Yours truly – 3

What will anyone call a girl who is craving to take the head of a totally unknown boy on her breasts, as the tears keep rolling down the cheeks of that boy heartbreakingly? Shameless I guess. But at that point of time Sejal, twenty two springs old was already feeling that the organ on the left of her body was actually missing. Yes I am talking same organ that pumps blood into veins and always becomes a favorite target of a boy-god. But Vivek was such a person I just could not manage enough courage to do what I have contemplated. Instead I went off to canteen and bought two nice cups of tea and handed one over to Vivek. He took it without question, drank it and left the place even without thanking me, which any way I was not expecting.
People undergo lots of emotions when they are in love. But the only emotion that I was suffering from was anger at what was being done to Vivek. I could see through his eyes that he will never be able to trust a girl fully. Every time any one of the female students went to him to talk Vivek became strangely cold. All other times no one could have matched him with his ready wit and the sparkle of a pure soul. Vivek topped his class and after receiving an immense job offer to be a Brand Manager for Procter and Gamble in Cincinnati never looked back and took off for US. That was in 2002. After listening to his voice almost after 4 and half years I was not only excited but curious as well to know what Vad is doing nowadays and why should he need me at all!
I found him sitting at the corner table for two in the discreetly tucked away restaurant called Peter Cat. In front of him was a half drunk glass of an orange liquid. He seemed so much lost in thought that he did not even noticed me till I took my seat in front of him and wished him a god afternoon. “Oh! Hi Sejal, this place had not lost its charm at all. I can still smell the mouth-watering sizzlers being cooked somewhere.” He took a swig of his drink which by then I knew was screwdriver – a cocktail made from orange juice and vodka. Although clean shaven he was looking haggard in a way. Black spots were in the making under the eyes; his impeccable dressing sense was not quiet there as well. “So where you now and what are are you doing, dude, “I asked in a light tone. As if talking in a trance he replied “Well, I am still with Procter and Gamble.” “Currently I am visiting Indian metros in order to promote a fairness product for men.” “Good to know that now even men might feel to become fairer, isn’t it? I told in jest. He smiled. The same lop sided careless grin that made many a legs turn to jelly. Although captivated I knew that I have only an hour maximum to spare. “Tell me how come you remember me after so long a time?”. As soon as I uttered this sentence all signs of happiness seemed to drain out his face. Vivek replied “Sejal, do you and Manoshi only fight for women in distress?” I was taken aback by his question. It is true that most of the time we have found women at the receiving end of different types of mistreatments. Me and my colleagues have actually never been approached with anything different. So I replied “Yes. Currently we are only having the women as clients.” “But what happens if a man comes down to you with the same kind of problems – is there any policy in your organization restricting you from taking the case?” I admitted that actually I have not come across any such kind of biased policy. Manoshi was actually more of a counseling house to oversee that the social texture and composition of a country as vast and diverse as India remains strong. As society forms a strong base in the growth of a country. In fact that was what our mission statement says in gist. I looked at my watch and saw that I have only about half an hour left. “Vivek, Can you please state your problem?” May be I can try and help you out as a friend.” Vivek stared blankly for a few seconds as if trying to recollect something and then he started to talk. “Sejal, you know that after I got hold of a job with P&G I moved on to Cincinnati. This move was more of a kind of an escapist effort than anything else. I wanted to run away from anything and anyplace that reminded me of Chandreyi. And let me tell you after starting to work, I made sure that I work so hard that no such thoughts of betrayal can occupy my mind. After an year or more I was visiting New York City for a trade promotion conference on my company’s behalf. The conference sponsors kept us all in the Grand Hyatt. It was 8 PM in the evening of a bleak winter day; I received a call from the hotel reception that a lady wants to meet me. I was in my sleeping suit. Surprised, I just put on my pull over and went downstairs. One look at the lady and my heart skipped not one but all the beats. It was Chandreyi, and her sweetness now have come a matured beauty. She was dressed in a black top and skirt and looking younger but mature more than she ever had. All the blood must have drained out from my face. As the receptionist apologized profusely and told me that the way this lady insisted on meeting me, she had no option left other than to give me the buzz. Noticing the awkward situation and people looking at us curiously, I smiled wanly at Chandreyi and asked her to step into the coffee shop, which was more or less empty for residents were busy in the lunch room. I ordered and got two cups of coffee. While adding sugar and milk to mine I looked at her in anticipation. My mind was totally in a chaos. “Hi Vivek, how are you doing?” she asked softly. “Fine,” I said. And for the next two minutes almost we did not speak. Then she said that “Vivek, I am sorry for meeting you like this. I actually work in the ROSS store opposite to the convention center where I saw you by chance today. I know that after what I have done to you there is now way that I can ask for any forgiveness. But then the Almighty have also punished me like anything for my cruelty.” She stopped and tears started rolling down her cheeks silently. “
After stating till now, Vivek stopped as well. I asked him, “then what did you do?” he gave a wry smile and then said; “Chandreyi and Sourav after marriage came down to USA and had started living life happily. It was during the Christmas holidays in the year 2003, they went a camping tour to India. They were visiting the Himachal Pradesh in a place call Fagu. This was a place where they were taking skiing lessons as well. One fine morning Sourav complained of severe chest pain. He just could not even speak properly because of the pain. After taking him to the Military Command hospital he was diagnosed with acute pneumonia. And after fighting for life for about two days, he died. After this terrible mishap Chandreyi thought about staying back in India forever. But she needed to come back to USA for tying up few loose ends. And she also took up a part time job in a retail shop just to forget the emotional pain, when she saw me. Naturally I was very much moved by her story and told her to be in touch regarding any help she needed from me. From time to time I started visiting her in New York and within a month or two, I proposed to her and she accepted. We got married and settled down in Cincinnati. A very happy ending to what started off as a tragedy in my life, right?” Vivek looked at me intently.
From my experience in marital discords I can smell out that all was not hunky-dory even after the revival of long lost love. There was more to it or otherwise I would not be sitting in front of Vivek. To be very frank and honest the other Sejal in front of me was becoming restless right from the time Vivek brought upon the topic of that wretched girl. And when I heard that they were married, I was almost too eager to hear the adverb “unhappily” more than the other one. Moving my eyes from Vivek’s stare I rebuked myself inwardly. “What has happened to me? Just for my own sake I am actually wishing ill for Vivek, one person whom I will always remember dearly forever?” I took control over myself with some effort. Vivek had already started continuing. “First six months of our conjugal life was really a great experience for me. I almost forgot any unpleasant experience that I might have endured in the past. I almost thanked God for the opportunity that was given to me. Chandreyi now Chandra for me was the best life partner that I could have dreamt of having. One thing that I noticed but never paid any heed to was the way she used to spend money on costly things and services etc. I always used to think that to have a trophy wife like her one has to make these concessions. It was exactly about 6 months from our marriage I received a call from the manager of my bank asking for an immediate meeting. Sejal, I was not only surprised but also shattered to learn that not only Chandra had withdrawn large sums of money from our joint account; she had also deposited the money to another account at New York as well. I could have understood her spending more money. But depositing the same money to another account to which I have no access or knowledge of was really something strange. I took a leave from work and got hold of her at our house. “Look Viv, I did not do anything out of character. I have already suffered from the sudden death of my first hubby and hence wanted to make sure that my future is secure enough in the eventuality of your death”. I was stunned but still keeping my cool I asked her knowing very well that she will be already be covered by the insurance that I have taken on me, why did she look out for more insurance. And believe me Sejal her face and voice changed totally and then she said with a hiss “Viv I have known you since college days and have always counted you as a loser, hence I have the right to look after my well being at least”. In a fit of rage we separated and started spending life separately. In between I needed to come down to India on business. Even without my invitation she had tagged on and now she is staying in separate rooms in the same hotel providing her maiden name in the register. I am in such a mental turmoil that I can now understand that I have nowhere to go. In this world most of the marital discord rules are heavily biased towards women and in case of a divorce she might rinse me dry of money. And now currently I have another big fear as well. I am not sure why but I have this feeling that what happens if I face the same fate as her first husband had faced?”
I can never forget that the look in Vivek’s face. It was the not only the look of a person who had being cheated badly twice but also the look of a prisoner on a death row, who knows that there is no stopping the inevitable. “Vivek”, I said “Before commenting anything on this unhappy episode of your life, I would like to know how come you thought of coming to me and more so how did you find me?” “Sejal, you are not the first person I have shared my woes. I went off to visit my pal from engineering, Neel, the same guy you have also met during our MBA and currently he is working in the ITC building very near to your office. After listening to my story he was one who suggested that I should visit you. When I came to your office I was confused about which floor your office should be as Manoshi has three floors in the same building. So I waited and saw the only women chauffer among all the men. You can say that knowing you very well I took a chance and went and asked her whether that was your car. After getting no reply I went to the second floor reception and asked for your office number. The lady in the reception was helpful enough and gave me your home phone number as well. “Now that’s the Vivek we all know. Getting anything done using charm and intelligence is like his second nature”, I thought. “Why did not you come to my office?” I asked. “ because I am not a woman and I do not have any proof that I am right and lastly, I did not want any problems as my company is specific about these things, Vivek replied. “OK Vivek, how long you are staying here?” “Another three days maximum and I am off to Delhi.” “OK. Give me some time and your contact number as well. I need to hurry. I will get in touch with you soon. Do not worry and be brave”. The last lines were exactly the same ones that I have uttered about three years back to a weeping boy of 22 behind a college canteen.

Yours truly - 2

"Hi..err.can I borrow your SM notes please?" Vivek was totally taken aback. A first year electrical engineering student was asking some lecture notes from a second year mechanical student. This is something not only surprising but ridiculous as well. Vivek Basu was a second year student of Jalpaiguri Government Engineering College. The general saying goes he was one of the brightest students that JGEC had ever had. His strong point was not actually studies but his personality. And this never meant that he has flunked in exams. Actually he always used to find a respectable place within the top 20 students in the college. Although he never stood first in studies when it came to winning debates, extempore and creative writing he just never had a match. He started his flare for extra-curricular activities long way back when he was actually 10 years old. It all started with an essay that he wrote regarding street children in the children’s supplement called "VOICES" for the revered English daily The Statesman. He was commended highly by none other than the eminent figure of CR Irani - the editor of the newspaper. From then onwards he did not have to look back and never had to ask a pocket money from his parents. What started off as just a childish essay became a daily activity for Vivek. He used to cover all the major entertainment events in Kolkata right from the age of 15 and became known to most of the city’s glitterati pretty fast. And his good looks as well added to his popularity. So much so, when DD Chanel 2 was looking up for a newsreader for their much vaunted Bengali news event, he almost became an automatically choice for them. At the age of eighteen, when all others of his age were actually mugging up IIT or WB Joint "made easy"s he was actually spending his time in front of camera donning an immaculate suit a bit large for his size and reading Bengali news in front of him.
Vivek lost his mother at a very tender age. And his father was everything in his life. Being a mechanical engineer himself and a successful one at that, he wanted his son to carry on the legacy. Although Vivek was earning much more than he would have done after 4 years engineering, he knew that nothing will satisfy his father unless he at least becomes a MECH - as they call the mechanical engineers. He also knew that he can carry the vocation that he liked much in spite of giving 4 years of his life as well. Every one starting from Mani Ratnam to Anil Kumble came to his mind and provided him the much needed support. And lastly he loved his father so much that he can go till any limits to put a smile in his face. He started preparation for the West Bengal Joint Entrance late, just about 4 months before it actually happened. After the exam was over he continued with some of the assignments that he has already taken, but did not take any new ones. When the results came out he saw that as expected he had a rank of 1134. This did not leave any option to study mechanical any where else other than this JGEC. So on the August of 1996 he packed his hold-all and took the train called Teesta-Torsa from Sealdah to the Jalpaiguri Road Station, where his college was. His father showed false strength in the railway station knowing that now he would become lonelier and blessed his son to go and become a MECH.
They all say and rightly that it is impossible to hide a flare of talent be it anywhere. It was during the rigorous ragging period of one month Vivek became hot favorites of the seniors in the college because of his ready wit and personality in the face of several odds to slaps, kicks, doing odd jobs and still getting the slaps. He never lost his cool and once he really entertained a bunch of savages from the second year hostel with all the idiosyncrasies of the media people for about one hour and actually managed to save the skins of many of his batch mates instantly catapulting him to a hero status.
The ragging period ended with the ceremonial dip in the pond more to actually drive away the stench of the same clothes worn for about a month than anything else and the class of 1996 JGEC Mechs started their journey.
Vivek took a good look at the girl standing in front of him. Chandreyi Roy had caused a lot of heart burns among both her own batch mates as well as some of the senior students (all males off course). Most of their advances had been met with such a cold shoulder that there was not a single chance left for them. Debating on the girl’s motive he looked around himself. Not so far away he can see some girls both senior and juniors were actually peeping out of the vast balcony of the electrical department. The he looked behind and saw some of his own batch mates are grinning very sheepishly. A bit confused he asked her " But you have only EM ( engineering mechanics) in your course and not SM (Strength of Materials), SM is totally a waste for you! " he added hopefully, so that he can frighten the girl about the folly she is going to commit. Chandreyi was a bit red in face and sweating a little. She straightened the V of her palloo and removed the errant strand of hair from her face and flashed her best smile ( which she very well knew is capable of killing anything and anyone with a brain within a periphery of 100 feet) and nasally squeaked, " Vivek, Will you or Won’t you give your SM Notes to me pleaseee".
Vivek heard and saw everything and then just to end the conversation he said, "Please try and understand, I do not have any clue whether you will really need it or not, but then as you are asking for it, do one thing please. Take it from Smita, your senior from Mech second year, as she has already photo copied the same from me about a week back. Ok? And I am getting late for my class. Bye" With that he turned and went straight towards his class leaving behind a few giggles and a very distraught girl.
It was final year for Vivek and it was festival time for the college. The JGEC fest is counted among the best of the cultural events happening in the North Bengal region. And
Looking at his charisma he was made the cultural secretary. This was again a post which actually made him do a few more rounds of the girl’s hostel than he would have liked. From childhood he had been very shy of girls. As he grew up this shyness became almost like a shield for him. He knew that he likes to entertain people, do something creative. But in front of the fairer ones he became helplessly tongue tied.
It was a cold November evening when he needed to go to the LH or Ladies’ Hostel in short to distribute some of the advertisement forms. It was around 7 PM and he found that there is almost no light at all in the place. "WBSEB has again done it", he thought. He saw light coming out of the waiting room cum common room and went towards it. It was the first time he was entering LH. On getting into the common room he got a very sweet smell unlike the smell of sweat and rustic that comes out of the common room of the men’s hostels. Everything starting from the carom board to the settee was decorated in a very tasteful but frugal way. The he had a look towards light source and gasped inwardly. It was Chandreyi sitting on the paper room’s chair and table. She wore a velvety kind of a night dress and was actually reading something. Listening to his footsteps she looked up. "Where is the supervisor?" He muttered, and then remembering that he should speak up and well with a lady as taught by his father, he said "Hi Chandreyi, I actually came to distribute some of these advertising pamphlets". Chandreyi was still looking at him. Finding no response he said impatiently, "I am going away and will come back some other time" and turned. "Hold on please and give them to me" he heard. She has stood up and for the first time Vivek smiled effortlessly in front of a girl. She came to Vivek and stretched her hand. Noticing her fair complexion, Vivek gave the ad-cards to her. Instead of taking the cards Chandreyi took Vivek’s Hand and in a flash almost threw herself to Vivek’s chest. Vivek was caught unaware and his first reaction was actually to hold Chandreyi with two hands lest he should fall. Losing no pace Chandreyi planted a kiss on Vivek’s lips. The sweet fragrance coming out of her hair, the wamth of her body and the beating of his own heart almost took Vivek in a trance like state. He did not notice whether it was 2 seconds or minutes or hours, but it felt like heaven almost. When Vivek tried to look into Chandreyi’s eyes she will not look up. So Vivek almost forcefully took her chin up just to find that she was smiling with tears. Cupid had made the first strike. Vivek took Chandreyi’s hand and came out of the LH. It was still dark. And then they started walking hand in hand through a solitary lane within the college campus. Not finding any words Vivek said "where are the other people in the LH?" "They have gone for a small party to celebrate the hostel’s 10th year in existence". "You stayed behind?" "Yes, I am still running a bit of fever". Vivek was worried and said that "Then I should not have brought you outside in this cold. " Let us get back". "NOOO", she said and embraced Vivek sideways.
When it was time for Vivek to leave the campus, Vivek was totally sure that his love for Chandreyi was strong enough to be carried over to the next level which is the commitment to stay together for a lifetime. She had still one year to complete her engineering and he had got through one of the premier B-Schools in Kolkata. Although he was pained by the distance separating both of them he was sure that when they will meet they will be for each other. Chandreyi was always the stronger willed partner of the two and she told Vivek in very clear words that Vivek should go and concentrate only on his post graduation while she completes her course. They will be in touch with each other through mails, chat and phone. And also when Chandreyi will go to Kolkata they can always find a quiet place together to share everything. So off went Vivek to get into the world of business management. It was July 2000.
They were keeping in touch with each other for about 2 months when suddenly Chandreyi totally went of the radar. Vivek took it as a simple case of giving the studies the first priority. About 4 months went by. Vivek was completing the grueling first semester. Like in engineering college, he gained popularity in the b-school as well through his winning personality and bagged a lot of intra-college management event prizes as well. He was almost a natural in the skills of marketing and convincing. And he actually now loved what he was studying. His worries about his love started when he came to know from his juniors that although Chandreyi had visited Kolkata as many as two times she did not even thought of giving him a call. He sent mails, tried to call up the ladies’ hostel. But nothing came to his avail. Chandreyi it seems that, have severed all links. He was worried and by the end of the second semester his grade took a bit of hit as well. Although he never knew what went wrong, he had his doubts that her feelings about him were actually a kind of hero-worshipping and not love. In his batch of management students there was a girl called Sejal Shah. Although Sejal was gunning for a specialization in HR in the first semester itself they were together for different group activities because of the proximity of their role numbers. Although the girl was not as sweet as Chandreyi, she had an air of sobriety and truthfulness around her which made many a people to share many of their personal thoughts. Vivek knew that Sejal liked him but was lady enough never to let her wish known to him. But his mind was full of Chandreyi - her laughter, her frowning, her touch everything. It was Sejal only who found Vivek hidden and with tears rolling down his cheeks behind the canteen. It was to Sejal then Vivek shared the truth that the final nail in coffin of his love had been driven. He had received the communication that Chandreyi was getting married to an NRI that November of 2001. And what pained Vivek’s conscience more so that Chandreyi had known her husband to-be from her childhood. Sejal had no words of consolation, none at all.

Yours truly - 1

I was feeling so sleepy that I could have dozed out at any point of time. The silky glow coming out of the UV Protected computer screen in front of me was having the same effect as a night lamp. It was a rainy September day and the skies outside had really opened up and spraying all the mortals below with its showers. Although I could not listen I was actually witnessing the lightening flashes all around through the tinted glass windows all around. It was 6 PM and time for me to leave office after a lazy day. Durga Puja the best festival in this part of India was just around the corner. It was more like the incessant rains that had managed to bring down all professional activities to a halt. Most of my Bengali colleagues including my boss were absent. Me being a non-bengali or to be precise a Guajarati was actually passing time.
Before going further ahead let me introduce myself. I am Sejal Shah, a mid twenties girl with all the ambitions in this world stuffed in my head. I hail from a small village near Surat where most of the girls around my age are not only married till now but some of them are proud mothers as well. Among my other two brothers and one sister I am actually the black sheep of the family. And the reason behind it is my mother. She is the guiding soul in my life who had shown me the lights whenever I faltered from any of projected goals. When I became the first graduate in my family to pass BA in economics with honors from Baroda University, she was the first one as always to provide all the people in my family and neighborhood with dhoklas and laddoos free of cost. Both this distribution of food and my becoming a graduate was something unheard of in my family where the actual business through the ages was that of diamonds and not university degrees. My father was not at all happy and I was almost banished by my own family. If some of you going through my rambling think that as a drastic affair then let me fill you in with the fact that most of my known native people were not even interested to know the age or education of a girl while preparing her match. They just wanted to know the so called "haisiyat"or status of the family and how much will be the dowry.
As told earlier my mom was a crusader all through and all her hopes were pinned on me. So next what she did was got me exported to Ahmadabad in the next available train and I was sent to a spinster sister of my Mom to continue with my studies. I personally have let down a lot of people in my life. My diamond merchant father who was terribly afraid thinking where from and what cost will he be able to get a groom for his learned daughter. My brothers and sister who never got through any classes and they thought their elder sister to be an enigma of sorts. And that list kept on becoming longer.
To cut a long story really short, I made through all the tests in my life and got into one of the premier B-Schools in India here in Kolkata. And after passing out what the Yanks say " summa-cum-laude" declined an obscene salary in a New York City based multinational and settled to experiment in an NGO which was not swanky to say the least but it still provided with the kind of job that I think I was capable off. And Kolkata not being a very costly city I did managed to do well with whatever salary I was offered.
I was laughably snided upon by my batch mates who were now almost sure that however eccentric they have thought of me was actually much less that what I was in reality. Other than my professor for OB all thought I must have gone nuts. Mr. Sumit Tripathy, the terror of human resource management was actually an affable guy in his late fifties. He was the only one to congratulate me openly. I still remember his words ringing in my ears. "Do whatever you think you love to do - but do make sure that some idiot pays the salary".
While in a state of semi-trans I was actually remembering all these things. And I was feeling very lonely as well. My beloved mom had passed away last year. Sickened by the demands of her family she was also becoming the victim of extreme work. And her heart was not getting any better. I fought a lot with my own people to save her, but I was brutally counter attacked by my father who lamely stated the fact that I was not part of the family any more and more than any thing my mother’s contribution is very much needed to keep the family running smoothly. And hence I was not shocked to hear that my mother has contributed her life to the good of the family. When I was coming back with tears in my eyes after the altercation with my father, Ma told me one thing very clearly that even something bad happens to her she will be happy always to know that she is leaving behind her legacy in me. Remembering those kind words made me even lonelier.
"Shejol, ghor nehin jayega?" I was suddenly jolted out of my reverie by the baritone voice of the Senior Accountant, Kunal Da, the fatherly gentleman in his late fifties. A very amiable fellow but with dangerous sense of hindi like many other bongs. "Kunal Da, it is Sejal and ghar nahin jaungi" I replied with a smile on my face. "Are Charo na, it is all in the meaning, whetever be the language". Shaking my head in submission I just smiled at him. Kunal Da has been with Manoshi almost from the time of its inception in Ithaca, New York. A brilliant number cruncher he has actually chucked a happening career in banking to join Manoshi, after the sudden death of his daughter about 10 years ago. Then Manoshi was not a global NGO as it is now. It was just a hole in a wall organization mostly funded by the Ford and Rothschild foundation. Manoshi was then a movement lead by the charismatic figure of Lady Shonali Sen, a UK based NRI who wanted to give back something to her country of origin. After the untimely death of his daughter Kunal Da has received mail by post in his Kolkata address from his daughter. As usual the mail was late due to Indian Postal System. The whole letter stated one fact that what was claimed as an accident by his daughter Aparna’s in-laws was something more than that. Kunal Da through a commonly known associate approached the Lady in Manoshi. And Aparna’s accident case was opened up in due time by the law and order people. Serious investigations proved that the car Aparna was driving has been tampered with and the death due to brake failure was nothing but cold-blooded murder executed by her own husband and brother-law so that, they can feast on the hefty insurance money to be disbursed on this eventual death. Kunal Da was then shattered totally and he actually can never get the fact that where he actually went wrong when he married his sweet daughter with a budding business man. To put it mildly Aparna was slaughtered in order to cover up a huge business loss that this budding business man had gone through. Although he could not stop his own daughter’s demise, Kunal da made it a point to use his expertise to stop other’s daughters undergoing the same fate.
I picked up my official folders and called Savitri on cell to get my car ready. "Kunal Da, do you need a lift till Ravindra Sadan"? I asked. Now Kunal da looked at me and said with a smile "It is Ro-bin-dro Shadon" and no I will be going to howrah via the old bridge today. So you can go ahead". Showing my teeth I moved on. It was 7 PM and the rains have taken a break. On the Kenwood a song by Hemonto (hope I have got the spelling right!!) was playing. Savitri, my personal aide cum driver cum cleaner cum guardian was in one of her good moods and the song was a rainy day song something like a : Meghla.. din… akela etc". The melody was good and it made me feel good as well.
"Shejdi, today something interesting happened while I went for fetching the car from the car park". As usual Savitri or "Shabitri" have again "bengalified" my name, broken it and added a "di" to it. In fact I have heard so much prefixes in the form of "da"s and "di"s after coming to Kolkata for last five years that I have grown accustomed to it. "What happened?" I loosely asked. "A very handsome man came down to me and asked whether this is your car or not. Instead of giving a reply I just ignored him. He became very sad and went away from there." I was a bit surprised. I have already crossed the age of girls where they always seem to enjoy extra attention from boys. And as per Savitri this is a man and not a boy. On asking her how did she know she replied in a very mature tone "Girls have an inborn knack of separating men from boys"? I started laughing at her sermon which made her very sulky. She said that she is ready to bet her one month’s salary on this fact. I was now not only surprised but a bit worried as well. Because the profession I am in never makes friends especially with the men. As Manoshi is always fighting and helping the cause of the fairer sex the darker ones are always ill at ease with this organization. In fact a few months back I have been threatened with life by a political goon as well whose bosses’ wife I was defending from marital atrocities. In my cell I always have the numbers of the high positions in the law and order apparatchiks. When Savitri ultimately took a turn toward Rowland Row, I shrugged off all my baseless fears and got ready to get out in front of my apartment block. The building in which my flat was actually constructed by a distant uncle of mine. Hence I got the 800 square feet flat dirt cheap. It was in the 7th floor and was amply airy and sunny as well. I really relished the prospect of sharing this abode of mine with none at all. It was eightish by the clock, when I switched on the television and asked Savitri for a cup of coffee.
I was engrossed in the business news from NDTV Profit when I heard the melodious ring tone of my telephone. Calls at ungodly hours are a routine in my profession which is actually more like counseling than management. So, without thinking anything I picked up the receiver. "Can I speak with Sejal Shah please?" on the contrary to my normal lady in trouble calls this was a man’s voice. Although surprised I did not show any. "Yeah, this is Sejal. Who is this please? After 2-3 seconds pause, the man responded, "Sejal, this is Vivek, remember?". " Vivek.. eh… who Vivek? And then the realization hit me. Trying to gain a control on the floodgates of memory, I blurted out "Vivek (Vicky) Basu? Apna VAD - Vicky the Dashing…!! "Haan, he replied". "Sejal, I want to meet you tomorrow… no not in office, somewhere else, can you take tomorrow’s lunch with me please??" The urgency in his voice was something which did not let me say a blunt "No". He told that he will give me a call tomorrow and hung up wishing me a good night.

Bongs in this WORLD CUP

Wont believe that bongs are actually in this World Cup 2006...Dhorasoo may be the only Indian in fray, but there area lot of Bengalis in action. Firstly, there is another French player, Louis Saha, related to Meghnad Saha.However, a few players from the famous Sen family are playing, like Jan Sen of Germany and Ol Sen of USA. England's goalkeeper, however, spells his name SON instead of Sen, but he was Robin Sen to begin with.

Lot of Bongs are playing under nick-names, especially for African teams. Togo's goalkeeper is Kossi Agassa, which in Chittagongese means fledgling weed. Another African nation, Ghana, has our own Sri Shiladitya, who has Africanised his name to Illiasu Shilla. Ghana also has Gyan. Then there is Kali playing for Angola. I remember 35 years ago a midfielder called Kali Babu Sharma playing for the big clubs in Calcutta -Angola's Kali must be a relative. Then Ivory Coast has Boka, whose full name need not be mentioned, but the second part starts with 'C' and ends with 'a'. Kalou of Ivory Coast hails from Phuliya. Ivory Coast also has Bakary Kone, who once lived in the corner of Lord's bakery. European teams have their Bongs, too. That small boy is playing for Germany, in fact he is the captain. Balak is his name, now Germanised to Ballack. Then there is that super strong player for Croatia,Balaban. Then there is Manish Ray of Portugal, now called Maniche Rai. Spain has a Bong who is very lazy and never hits the ball - Marchena.

Some Bong players are using their family names. DearKaka scored a great goal for Brazil yesterday.Brazil'sgoalie is Dida, obviously breaking the gender bias(and the age barrier). Brazil of course broke thisgender bias long ago, when they fielded Didi in the50s and early 60s. That player has now retired fromfootball and returned to Bengal as a political leaderof Trinamool Congress.

Then Togo has a strange player who is also using a family name, or two, to be exact. These are Mashi andMesho, and the player is very, very fit or 'changa'.The name has been Africanised to Massamesso Tchangai -an 'Ordho-Narishwar' sort of player. Our very own Madan plays for Iran, he's changed his name slightly to Madanchi.Tunisia has another player who is obviously Bong and obviously suffering from that dreaded Bong disease of 'amasha'. He now calls himself Karim Haggui

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)