the master writes,
The fate of all in the soil,
The hopes, the fears will all come to naught,
As the game of life unfolds.

Coming perhaps from the attempt to feel,
All emotions of the soul,
One heart, one mind, one little thought,
Too much in too little time.

Maybe the game is all about,
Learning how it is to feel,
Perhaps the tremors will all come to rest,
When I finally cease to feel.

How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life

The recent literary review article that made me stunned is about our own Indian girl - Kaavya Viswanathan. This 19 something Harvard lass made a fortune of about 2,80,000 pounds (about $5,00,000!) which was paid as an advance for her book "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life".

Opal Mehta, which has a first printing of 100,000 copies, has been optioned by the publisher DreamWorks.. Its about the musings of 19 year old Vikram, a sophomore on the campus of Harvard Univ. And more info, Spielberg's is gonna make a movie on her story!

Here are the News articles 1 & 2

Excerpts from the Book (Holding to place my hands on the actual copy!)

Confessions of a dangerous mind - III

Alone in the cell, I sat back and sighed! Six years ago I began an extraordinary journey in the world of stolen antiques and today whatever I was, was because of Pierre. Vincent our butler called him “Master” and loved him like a Master. I called him Pierre but loved him like the father I never met. His associates feared him, but loved him. Pierre- the Master was respected for his meticulous planning and perfect implementation. His reflexes never slackened and his mind never gathered rust.

My thoughts wandered off again. Twice I had been caught, but Pierre came to my rescue each time. This was the longest I had ever spent in prison. This time things looked different. This time perhaps, I would have to plan my own escape, without Pierre, without anybody. I started thinking again and after five hours I still had not come up with any idea. The prison was an impregnable fortress. Searchlights scanned the length of the territory and black hounds roaming the premises were let loose at the slightest sound of alarm. The barbed wires were electrically charged and nobody ever left this place without being searched. No human habitat could be found within two miles of the place. Amidst all this, I was shunted in an underground dungeon, with a small window that was snow-laden, where sunlight seldom found a chance to enter. I looked at the snow again and again and suddenly it stuck me!

I looked at the criss-crossed bars in the window and sure enough there were small pores at regular intervals along the grid. In cold climates, pipes often burst when water froze into ice. The pores were there to prevent water from accumulating in the pipes. I looked at the pores and found my escape route. For the next three days, I tore threads from my sleeping bag and tightly wound the grid, leaving only a pore at the top. For three days, I did not drink water given to me during lunch. Instead I poured the water into the grid, crossed my fingers and waited. On the third day my job was done. Outside, night was approaching and temperatures were falling. Then close to midnight, the water froze in the bars, turned into ice and expanded in volume. The ice pushed against the bars and suddenly with a huge explosion, the bars burst and the window cracked open.

I had no time to waste. Even though, I was in an underground cell, I was sure the noise would have been heard somewhere. I pushed myself against the window, which was quite weak by now and gave way. Pulling myself up, I stumbled into a tunnel that went to the left and right. Both sides were dark and I did not know where to go. I picked up a pebble nearby and threw it to the left. It did not go very far. Then I threw another pebble to the right. This time it carried to a distance. So the wind was blowing from the left side of the tunnel. I followed the left side and sure enough, found myself looking at streaming water, gushing all over. I dived into the water and upon rising found myself in the middle of a wide water-body. I realized that I had accidentally discovered the sewer line and it emptied into a river. Looking around me, I realized that I would have to make my escape in sub-zero temperatures. They had heard the explosion and the hounds were being let loose, I was shivering and my footprints would leave a permanent mark in the snow. I decided to take the warmer water route.

I do not know for how long I swam, but that night all of Siberia would be searched for me and I did not want to take any chances. Pulling myself to the bank, I saw an old fortress with lights. I made a cautious approach lest that it should turn out to be another government head quarter. There were no guards and so I knocked at the door. It was answered by a nun.

The sisters of the order of St.Dmitri are forbidden from any contact with men. They are not permitted to talk to anyone from the outside world and at the end of the day; they whip themselves with lashes in penitence. They lead a Spartan existence. Though stoic they may be heartless they are not. When a young, virile male of twenty-four years collapsed at their entrance door that cold winter evening, they were at a loss. After much consultation, they carried him to a room, gave him a bed and let him lay there. Meanwhile, the police looked everywhere for the escaped prisoner, but when they came to the convent, they passed it.

I stepped out next morning from the convent and called up Vincent. Vincent informed me that Pierre had been missing for the past three weeks, looking for a way to free me. I told Vincent an address where I could be found in Moscow, and asked him to inform Pierre. Unknown to me, our phone at home was being tapped by the police. So, when I hitched a wagon and reached Moscow, the police was waiting for me. I went into the house and found Pierre in deep conversation with his contacts. They were still looking for a way to get me out of prison. I still remember the look of astonishment mixed with joy on his face, as he saw me free.

Suddenly Interpol barged into the room and asked us to surrender. Pierre pulled his gun and gunshots were heard all over the place. I lost no time, to escape from the place. From there I hitched my way back home to Rio, informing nobody and taking no risks. Once in Rio, the only thing left for me to do was to wait for Pierre. There was no fear from the police in our homeland, because Pierre always made sure that we did not undertake any assignments in Brazil.

A month later, I received the news of Pierre’s death. It took three men to shoot him six times in the chest. We never recovered his body, so we held a memorial service for him. It was a gloomy Wednesday morning and I was coming back home from the service, wondering what the future held in store for me. The door bell rang and Vincent answered it. “A visitor for you Master”, he said. “Coming”, said I.

Concluded.

Confessions of a dangerous mind - II

Kedah, northwestern Malaysia currently has a Muslim majority population. But until the 9th Kedah Maharaja Derbar Raja converted to Islam and changed his name to Sultan Muzaffar Shah in the 10th century, the Bujang Valley in Kedah was a prominent Hindu-Buddhist kingdom. The Maharaja aiming to protect his nation from the onslaught of Portuguese and British attacks, converted to Islam so as to forge a friendship with the Sultan of Malay.

As an act of penitence before his conversion, the Maharaja had constructed a secret underground Buddhist temple south west of Pengkalan Bayang Merbok. The temple had a completely plebian façade and was uncovered during the earth-quake in the 14th century. Only a four foot plaster of Paris Buddha in an old dilapidated sanctum was found. It was in the 17th century that archeologists discovered that the plaster of Paris covered a solid gold four foot monolith of Buddha completely adorned with diamonds, rubies and sapphire. The Buddha was then moved to the Bujang Valley Archaeological Museum where it is housed till today in the state-of-the-art security.

It was this Buddha that our client, a private collector, wanted and he was willing to pay any price to get it; by hook or by crook.

I spent days planning my course of action. Pierre wanted this assignment to be treated as my coming of age. He would not help me, though at times, I thought that he was cross-checking my arrangements without my knowledge. For days, I would visit the museum, disguised as a tourist and study the Buddha from about ten feet away. That was the nearest we were allowed to go near it and visitors were not allowed to linger around any exhibit for long. I finally planned my day. We would execute our mission on the 17th September in broad daylight in the presence of everybody around.

At 11A.M on the 17th September, an old hunchback tottered his way to the museum. He had difficulty walking and stumbled often. The guard at the entrance of the museum advised him not to visit, but the old man would not hear of it. He mumbled something about coming from very far to visit the museum. About ten minutes later, a six-foot tall American tourist also visited the same museum. He looked like a student who had worked his way all summer for this all-important trip to Malaysia. The old man was stumbling and coughing and the benevolent student offered to assist him to walk. The old man refused, but when he staggered for the third time, the student would not listen anymore. Together, they began to explore the artifacts, with the old man recounting stories about his younger days.

At 11:15 A.M the old man and the young American were standing in front of the statue of Buddha. Suddenly, there was a sound of a blast and smoke filled the room. Someone shouted “Fire” and guards started evacuating. The electric connection in the museum had faltered and the backup would take two minutes to restore. The student was trying to help the old man out, who was having trouble breathing in all that smoke. The guards removed everyone from the room and sent them to another part of the museum and came back for the old man. By then, he was coughing so much that the student requested them to let the old man out for some fresh air. The pair was let out and was never seen again.

It was discovered after two days while cleaning the museum that the statue of Buddha was sparkling unusually. On further investigation, it was found that the statue of Buddha was in plaster of Paris, cleverly covered by golden wrapping sheet. The original Buddha cost 6 million dollars. This fake probably cost 6 dollars.

Two days before this discovery a hunchbacked old man and a young American tourist were seen leaving the museum through an emergency exit. Nobody checked their belongings. As they left the premises, a black sedan drew up and they both got in. Inside, Pierre took off his cloak, stopped being a hunchback and revealed a four foot statue of Buddha between his knees. He looked at the American tourist and grinned, “Happy birthday Mike. You are a man now.”

To be continued.....

Confessions of a dangerous mind - I

At age twenty-four years eleven months, I was languishing in an 8X11 foot cell in solitary confinement in an obscure prison in Central Siberia. The outside temperature was minus forty-five degrees and from my underground dungeon sunlight trickled in only for a few minutes a day. I had been here for two weeks perhaps. Snow covered the ground, for two feet and even from the windowless rabbit hole where I was kept, the chill and the dampness pricked my bones. I surveyed my room for the millionth time, trying to find a way to escape. It was a bare room with no furnishing; the only objects were a fur quilt, a sleeping bag and a pot at the end of the room. Nothing much that I could use. Twice I had escaped this place and this time round, they were not going to take any chances. The government wanted me for questioning and they wanted me alive. After all, I was just a minnow in the large smuggling syndicate that had managed to steal Van Gough paintings from the Pushkin Art Gallery in Moscow in the past. Two weeks ago, I had failed to get away with a Monet, and Interpol saw this as their big chance.

Leaning against the wall, I started to think. Memories flooded me. Those years of poverty, living as an orphan in a ghetto in Rio de Janeiro. How, at the age of fifteen, Pierre caught me trying to steal his wallet and instead of handing me to the police took me home, and how it changed my life forever. Pierre it is perhaps then; my story begins with Pierre’s wallet. Michael is my name and Pierre fondly called me Mike. Hunger had turned me into a pickpocket and I was the slickest hand in our ghetto. At the end of the day, when we counted our Reals, I always had the most. I had an undisputed talent for stealing anything, without anyone ever noticing. I quite liked this arrangement and thought life could not be any better than living on people’s money. Then one day, I tried to pick Pierre’s wallet. He had turned his head to his left and was looking his wristwatch, and I had almost succeeded in drawing the black faux leather Gucci wallet from the right side of his trousers. Then I crossed the road and was about to rush to hoard my earnings, when a hand gripped my shoulders. “Nice work kid! You have good technique!!!” said Pierre smiling. I was astounded. It was the first time, I was caught and I started wondering where I went wrong. “Where is your Daddy?” “I don’t have one,” I said. ‘And where is your Mommy?” “I don’t have a Mommy either”. “Then I am your Daddy from today,” said Pierre and that was the turning point of my life.

Back home, Pierre gave me food, clothes, a bed to sleep and a house to call my own. He lived all by himself in an opulent mansion in downtown Rio and when I peeped out of the window, I could see a Lamborghini, a Ferrari and a Ford Mustang in his large stable of cars. Of course, I learnt the names much later. Along with that, I also learnt how to dress well, speak language of the gentry, and most importantly, Pierre gave me my first important lessons on theft and deception. For Pierre was the leader of the largest smuggling syndicate of Rio and he had just adopted me as his protégée.

Three years later, at the age of eighteen, I had learnt five languages, could drive any car, could fire a .44 Magnum, .45 Long Colt, .38 Special and a Colt Single Action Army from point blank range and was a dashing, handsome six-foot tall boy quickly learning that he was irresistible to women. A charm, that would come much handy later. At eighteen Pierre decided that I was ready for my first kill. An antique statue of Buddha, in a museum in Malaysia, which our client wanted for his private collection. Sadly, the Buddha was not for sale, so I had to step in.

To be continued.....

Snapshots from Hell

The high acclaimed rating and astounding word-of-mouth review made me buy this ‘compelling’ book “Snapshots from Hell: the making of an MBA” by Peter Robinson. The book’s blurb says -- “A book for wannabe MBA’s, anyone desirous of applying to a B-school or anyone in business”. Though my dreams of apping for MBA is slowly fading away, I gave a rethought, a serious contemplation to read this, at least to make a judgment about how a B-School is really like. Change is inevitable and perhaps, who knows, I’d be tempted or rather motivated to change my notions again. Accompanied by too much enthu, I finally bought this paperback yesterday.

The author Peter Robinson worked as a speech writer at the White House during Reagan’s period and later looks like he took a choice to do MBA (for the obvious reasons -- earning fat pay!). The book is about the story of the author himself during his MBA days at Stanford during 1988- 1990. So far, I’ve come across ~ 80 pages and find that unlike Chetan Bhagat, Robinson has dwelled much on the plight of the students and the hectic schedule of the B-school. Chetan Bhagat’s ‘5 point someone’ had a blend of college masti, romance and very little of academics spiced with sentiments. Here, in ‘Snapshots..’, one gets to see in his pages more of lectures, case studies and class room problems. But thanks, the answers to the problem/discussion are given in very small font down the pages, so that if the reader needs he can go through them. On a lighter note, the author makes fun of the elite ‘poet’ section of the class. ‘Poets’ constituted the non-business/accounting background people who formed a sizeable chunk of the class.

Though not that gripping, I find the material pretty worth reading…And yes, its hilarious with its fundo-joy-ride of the B-school. Chalo lets see how it moves further…

KASI
A bibliophile

GUYS MUST BE CRAZY

"These Guys must be crazy yaar", Asha suddenly remarked while adoring herself in the mirror.

Her roommate Priya who was busily playing Minesweeper in her laptop, turned to Asha and asked, "c’mon, ma’m wat happened..you talking about Guys suddenly??? watz the matter?"

Asha : True yaar, these guys must be crazy!! I think they do all sort of stupid things if they fall in love

Priya : aaha, Asha... what happened pa, suddenly you talking about love? who is that idiot ?

Asha : Hey keep quiet ok! Me already in anger!!. You don’t try to tease me further

Priya : hahaha, you angry? see yourself in the mirror... your drooling is quite apparent.. Tell me whoz that guy who made you talk about love all of the sudden

Asha : our next cubicle northie yaar, Vikram I mean... He is following me wherever I go

Priya (surprised) : What you mean Vikram? Hey come so many girls in our office are drooling about him.... don’t just blush ok? You shouldn’t lie too much esp when you are seeing urself in the mirror

Asha : hey come on yaar, you know, that day in FC, I went to wash my hands. All other taps were free only. But this guy purposely waited and came to the tap where I washed my hands after I went!!

Priya : hmmph.. Big deal.... This is more feebler than BSNL signal!! (shakes her head) I cant accept this as a Love signal

Asha : wait wait. Even I didn’t think it as a big issue. But yesterday no, after finished with my dinner, I missed my mobile in the desk while leaving. When I came back to pick it up, I noticed this Vikram picking up my paper towel and put in his pocket. What would you say for this?

Priya : Really??? Do u mean it

Asha : hey true yaar... thatz why I said.... these guys are all crazy.... they tend to do all sorts of stupid things for love and romance

Priya : aah..dont tell me you didn’t like that

Asha : hehe thatz a different story J .. you come with me to Food court today.. I’ll show you live action today

That afternoon........Priya and Asha dine together in the Food court. Vikram who enters the Food court at the same time, takes the seat just behind them.

Asha : Look where he is sitting

Priya : O.K O.K.. Relax

Both finish their lunch and go to wash their hand. As they return they see Vikram standing near the place where they had their lunch

Asha : Now see what he does

Priya : Wait , wait

Vikram looks here and there, after getting convinced no one is around, picks up the tumbler that was used by Asha during her lunch.

Asha : (triumphant smile) What do yaa say now?

Priya : Yep yep, Guys must be crazy only.... I will go and catch that Vikram red handedly

Asha : hey relax priya, Me feeling shy

Priya : hello this is not a murali film story to keep postponing love proposal until a railway station climax. You just wait here

Priya straightly goes to Vikram, who is quiet surprised to see her..

Vikram : Hi priya..how do u do

Priya : Dei, what are u doing da

Vikram : err..whatz the matter pri?

Priya : Watz the tumbler u are holding in ur hand

Vikram : oh this one ah? This is your friend Asha’s work. Arrey, she is so careless yaar... Whenever she goes to wash her hands in the wash basin, she leaves the tap open and let water go waste. She never disposes of the paper towel, once she is done with lunch and leaves it there itself. See even now, she doesn’t even care to keep the tumbler back in the place. How many times you expect me to keep reminding in mails as part of the Cleanliness initiative of the week. Nobody cares.. see, for being a volunteer what sort of job I have to do. Regardless of the number of posts in the bulletin about etiquette nobody cares to listen!!!

Saying this, a disgusted vikram goes to pick up the tumbler in the next desk. An apparently shocked Asha could not mutter any other words except mumbling ....

GUYS MUST BE REALLY CRAZY...........

Written by : Pauline Priya Satish (Cognizant Bangalore)

Tolstoy's Resurrection - A Review by Bipradas

The Novel Resurrection is the story of a Man and his Resurrection from life which he had lived with the believe that this is the only way to live life.
This novel portrays the struggle that a person undergoes in order to make atone for his/her past deeds. This novel portrays the change of beliefs of the protagonist and shows him the way to achieve mental satisfaction and happiness.

The novel is about a man named Nekhliudov, who is an owner of an estate and is a fun-loving person. “FUN”---the definition of this term in the-then Russia meant having fun at the expense of the ordinary people, specifically the peasants who generally were under bondage to one or other of those so called “Prince”.

The protagonist of this novel, also used to have Fun with his people and during one of those encounters with his people, he met with a girl named Katiusa, and had a forced relationship with her. This would have been a case of no consequence to Nekhliudov as he was used to have those fringe relationships as his time pass activities, but this time, his heart felt something different, something unusual happened to him and he felt that He is in Love with Katiusa.

He was struggling with himself to find out the way to approach the girl as he had done a crime against her and finally when he won the struggle with himself to approach her it is too late, the girl has left the place. Katiusa was forced to leave the place due to the deed of Nekhliudov, and had to face lot of hardship in life before being put into Jail.

The second part of the novel portrays the irony of Nekhliudov as he was one of the jury who had to give the verdict in the case against Katiusa. Again another struggle with himself, the struggle between “Big Me” and “Small Me” as according to the writer, every person has two personalities –one who thinks of others, the society and another, who thinks of own only, these two are represented by “Big Me” and “Small Me”. There is always a struggle on going between these two and whoever wins, the person is affected by that and work accordingly. For the protagonist of the novel, this time the “Big Me” won against “Small Me” as unlike the previous case where “Small Me” had overpowered “Big Me” and he had a relationship with Katiusa without her consent.

The novel ends with the Resurrection of Prince Nekhliudov as he re-discovers the teachings of Jesus on how to live life in a way which helps others, work for others, shares the smiles and pains of others. Katiusa makes the real impact to his life by refusing his love and showing him the way. Bitten by rejection from his love, Nekhliudov chooses the path of helping others, working for others and starts a new life.
This novel by Tolstoy was written in the middle part of his literary life when he has started to lean towards religious teachings, religious works and this novel has the imprints of his mentality prevalent at that part of his life. It may not be one of his classic penning, but surely this novel shows us how to live the life and how to win the struggles that a person faces everyday in life.

Insomnia

This was a poem i had written quite a few years back...and takes the form of my "first blog ever"......

As the sounds of the day fade into the night
The lights grow dim, not a soul in sight,
I bury my face in the pillow and sleep feign
When the well-known shadows come calling again.
Nameless faces looking out with blurred eyes
One or two i even recognise.
A dash of red, a patch of blue
Cry out from a greying mildew
Fragments of my life floating in the debris
Memories buried longing to be free.
A shiny bicycle colliding into a wall
Tears embarrasment and laughter after the fall
Bewildered after reading graffiti on a neighbour's car
Searching a clear sky for just one shooting star...
Familiar comforting smell of tobacco and musk
A soft hand with long fingers guiding me till dusk
Did i live in that red-and-blue house once?
And wasnt that music strains from my first dance?
Feelings that make you soar then make you weep
Never letting you stop to trap that elusive sleep.
Something in the darkness draws me to it
Hesitantly at first then right into the pit...
It envelops me in its greys and blacks
Pouring into the crevices and cracks.
At first i am enchanted by its mystic caress
I revel in its eternal embrace
But i become a slave to its magnetic powers
Sleep eludes me for many hours.
In vain I claw and tear at the never ending night
Eagerly wait for the dawn of the first light
As the first rays filter through the window frame
My captor grows tired of his cruel game.
Laughingly he recedes, unaware of my plight
Only to return gleefully the next night.

Money..Money..Money – 3

(Continued from Money..Money..Money – 2)
Ridiculous!!! Exclaimed Inspector Raju. The people in the Police Lab had been able to open up the cell phone by cracking the authentication code. The phone book was wiped clean and the only call that was made to the cell was from a pay phone near Kurla (W) Station. Raju was still, leaving no stone unturned. A person making a call from a booth so early in the morning might just get noticed by the booth man. So, off he went to the booth and showed his identity card to the both owner straight away. The booth owner’s statement again took him back to square one.
In fact what the owner said was that it was not at all empty at that time of the morning as there is always a swarm of people waiting to call abroad everyday at that hour. In fact this was the only booth in the locality to have an IP phone which actually reduced the operating charge and the calling bill considerably as well. And all this meant to Raju that this time he was dealing with an extremely cunning and agile criminal mind. Apart from these, one thing that was baffling Raju was that why will someone choose to call up a cell if that caller knows that there will be no answer? May be the caller did not know that, he reasoned. But what if the caller knew this fact very well?
Anil was returning from his office. The double-decker was crossing King Circle, Matunga. Two days had already gone by. In his hand he was holding that day’s Times of India in which the police had released a sketch of the missing woman’s face in the front and side profile. In his mind, he was actually still thinking about the hour-glass figure of that woman. Suddenly, he remembered something interesting. Actually he had lied a bit to the police when he said that he had never talked with the woman.
He had done that very recently. It was four days ago he was coming back from his morning jog around 7 AM when he saw the woman coming outside and collecting her milk pouches and newspaper. She was looking at him directly while still in a half bent position. Fearing that she must have caught him peeping at her bust line, Anil had just blurted out, Jogging is good for health!! Yeah, even I sometimes plan to do so, as I am becoming a bit fat. She had smiled wickedly while saying all this. Then she had excused herself and got back in. Strange!! Anil thought, if he would not have been working late he might not have even heard the cell phone ringing in his neighboring flat. Then suddenly he understood the importance of it all and started searching for the chit containing the cell number of Ravi Raju.
Miss Chandana Sen or Ma Chandi as mocking called by her friends was also returning home like Anil. A student of Anthropology in Mumbai University, her hobby was actually solving crossword puzzles. Everyday while returning to Bandra she used to solve puzzles all the way from Churchgate. She also had looked at the picture issued by police of a missing woman with a contact number mentioned below the picture. Must be a police station in and around Ghatkopar, she guessed. Being a student of Anthropology she was actually studying the face contour of the picture and was trying to put in a regional signature on the same. Punjabi? Must be, she thought, because most of the times Punjabi women have much fuller lips. And the eyes are more oval than the eastern or western siblings. Must have been a pretty thing!! The train was entering Dadar. After the overwhelming chaos got over, she started to concentrate on her crossword once again. Suddenly she noticed that on the extreme left of the ladies’ compartment a lady was standing with her both hands clinging from the hand rests. She was dressed in blue salwar kameez. She was carrying a tote bag on her shoulder, looking thirtish. And it was the same woman as in the newspaper!! Chandana went on checking her with the picture till Matunga Road came up. As the train was slowing down Chandana had made up her mind by then.
She did not have a cell and neither had she known till when the mysterious lady is going to be on board. Her pass was only till Bandra as well, which means she will be traveling ticket less if she by any means want to keep a tab even after Bandra. In desperation, she looked around her and saw an elderly lady playing games on her Sony Ericsson. Can I make a local call from your cell please? I have left my cell at home and need to talk urgently to my parents. The trick she picked up from one of the soaps worked well and the elderly lady gave her cell. With trembling fingers Chandana started to dial the number given in the newspaper. (To be continued..)

The Society Scandal

Rumors flew thick in the air. The whole society was abuzz. Mrs. Rastogi had not attended Mrs. Malhotra’s pet Pommerian’s birthday complaining of a headache. Mrs. Ghosh whispered, “Even last week, she walked in the last moment to Mrs. Malhotra’s kitty party.” Mrs. Mishra nibbled delicately at paneer pakora and remarked, “That’s because she had to water her Star of Bethlehem’s. She always says that 4pm is the only time of the day when the plants can absorb water. Fo..fo…she called it fotosynthesix.” “Actually,” replied Mrs. Ghosh, “the whole fallout was because Mrs. Rastogi lost to Mrs. Malhotra in the Mahjong party at Mrs. Mirchndani’s”. “Ssshhhhh!” Joined Mrs. Krishnamurthy. “I know the real reason. Mr. Malhotra is soon going to get a big promotion and then he will be senior to Mr. Rastogi.” “Oh! My gosh” exclaimed Mrs. Mishra and Mrs. Ghosh.

It was official now. Cold war had begun. Chintu Rastogi was not allowed to play with Bobby Malhotra. At Pummy’s wedding, Mrs. Malhotra gifted her silver anklets and Mrs. Rastogi hit back with gold earrings. When the Rastogi family decided to spend their summer at Singapore, the Malhotras chose New Zealand.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Krishnamurthy was doing her best to bring them together. She paired up the two of them in the three-legged-race at her residence on a sunny winter Sunday afternoon. It did not work. She went to Mrs. Rastogi’ place and under the pretext of learning how to maintain Star of Bethlehem’s, tried to gain her confidence. Mrs. Malhotra poured out her heart while showing her how to cook Paneer Butter Masala. Mrs. Krishnamurthy had all the inside dough and people flocked to her for news.

Equations in the company were changing very fast. Mr. Ray the President was about to retire and there was speculation about who would succeed him. Opinion was divided between Mr. Malhotra and Mr. Rastogi. Many said, Rastogi would be promoted over Malhotra and he would be the next President. Mrs. Malhotra and Mrs. Rastogi continued to smile their plastic smiles when they met at parties and grimaced as soon as their backs were turned. Tension was rife in the air.

The day arrived. Mr. Ray was retiring. He would name his successor and a grand farewell party would be thrown at the club soon afterwards. Mr. Rastogi and Mr. Malhotra arrived in office in spotless white shirts and their wives got their best Kanjeevarams ready. Mr. Ray called everyone to his office and said; “The management has decided that in the event of my retirement, Mr. Krishnamurthy will take over as the next President of the company. Mr. Malhotra and Mr. Rastogi will be assisting him. They will both be promoted as Vice-Presidents. Thank you.”

The party was a grand success. Everybody commented on how appropriate it was of the wives of the newly appointed Vice-Presidents to turn up in South Indian silks. Mrs. Krishnamurthy was particularly pleased. She commented on how glad she was to have Mrs. Rastogi and Mrs. Malhotra as her dearest friends. She demanded that they jointly throw a party at the women’s club next week. Mrs. Rastogi and Mrs. Malhotra had suddenly become best friends, together venting their ire against the newly appointed President’s wife. Mrs. Krishnamurthy had the last laugh!

Money..Money..Money - 2

(Continued from Money..Money..Money - 1)

Ravi Raju was looking at the chandelier with admiration. He was actually trying to gauge the cost of the thing. The last time he saw a similar thing was at the Y.V Chavan Auditorium at the Women’s College, which is happens to visit more often because his daughter was studying there. It was 11 am in the morning and the crowd out side the flat 304 as well the Kiran gate was almost immobile. The buzz around was only asking one question. What actually have happened?? Ravi himself was a bit flummoxed. The flat he was standing on was a typical Mumbai up market one with all the facilities starting from Home Theatre to 29’ color television. The bathroom was a dream come true for anyone with sauna bath facilities along with a wide array of expensive toiletries. Other than the chandelier, there were very costly paintings in the Hall. One thing that was missing from the flat was any picture. His people could not find a single snap or photo in that flat. Patkar from the forensics called him. Breaking out of his reverie Ravi asked, found the body? Patkar nodded in the negative. Actually till now Ravi had witnessed lot of gruesome crime scenes. But this one at the Kiran had him stumped. Every where he can see blood smeared with the torn pieces of clothes. But there was no sign of the body at all. And most intriguingly, the person who have been the first to set off the alarm do not even know the name of the inhabitant of the flat. The CSI Team was almost sure that a violent crime was committed. But then as an investigating officer Ravi cannot lodge an assault and murder case unless he can get hold of the body. Suddenly constable Wagle came running down the corridor holding a piece of cloth in his hand. It was stained with blood and seemed to be a part of a beige kurta. Saab, I recovered it from the staircase. It was actually wedged between the window sill between the second and third floor. Now this was some clue, Ravi thought. Wagle, take your people and search every nook and corner of this building and the adjacent lanes please, he barked his orders. But inside he was very confused.
He gave a last look at the flat and came out of the door of the flat – the same one through which Anil made his entry sometime before. The crowd outside was fell silent. Where is the building watchman? No one uttered any thing. Then a very old and haggard face came forth. I am Bimal Sir. And I am the watchman cum gardener here. Ravi looked up. The man was any where between 40 and 50. Dark complexion and seems to be a habitual drinker. He was reeking of country liquor all around. Ravi took him to a corner and started questioning.
Who used to stay here?
I don’t know. Actually she has just come to stay here.
Don’t you have her name in your society’s register?
No Sir. The register has got Mr. Khare’s name as he used to pay the society charges.
You want to tell me that a complete stranger was staying in your building and none of you had any inkling about it? That person could have been a squatter as well. Have you informed the owner of this flat? Ravi blurted out.
Yes Sir, actually the lady in question has brought in a letter from Mr. Khare declaring her as a lawful tenant. Here is the letter.
Ravi went through the letter very carefully. The only question he was thinking was whether the letter has been forged or not.
Did Mr. Khare previously used to keep tenants?
No.
With that Ravi concluded that there is little to know from the Kiran people. He picked his cell phone and started to place a call to the control room for the police artist. He was sure that he cannot file anything more than a missing complaint. While dialing suddenly he remembered something. The neighbor fellow was mentioning something about a telephone ringing that brought him out of his flat!!!
He began looking very carefully inch by inch through out the flat until he came across the thing he was looking for. It was a very small Sony handset tucked discreetly in between two books in the bookshelf. It was wide screen and would have doubled as a PDA as well. Perked up with his discovery he tried to look at screen and find out the number that might have been there courtesy the missed call. But unfortunately all he could find was the screen saver playing. It was a flash demo for the set itself. Where he tried to press any button the only thing he could see was “ Enter the Authorization Code”. Thoroughly dejected the Inspector decided to send it to the Technicians (the geeks from the IT Crime cell) near the Crawford Market and wait for the artist to come down so that he can have at least a description sketched out for the mysterious lady. (To be Continued)

IT Survivors - Staying Alive In A Software Job - Written by Harshad Oak

Before I started working for myself, I spent some years in some of the top IT companies in India and still have many friends working in various software companies. I wrote a blog Recruiting like crazy, about the same time last year about how Indian companies are recruiting like there's no tomorrow and the possible consequences. However I was avoiding writing this particular piece as it seems like an unpatriotic thing to do, to tell the world how bad the working conditions in software companies in India have become. And there's always the risk of excerpts being used out of context to bash up IT in India.

I am now writing this because I just keep hearing horror tales from the industry and it doesn't seem like anything is being done in the matter, so I thought I will do my bit and write.

First and foremost, before stereotypes about India kick in, I would like to clarify that I am not saying that Indian software companies are sweat shops where employees aren't being paid and made to work in cramped uncomfortable places. The pay in software companies is very good as compared to other industries in India and the work places are generally well furnished and plush offices. India being a strong democracy, freedom of expression is alive and well and Indians are free to express their opinions and voice their concerns. Yet, I say that the software industry is exploiting its employees.
IT work culture in India is totally messed up and has now started harming the work culture of the nation as a whole. Working 12+ hours a day and 6 or even 7 days a week is more the rule than the exception.

Consequences:

• A majority of IT people suffer from health problems.As most of the IT workforce is still very young, the problem isn't very obvious today but it will hit with unbearable ferocity when these youngsters get to their 40s.
  
• Stress levels are unbelievable high. Stress management is a cover topic in magazines and newspapers and workshops on the subject are regularly overbooked.
  
• Most IT people have hardly any social / family life to talk of.
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• As IT folk are rich by Indian standards, they try to buy their way out of their troubles and have incurred huge debts by buying expensive houses, gizmos and fancy cars.

Plush offices, fat salaries and latest gizmos can give you happiness only if you have a life in the first place.
The reason I feel this culture has emerged, is the servile attitude of the companies. Here's a tip for any company in the west planning to outsource to India. If you feel that a project can be completed in 6 weeks by 4 people, always demand that it be completed in 2 weeks by 3 people.

Guess what, most Indian companies will agree. The project will then be hyped up as an "extremely critical" one and the 3 unfortunate souls allocated to it will get very close to meeting the almighty by the time they deliver the project in 2 weeks. Surprisingly, they will deliver in 2-3 weeks, get bashed up for any delays and the company will soon boast about how they deliver good quality in reasonable time and cost. Has anyone in India ever worked on a project that wasn't "extremely critical"?

I was once at a session where a top boss of one of India's biggest IT firms was asked a question about what was so special about their company and his answer was that we are the "Yes" people with the "We Can Do It " attitude. It is all very well for the top boss to say "We Can Do It ".. what about the project teams who wish to say "Please....We Can't Do It " to the unreasonable timelines...I was tempted to ask "What death benefits does your company offer to the teams that get killed in the process?". I sure was ashamed to see that a fellow Indian was openly boasting about the fact that he and his company had no backbone. The art of saying No or negotiating reasonable time frames for the team is very conspicuous by its absence. Outsourcing customers more often than not simply walk all over Indian software companies. The outsourcer surely cannot be blamed as it is right for him to demand good quality in the least cost and time.

Exhaustion = Zero Innovation

• How many Indians in India are thought leaders in their software segment? - Very few


• How much software innovation happens in India? - Minimal


• Considering that thousands of Indians in India use Open Source software, how many actually contribute? - Very few

Surprisingly, put the same Indian in a company "in" the US and he suddenly becomes innovative and a thought leader in his field. The reason is simple, the only thing an exhausted body and mind can do well, is sleep. zzzzzz
I can pretty much bet on it that we will never see innovation from any of 10000+ person code factories in India.
If you are someone sitting in the US, UK... and wondering why the employees can't stand up, that's the most interesting part of the story. Read on...

The Problem

The software professional Indian is today making more money in a month than what his parents might have made in an year. Very often a 21 year old newbie software developer makes more money than his/her 55 year old father working in an old world business. Most of these youngsters are well aware of this gap and so work under an impression that they are being paid an unreasonable amount of money. They naturally equate unreasonable money with unreasonable amount of work.

Another important factor is this whole bubble that an IT person lives in.. An IT professional walks with a halo around his or her head. They are the Cool, Rich Gen Next .. the Intelligentsia of the New World... they travel all over the world, vacation at exotic locations abroad, talk "american", are more familiar of the geography of the USA than that of India and yes of course, they are the hottest things in the Wedding Market!!!

This I feel is the core problem because if employees felt they were being exploited, things would change.
I speak about this to some of my friends and the answer is generally "Hey Harshad, what you say is correct and we sure are suffering, but why do you think we are being paid this much money? It's not for 40 hours but for 80 hours a week. And anyway what choice do we have? It's the same everywhere."
So can we make things change? Is there a way to try and stop an entire generation of educated Indians from ending up with "no life".

Solutions

1. Never complement someone for staying till midnight or working 7 days a week.
   Recently, in an awards ceremony at a software company, the manager handing over the "employee of the month" award said something like "It's unbelievable how hard he works. When I come to office early, I see him working, when I leave office late, I still see him working".. These sort of comments can kill the morale of every employee trying to do good work in an 8hr day.
   Companies need to stop hiding behind the excuse that the time difference between India and the west is the reason why people need to stay in office for 14 hours a day. Staying late should be a negative thing that should work against an employee in his appraisals. Never complement someone for staying till midnight or working 7 days a week .
   
   
2. Estimates:
   If time estimates go wrong, the company should be willing to take a hit and not force the employee to work crazy hours to bail projects out of trouble. This will ensure that the estimates made for the next project are more real and not just what the customer has asked for.
   
   
3. Employee organizations / forums
   NASSCOM (National Association for Software and Services Companies) and CSI (Computer Society Of India) are perhaps the only two well known software associations in India and both I feel have failed the software employee. I do not recall any action from these organizations to try and improve the working conditions of software employees. This has to change.
   I am not in favor of forming trade unions for software people, as trade unions in India have traditionally been more effective at ruining businesses and making employees inefficient than getting employees their rights and helping business do well. So existing bodies like NASSCOM should create and popularize employee welfare cells at a state / regional level and these cells should work only for employee welfare and not be puppets in the hands of the companies.
   If the industry does not itself create proper forums for employee welfare, it's likely that the government / trade unions will interfere and mess up India's sunshine industry.
   
   
4. Narayan Murthys please stand up
   Top bosses of companies like Infosys, TCS, Wipro, etc. need to send the message loud and clear to their company and to other companies listening at national IT events that employee welfare is really their top concern and having good working culture and conditions is a priority. Employee welfare here does not mean giving the employee the salary he/she dreams of.
   

Last word

I am sure some of my thoughts come from the fact that I too worked in such an environment for a few years and perhaps I haven't got over the frustrations I experienced back then. So think about my views with a pinch of salt but do think about it. And if you have an opinion on this issue, don't forget to add a comment to this article

Money.. Money.. Money - 1

The phone was ringing constantly in top volume. The polyphonic ring tone was traveling to almost all corners of the 2 Bedroom Flat in Ghatkopar. No one was answering it. The flat was a spacious one if anyone considering 1100 square feet of floor space in a city like Mumbai. Kiran Cooperative Housing Society was actually made on the land meant for rehabilitating slum people of Kurla. But as it often happens in Mumbai, the land sharks got the smell of a deal for the taking. They are the ones who actually oiled the right palms to acquire the land and build a ten storied building. And yes there was no one who can be deemed a proper slum dweller living in the building. At a going price of thirty five lakhs per flat no one expects that kind of benevolence as well. Now why and how the building came to be known as Kiran Cooperative is not known to many. Some people guess that the promoter making this building might have been a big fan of Sharukh Khan for his K..KK..kk..kiran style. But then all are vague guesses. The Know-it-alls find the Cooperative part more interesting as they think that the usage of the word has been done only to evade the property taxes as well as to give the building a somewhat dignified middle class outlook in line with its birth history. The phone was actually a new Reliance land line connection with all the latest gadgets like polyphonic ring tones, caller id, SMS facility etc built in.
It was 7 in the morning and Mr. Anil Chandiramani was getting agitated as he was working late at night and the constant ringing was actually disturbing his morning laziness. Anil lives in 303 and the phone was ringing in the flat 304. Because of the thinness of the wall (again the promoter has to be blamed for that) was making him feel as if the instrument was ringing in his drawing room. While listening to the shrill polyphonic ring he was thinking about giving the neighboring flat a visit. But then actually he was in two minds. The flat 304 was vacant for a long time as the owner of the flat Mr. Naveen Khare was an NRI settled in US. And people in the building had this notion that this flat was actually purchased by Mr. Khare to make sure that he has some Indian roots left at least to which he can come back. But keeping a flat empty for long is again not an advisable thing to do as the space crunch in Mumbai has actually lead to people taking the initiative and breaking in into empty flats and squatting there for as long as possible. Last Sunday Anil had noticed that the flat is not empty anymore. The Good Mr. Khare might be keeping tenants, Anil guessed and gave it no further thought. The next day Anil was waiting for the lift when the door of the flat 304 opened. The lady who came out and started to put in the lock was somewhere in her late thirties, although Anil could have swear that she looked not a day younger than 30. An almost hour glass figure, she had with some amount of excess fat in proper places making the view from behind more interesting. When she turned, Anil immediately caught site of a dimpled face with a fair complexion, which in Mumbaiya Hindi would have warranted the comment “Jhakas”. She was wearing a tastefully cut opal green kurta with a beige salwar. The only thing that he noted more than anything else was the coldness in her eyes. Both her eyes were on him but it seemed that his presence did not register at all. As she started coming towards the elevator, she did not even seem to care that Anil was almost ogling at her. They went down together, with Anil almost searching for words to make an introduction. But the coldness of the lady gave him an idea that it might be a safe ploy. Anil was actually married and waiting for his family from Baroda to join him shortly in Mumbai where he was just settling down in his new job posting at Indian Oil Corporation.
Anil was still in his bed and mulling on whether to go and knock on the door. In posh apartment complexes like these people don’t care about their neighbours. But Anil has noticed that in the last seven days almost all the residents of Kiran have taken note of this lady. But the coldness shown by the woman at any kind of friendly advance has actually deterred the inhabitants from any kind of close encounters.
The ringing stopped. And then it started again. Having enough of it Anil went out of his bed and opened his flat’s door and went into the small lobby. He mustered enough courage to walk up to flat 304. As he was just going to press the calling bell button he noticed something odd. The morning newspaper and the milk were lying un-collected. And the door was not locked at all. He pushed it lightly and it opened up in front of him. A fishy odor greeted his nose. Anil would never forget the sceen he saw in whole of his life. In front of him there were heaps of female clothes including lingerie, a blood soaked salwar and a torn kurta and the whole of the hall was smeared with blood. With the initial numbness passing away Anil started screaming at the top his voice. (To be continued..)

Dawn with hope

It was not raining, but was about to rain. The canopy of the sky seemed to gawk towards earth and the dark was getting even darker, the lanky coconut trees swung their heads, as if in despair. The waves fumed, as if with rage against the rough caress of the strong winds that were blowing over the seas, as they lashed against the shoreline. Arnab felt the first drops of the rain as the haze over the east moved closer. It was not a day that you would want to venture out in the open seas as he saw few small boats at a distance, wobble over the surface vanishing every now and then between the crests and troughs of the swelling water. The lighthouse stood silently like a ghost on the east of where he sat, in the direction of the arriving rains. He had looked at the red and white bands that adorned the lighthouse and made it look like a Lego toy from a distance. The beach was deserted. He took a swig from the bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag and felt the burn of alcohol as he ingested it. He felt very bitter like the taste of the cigarette that was lingering in his mouth. Nothing was going according to how he had dreamt.

He proceeded to move to the small shelf-like shelter that had formed under a large overhang boulder on the beach. It shielded the rain which was driving harder now and he could scarcely see the lighthouse through the haze. He was drenched thoroughly when he had finally made himself comfortable under the shelter. He groped his pockets urgently and swore under his breath as he took out a cigarette pack. They were dry to his relief as he proceeded to light one with the aid of his wind-proof lighter. Dragging hungrily at the cigarette he let the kick set in. The alcohol was taking effect and he could sense in his head a falling sensation. He took another large gulp from the bottle.

He had received the news of his failure only today just after he had arrived back home from his college in Pune. Satish had called up and had informed him of the final list and that his name did not figure in it. The interview had been fine, the HR round also went fine and he was confident he would make it to the most prestigious IT company of the country but … Arnab took another gulp and felt slightly numbed. He took the bottle out from the sodden paper bag and lifted it up to see the level of the golden yellow fluid inside. He was startled. There was hardly a peg or two left in it. He realized with rising concern that he had almost ingested a whole pint of whiskey.

The rain was slowing now. It was not a seasonal rainfall and Arnab knew that it would soon pass. He took another swig and felt his limit. The boats were now much closer but the swell of the seas still made them disappear and reappear amongst the waves. It was almost dusk, and Arnab saw the beam of the lighthouse light up. The lighthouse seemed very lonely in the stretch of the rocky coastline and Arnab felt a kind of solidarity with it. The difference being while the lighthouse had light he had none. The immediate future looked pitch black and bereft of any hopes. There were a few more campus interviews coming up but he has lost all his hopes. This was the third time that he had been through with the interview only to be refused the employment offer letter. All his classmates were by then placed in some organization or the other and it had been very discouraging. He could see the look of pity in the eyes of his classmates and knew he was a topic of their discussion. In spite of being moderately brilliant in his class, he was still jobless. He had taken to mailing his seniors in the alumni association of his college stating his plight but none could help. None SHALL help he thought bitterly.

The light was fast fading now and the skies have cleared a bit. In the gloom Arnab could still make out the boats. He wondered if the fishermen were happy with their lives. He often would look around him and watch the people intently. He tried to make out if a person was happy and if he had any complaints in life. Often he would find that everyone had problems, the difference was how each coped with them. He took a final long gulp and held the bottle to his lips till he was certain nothing of the fluid was wasted. He then threw it away and the bottle shattered hitting a rock. He tried to get up but fell and then blissfully passed out.

When he woke it was dark and the sky was clear. There was a bright moonlight and the sea, quiet now, glowed with strange green phosphorescence. The sea had receded baring the jagged rocks that would have been otherwise submerged. Arnab felt cold and tried to sit up. His head ached terribly and his mouth felt dry. Slowly realization set in that he was alone in the beach and looking at his watch he realized it was well past four in the morning. He gave a start. His parents would have been worried to death by then for he had not reported to them since his coming to the beach alone that evening. He felt all the more miserable, irresponsible and guilty. Pulling himself up from the sand he walked out from under the overhang shelter and looked at the lighthouse. It was an unending motion of the lights that threw a powerful beam across the seas. The Lighthouse, the moonlight and the splashing of the seas had added to the eerie atmosphere. Arnab had never seen the sea during this time of the day and felt strangely elated at the seascape. He fumbled for a cigarette and finding one lit it. Walking unsteadily, still under the influence of the alcohol; he stepped up between the rocks and made his way towards the more sandy part of the beach beyond the lighthouse.

The road was just about hundred meters from the lighthouse and the parking lot was a further hundred meters or so from there. He reached the base of the light house when he realized that he was strangely not so worried now. The sleep had helped to ease his tensions and he felt transformed. Still making his way through the scattered rocks he joined the road. He could see the parking lot and the small police booth at some distance. Arnab walked up to the parking area and saw his bike at once. He was worried if it had been stolen but seeing it there relieved him. He took his seat and puffed away in silence and watched the eastern horizon turn deep violet. The dawn was breaking.

Arnab was deep in retrospect irrespective of the dull throbbing pain in his head. He had felt a change come over him from the last evening and felt the change was positive. He remembered his suicidal thoughts and felt he had crossed into the stage of acceptance. There were four phases of the mental state of human beings, he knew. When a person comes to know of some terrible misfortune “Denial” sets in, where they simply deny that the terrible incident actually took place. It could last for a minute to a year depending on the sufferer in question. Then there was the state of “Doubt”, wherein the sufferer starts to doubt whether the incident actually took place. Then “Uncertainty” follows, where the person finds that the incident might have had taken place but still has doubts but of much lower intensity. Finally, state of “Acceptance” sets in, when the person resigns to the incident.

The lights of the lighthouse went out. The eastern sky was pale grey now, turning steadily into faint white and then as if with an explosion the first rays of sun lighted up the eastern sky. Looking at the sunrise Arnab felt hope flooding his senses like the new day’s promise as the sky progressively turned from ash to blue. The whole incident took no more than a minute. He threw away the butt of the cigarette he had been puffing and which had presently died out. He watched for a while and when his eyes began to water from the intensity of the sunrays he kicked the machine to life.

A new day has dawned and Arnab would try again…

Do you cry too?

Abhra watched the station of Yashwantpur pass as the train started rolling. He cast a last look at the landscape that was visible beyond the station walls and noticed the busy traffic. He took notice of the sad face of the little girl he had come to adore so much. Hena had been on the verge of tears. She clutched at the Bugs Bunny; she had earlier received as a gift from Abhra and lifted a silent but very meaningful eye at him as if to say “please don’t go”. Suzanne was waving but Abhra could tell she felt sad too. It was already getting dark and the lights of the city were starting to come on. It was a sight that he would remember and more because of Suzanne Mridul Iyyer. The thought of her had brought a lump in his throat and he felt heavy at heart. It seemed only yesterday that he had received the letter that was mistakenly sent to him…

***

He had received a letter from some Mridul Iyyer from Bangalore branch of his office stating him to perform a peer review on the report sent along with the mail. He had not understood a word of the letter neither could he get how it got to him in the first place. He then had looked up on the mail server address book and found that there were two Abhras listed; he had realized it had been sent to him by mistake and replied to the mail to that effect. He had received yet another such mail the following week. That time too he had politely sent the reply stating that he was not the intended recipient. When he had received a third mail from Mridul Iyyer he had not even bothered to open the attachment and had replied back rather urging the person (he had not been sure of the gender then and the name had not suggested the gender either) to stop mailing him every now and then. Abhra was not of those types who would send out mails without a thorough checking of the language, the idea and the tone the language conveyed, the spelling errors, the mailing list and so on. In a nutshell he was a perfectionist and never left anything for a further comment from his seniors. So, the idea of a person sending out project mails to him was unthinkable. Mridul had been very polite and apologetic in the reply. The mail thanked him for his continued help and also stated that Mridul had found Abhra’s mails reflected his cheerful disposition. Abhra had sought clarification feeling elated and thus their pen-friendship grew. It had been a whole month of courtesy good morning mails and other chit chats that they had first spoke, over the intra-organizational telephone network. Mridul, as Abhra had learnt then, was a lady of about thirty (much to his surprise as he had thought, by the name, that Mridul was some guy. It was later that he learnt her full name that he realized that she used her middle name for official purposes.) and was married. They had then exchanged their mobile numbers and kept in touch. While Abhra’s office colleagues jeered at him for having a married lady as a friend Abhra knew and felt that it was nothing to be ashamed of. A friend is a friend be of any age.

Their friendship had grown for about five months and Abhra had come to know about her in-laws, her husband and her little five year old daughter Hena, when Abhra was selected to be sent to Bangalore for some project requirements. It was then that Mridul had suggested that he should stay at her place. Abhra was not too sure if he should accept the invitation. It had been only five months and they have only spoken over the phone or had exchanged mails. They had not even seen each other. Abhra knew about facial expressions and body language, and he also knew that they were difficult to forge and therefore they would only give a true picture of a person. But to observe them you would have to meet the person and unless you meet the person you will never have those gut feelings about him/her that often turn true. He was skeptic about the invitation but agreed all the same. After all what had he to lose. Suzanne worked for the same company that he worked for; she was polite in her mails, could converse extremely well in flawless English, could empathize with the finer feelings of life, liked poetry, liked to go biking and feel the freedom, etc, etc. What had to fear for thought Abhra and decided to stay at her place.

He had been received at the Yashwantpur Station by Suzanne and her little daughter Hena. Abhra had immediately taken a liking for the kid. She was a sweet kid with an aura of innocence that is hard to come by amongst kids of her age. Kids were born wiser now often Abhra had thought. They seemed to know all about everything thanks to the age of information and idiot boxes! To a four year old Marukh Mann or Theity Pinta would be the role models, to them entertainment would mean watching the item numbers and dance along, to them reading story books were a taboo or even the good old Grandpa-Stories were a complete waste of time. But Hena seemed strangely like what normal kids would be like. Abhra knew about Suzanne’s father, who was a very good storyteller and also knew that Hena spent a considerable amount of time with her grandparents since both her parents were of working community. That would have been the reason for her sweet and innocent nature thought Abhra, or perhaps it was a regional occurrence. Abhra had remembered his niece in Kolkata who was about the same age as Hena and felt the glaring distinction.

Suzanne had a very calm and calculated and friendly outlook it had seemed to Abhra, as she deftly drove her way through the famous Bangalore Traffic snarls. They had talked about how excited they both were about this trip and how the mails had started a friendship that has resulted in this meeting. Hena had been intently following the conversation of the stranger she came to meet and when Abhra noticed she seemed to curl up in shyness. They had seen the VidhanaSauda, the lower house of the state parliament, the famous Lal Bagh, the Hosur Lake and the Museum on their way to Koramangala where Suzanne stayed. It was a Sunday and the PVR had stated to draw the crowd even at the early hours of morning. Abhra could make out the uniqueness of Bangalore he had heard so much about. The climate was like the most wonderful thing about Bangalore, and Abhra was in love with the city within the very first hour that he had arrived.

They had spent the day together. Sudhakar, Suzanne’s hubby, whom Abhra had met when he had arrived at Suzanne’s place, was a very jolly fellow. He was a scientist at the NAL (National Aeronautics Limited) and knew a little of Bengali, much to Abhra’s pleasure. They had gone out to the PVR where they had window shopped for an hour before Abhra bought a stuffed Bugs Bunny for Hena, who had been so overjoyed that she had kept springing on every step she took as if in a dance and continued to do so for the rest of the day. They had lunched at the Maharaja and then they went back to Suzanne’s place. They lived in a sprawling complex of three bed rooms of which one was allotted at his disposal. Tired and stuffed Abhra had rolled into a slumber. In the evening they had gone over to the PVR again and enjoyed a movie.

The following days passed rapidly, for Abhra had to work very hard for the requirement demanded it. He came back late accompanied by Suzanne on most of the days for she too had to work late to meet her unrealistic deadlines as she had put it. Then on Saturday Abhra accompanied by the whole family went to visit on Suzanne’s parents. Mr. Charles, Suzanne’s father, was indeed a very easy going personality and he started to converse with Abhra as if he knew Abhra for a long time. They had talked about Suzanne’s childhood, the climate of the city and the history of Bangalore and many more things that Abhra could not clearly recall but the overall visit was a huge success. Abhra met Suzanne’s brother Abraham who it seemed took pleasure in pulling Suzanne’s leg. They had discussed lots of incidents and Abhra had shared his’ too. They had their dinner there and had planned out the outing for Sunday. The food was prepared by Suzanne and Abhra admitted that she was indeed a fine cook.

Abhra had till Tuesday for the assignment and as it drew near he had felt his heart add on weight. He could not gauge it but his week long association with this family had moved him closer to Suzanne. Sunday they had gone out to see the city. They had visited the ISKCON temple and then they had lunch at the Nandini Chain of Hotels. Abhra had found the traditional North Indian food much palatable. He had been fed up with the South Indian dishes that had to be sour and contained the traditional South Indian sambhar daal and rasam. Then they had visited the NAL where Sudhakar worked. Abhra could not of course get to the more sensitive areas of the laboratory but he was satisfied with the tour his hosts had prepared for. They had then gone to Suzanne’s father’s place where Hena was dropped off and they proceeded to the famous and notorious M. G. Road. It was a sight to be remembered for the place seemed like buzzing with crowd. With neon lights and pubs all around, it was as if Abhra was in Las Vegas. They had taken on a small pub and had chattered away their time over pegs of strong liquor, with the music playing in the background. Abhra found a glaring difference in the way pubs are conducted in Kolkata. He had the opportunity to be at the Someplace Else, the pub in Kolkata that he had heard too many praises about, but it was dingy and played the music too loud. The girls, mostly of the student category were no doubt very different from what Abhra was accustomed seeing in Kolkata. There in Bangalore, it seemed, the girls were all from the US of America. They certainly dressed and behaved similarly and perhaps thought in the same lines as them, Abhra had said. Suzanne had endorsed his views and had remarked “You know Kolkata chicks become babes in Bangalore. The transformation is amazing and I had the opportunity to see one change myself”. Abhra had been taken aback by the comment but he had kept quiet. Suzanne by then had had a drink too much.

Tuesday had come. Suzanne had taken the day off for Abhra was to leave. Abhra could sense the heaviness that kept mounting till it was time to say goodbyes. Abhra had bid farewell to Sudhakar in the morning when he had left for work. Suzanne gave him a ride to the station. Abhra had carried pure cotton saree from Kolkata. He had decided to give it away on the occasion of farewell. At the station Abhra had presented the sari to Suzanne who was clearly overjoyed. Cotton sarees were costly in Bangalore Abhra had learnt then. He took his berth in the train and it was then that he received a Blazer from Suzanne. It was beautiful. Abhra had been wondering what was there in the bag that Suzanne had carried along with her, he knew then that it had the blazer in it. He was overcome with powerful emotions but he had steadied himself….

***

He could barely see the face of Hena now but that was not because of the distance. Abhra realized he had been crying and the tears blocked his vision. He felt like crying out loudly to ease the pain that had resulted from his attempts to hold back his tears. He could hardly breathe. It was strange that human mind can be attached to someone in a way to induce tears and that too in such a short time. Abhra remembered his initial fears and doubts. They seemed so futile now. As the train gathered speed and the station lights went out of view Abhra could not stand at the gate any longer. He went into the wash room and cried his heart out.