My pre-Kindle story

The birthday has come and gone. As usual, H came up with out-of-the world surprises. Not of the parachute flying or fireworks display type, but making the birthday girl go around the house like she were on the 'Amazing Race'. The clues were no simple, they were these ultra-mokkai, rhyming tamil verses. When at last I got to the last clue, I had to rummage through my own handbag for the gift.

This time, however, a week before my birthday, H really had to discuss the gift with me. He was planning to get the Kindle reader and was not completely convinced if I would prefer reading from an e-book reader. I immediately said no. No matter how advanced technology can get, I still love and cherish reading from the printed book. I simply can't resist touching the crisp pages and watching my bookmark travel from the first page to the last. It's a feeling that no e-book reader can replace.

"Just imagine", H went on that night, trying to lure me into his trap. "There are so many advantages with the Kindle. You would get to read those fat books, that you cannot stuff into your handbag. You can own every one of them."

"Yeah, but then what do we put on our must-have book shelf?" I retorted.

He knew it was coming.

"That's exactly the point, let's make space for a nice big home theatre system instead. How about that?" He said, with a solid ear-to-ear grin.

As much as H loves to read books and infact, is open to reading a lot more authors than I am, if you put a book and a movie DVD next to each another, his hands would snatch the DVD, no matter what language. So, after some research (read 'googling') H decided to wait for the next version of Kindle and hopes that he would have enough time to convince me for the budget allocation.

This apart, one of my new year resolutions for 2011 was to read atleast one book a month and to start blogging again, something that I had taken for granted and been lazy to do. I have been keeping an account on Shelfari and today, I realized that I have already added 13 books into my 2011 list. Finally, here is a new year resolution that I have sincerely stuck to. I hope I keep up the momentum.

Some books have been amazing, some not-so-good. Here are my reviews and ratings, in decreasing order.

Water for Elephants
by Sara Gruen

This is one of the best books I've read in a long time. There is this magic that some books have - they get you so connected to the characters, that when you turn over to the last page, its like you are at the departure gates of an airport. "Water for elephants" certainly did that to me.

Sara Gruen has done excellent homework for this book. By transporting you to the world of the circuses, animals and the performers, she has proved to be a master story-teller. As soon as I read the first chapter, I realized that this is perfect material for a motion picture.

*spoiler alert* I really wish there was a sequel to this book portraying Jacob and Marlena's life together after they left, but now I can only hope for the motion picture.

A soul crushing story. A page-turner!

My rating : *****

Diary of a wimpy kid
by Jeff Kinney

A very funny and light read. If not as good as the ‘Calvin and Hobbes’ series, this book still has that mischievous element to it.

The Chirag Gupta trick in ‘Rodrick Rules’ is so simple, yet funny, I can’t wait to try it on someone.

Ultra cute and ‘ROTFL’ quality.

My rating: ****

An Equal Music
by Vikram Seth

For music lovers and incurable romantics, this is a great read. It took close to a month to finish. The book does that to you. It takes it own time, giving you the intricate details and leaves you in no hurry to turn over to the last page. The surprise element strikes itself only when you are halfway through the book, and here, by surprise, I really mean surprise.

*spoiler alert* Neither does it start with "Once upon a time...", not does it have the "...and they lived happily ever after" ending, but still there is something in the story that keeps you glued.

For long, I've been wanting to read Vikram Seth's "A Suitable Boy", but I simply don't have the energy to hold such a gigantic book during my bus journey. An Equal Music gave me a head start to mesmerize myself in Seth's style of prose. Of course, his love for poetry peeks in at many occasions.

Overall, a tender and touching story.

My rating: ****

Sister of My Heart
by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

Divakaruni is a wonderful story-teller, with unimaginable metaphors tossed throughout the book. This book stands proof that English is one language where simple words when stringed together with passion, can add such beauty to even the ugly. The author has hidden the biggest secret between such masterfully crafted lines, so much so that, I was really taken by surprise at the end.

The two protogonists, Sudha and Anju, share alternate chapters to narrate the story and that's what adds an amazing personal touch to the whole story. Even though Sudha believes in fairy tale endings and shooting stars, the author emphasizes to her readers that life is no such fable. The ending was the only let down for me because, in an attempt to give an open ending, it seemed like Divakaruni ran out of pages and had to draw the full stop.

Finally, this book is by a woman, for the women and about the women caught in the world of men.

My rating: ***

The Mistress of Spices
by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

After reading Divakaruni's "Sister of my Heart" and "Palace of Illusions", I could hardly believe this work to be hers. For me, it was a total let down. The magic is no make-believe and the story hardly starts until the very end.

This book of spices was very bland.

My rating: **

CONQUERED !

“We are the championssssssssssssss!!!!”

That’s all I have been roaring around in the house ever since Saturday night. H is amused to see me this hyper. As a matter-of-fact, he has never really seen me this excited, especially for cricket. But last Sunday, I showed him how high I could get on one match of cricket, especially when Dravid is not playing.

“That ball would miss the leg stump you stupid. Don’t even raise that silly finger of yours!” I shouted when the Sri Lankan bowler appealed for a LBW.

H was awestruck.

“Eppadi di? Unnaku eppadi theriyum?” It was more an exclamation than a question.

It was the old me, brought up in a house filled with men and boys, playing mixed doubles in every other sport because I was the only girl around. So, my knowledge about cricket is pretty much raw. On the other hand, H is close to a walking encyclopedia. Except that this encyclopedia is extremely good at remembering trivial details like how many wives Charlie Sheen has, but cannot remember that expensive gold earring that he bought his wife 2 months ago. So, when it comes to cricket, you can imagine how statistics rule his memory. So in our world, H fancies himself to be the official cricket news reporter for some imaginary magazine that he calls ‘Cricket: Stumps to Stands.’ You can even find Ireland vs Netherlands match reports here. Until I heard him discuss one of those matches with me, I didn’t know cricket was geographically present in those parts of the world.

Saturday’s match brought back those memories and I was on my feet once again, after a really long time. I enjoyed the match more than what H would have ever dreamt his wife would. Throwing hi-fi’s at him for every Sri Lankan wicket taken, every boundary saved by Yuvraj, every run India scored and every appeal that was turned down for the Lankans. Sometimes, I swore. I sat in the same damn place without a visit to the loo fearing something unthinkable might happen. Thankfully for me, H too believes in cricket superstition, especially after the first two Indian wickets fell. You must have seen his face then, a hybrid between an angry mother-in-law and Snoopy dog of ‘You know wat, I’m happy’ fame.

As cinematic as it turned out, when the last ball was smashed for a six, H and I jumped with so much excitement. At 2 am, we treated ourselves to icecream. For a long time that night, we couldn’t sleep. That’s what a victory this king-size does to you.

Cricket for most Indians is like turmeric in our desi kitchen. A childhood spent without playing, watching or cheering for cricket is as much as a childhood wasted. So essential. If there are as many as five things that I would cherish of my Indian origin, they would probably be – curd rice, the roadside paani poori, the blue passport, salwaar kameez and, cricket. That essential.

Thank you Team India, for winning this cup. For India. For Indians. For Sachin Tendulkar.

So, now that we have conquered that pinnacle, welcome. Welcome to the biggest party in the world.

Tips for scientific publication

*This post is purely academic.*

No laptop. No powerpoint slides. No laser pointer. Just him and a few aspiring scientists. Some modest advice. Bountiful jokes.

This is what yesterday’s talk by Prof Jiri Friml was all about. He is a professor at the University of Ghent, Belgium and has a whole bunch of publications in top journals such as Nature, Science, PNAS, Cell. He estimated an average output of ~15 publications per year from his lab.

One of the reasons I wanted to put together this talk is because it was down-to-earth and is adaptable by any lab. I remember one talk in the past where the scientist showed us a picture of himself writing a paper in an isolated room. The slide was completely dark except for some faint light from his laptop’s monitor that illuminated his face and the papers strewed around him. He was literally seeing ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ I suppose.

Anyway, here is my summary of Prof Jiri Friml’s talk.

1. DATA: The hard truth about publication is that more than half of the data that has been accumulated is not going to go into the paper. So, it’s best to be mindful of the requirement and work towards it, rather than accumulate truckloads of data which will eventually not get in. Saves time and a painful heart.

2. KNOCK-KNOCK: His lab statistics show that students who knock his office door more often for discussions are the ones who churn out more publications. So, don’t have any inhibitions. Just take the initiative, discuss and get started.

3. OUTLINE: This is the most important trick of all. So, once you have all the data, organize it and come up with an outline. A near perfect one. The outline would basically include putative figures, tables, the flow of the story, etc.

4. KICK ASS: As ruthful as it may sound, that’s exactly what he said. Go behind your supervisor. Make sure he goes though your outline and criticizes. Sit down with him to discuss areas where you can improve and bring it to better shape.

5. WRITER’S BLOCK: Well, who doesn’t have one? There is and will never be a universal cure for a writer’s block. Eventually, the only inevitable way to break it is to sit down and get started. The first paragraph would almost make you repent your decision to do a PhD, but once you have crossed this Indo-Pak border, then you are better off (slightly).

6. TITLE: The main (earth shattering) finding in crisp and simple language.

7. ABSTRACT: One of the most important parts of the manuscript. Be clear and concise. This is exactly what he said about abstracts, “If your paper is about plant development, and you are submitting it to Plant Biology, write your abstract as if you were explaining it to your benchmate. If you intend to submit to Developmental Biology, write as if you are telling your mother. Lastly, if you are aiming for Nature, it better be good enough for your grandma to understand.” I guess that pretty much summarizes it.

8. SHORT STORY OR NOVEL: Decide on whether you are going to write up the story in the long (5-7 pages?) or the short format (3-4 pages?).

9. WHICH JOURNAL: It’s good to be excited about your data, but don’t be that incurable optimist. Give your story that modest rating and decide on a journal where you would like to send. Certain journals have a format for the text and the references. Keep that in mind while writing.

10. THE STORY: Make sure the idea and the findings form a rounded story. Don’t hide important data and conclusions in the middle of figures or tables. Reveal them at the beginning of a paragraph or give that punch at the end of one.

11. PERFECT THE PARAGRAPH: Try to work one at a time. Don’t move to the next paragraph until you are satisfied with the previous one. If you skim through, only to come back and edit it later, it’s going to drain your energy further. Of course, there are bound to be gaps, but make sure you know what needs to be filled in.

12. FIRST DRAFT: Make it as perfect as you can before the first draft of the manuscript goes to your supervisor. The supervisor is busy (by default) and he is only going to get irritated to see silly errors. Save him his energy by italicizing the gene names, giving relevant references, mapping the text to the right figure/table and checking for typos and grammatical errors.

13. RE-WRITE: Now for the truth. No matter how much blood you shed to make it that perfect first draft, your supervisor will spot a mistake in the very second line. So go ahead and make all the changes as soon as possible.

14. FINAL TOUCHES: Once you and your supervisor are ready with the final manuscript, try to get it reviewed by someone senior within your institute/university. He/she might be able to give that critical eye before you send it out to the editor. Also, if there is someone good enough to polish the language, go ahead and get them to look through it. *His university actually has a full time staff who goes through manuscripts and helps them to make sure that their format adheres to the journal’s requirements.*

15. COVER LETTER: Keep it short. Don’t be redundant by talking about your data once again. The editor is going to read your abstract anyway. Highlight previous publications in their journal or other top journals whose work highly co-relates to yours. Be poetic, if possible.

16. AVOID YOUR ENEMIES: This is more in the hands of the supervisor. If your supervisor has the option to choose your reviewers, that would be good. If he would wish that the paper rather not end up with some folks, mark them off.

17. PROFESSIONAL, NOT EMOTIONAL: Rejected? Now, don’t get dejected and make that emotional call to the editor. He/she encounters such calls throughout the day and just wants to have some peace at work before he can get back to a whiny baby at home. So, be professional. If you believe that there is really a misunderstanding, write it down and e-mail it to them.

18. KEEP IT SIMPLE: The Prof narrated this incident wherein one of his papers got rejected by Nature, Nature Cell Biology and then also by Plant Biology. He simply split the single manuscript into two, made it simpler and got them both accepted by Science. Simple is the key.

19. FATE: Some papers are just fated to go round and round. There is nothing you can do about them. Don’t give up.

20. PUBLISHED: Finally! Go and open the corks!

Happy publishing!

Made for each other?

I feel no shame in accepting the fact that H and I love food.

I have been a food lover ever since I can remember. During school days, I had this habit of peeping into the kitchen even before I went to brush my teeth. It used to drive Amma crazy.

“Don’t touch this with unclean hands! Just wait and watch! It will get you into trouble at your in-laws”, she used to mumble in between her prayers.

The monotonous radish sambar, beans or cabbage curry cooked generously in coconut or sometimes worse, slimy ladiesfingers, were always met with a long face. Thankfully I had some really good friends in school who were generous enough to finish it up for me. On rare occasions, when Amma used to make rotis with chana masala or pulao for lunch, I used to get so impatient just waiting for the lunch break.

My outlook towards food changed as soon as I moved away from home for university. I began to thank every morning cup of tea that my mother selflessly prepared for me during my trips home. I craved so much for home-cooked (or rather Amma-cooked) food that whenever I got pulled to a restaurant with my cousins, I sincerely ordered a bowl of curd rice.

Then H happened. I was so relieved to find out that he loves to cook and enjoys it too. During one of our conversations about food, topic drifted to kozhakattai.

Me: Oh, I love kozhakattai too.

H: What goes best with it?

Me (in a Complan girl tone): I eat it as it is.

H: I eat kozhakattai with molaga podi. That’s the best side-dish.

This is when I began to doubt his tastebuds and felt my first pangs of cold feet. How could anyone eat something as sweet as kozhakattai with molaga podi? After an argument that almost made us run out of our skype credit, we realized that he was talking about pudi kozhakattai (salty rice flour dumplings) and I, was talking about our very own pillaiyar kozhakattai (sweet dumplings). There began our first misunderstanding. When I went back to bed that night, I began to wonder, ‘Still, pudi kozhakattai and molaga podi?’ I didn’t know that existed.

Little did I realize that I had only seen a trailer of my husband’s ‘bizarre food combos.’

Ever since we have started living under the same roof, our marriage all fresh and vibrant, I have been trying to cook up something new every day. Upon returning home from work, he walks straight into the kitchen (with his shoes!) to check out what’s cooking for dinner, while I rummage through his messy bag for a surprise donut or cheesecake. One look at his sparkling eyes and I know its all worth it. This whole cooking exercise after work is tiring, but the joy, unparalleled. Sometimes I even see my childhood image in him and then I know my life has come a full circle.

One day, I decided to make him my Indian fusion version of his favourite pasta. I made it all colourful with vegetables, a healthy amount of cheese shimmering on top, laid it out in a bowl, and gave it that profession touch with some Italian herbs for dressing.

As soon as I open the door, he walks straight to the kitchen. It amazes me how he still has that jump in his step after almost 14 hours of work. Excited, he quickly gets changed and ready to feast. After the first few spoons, he slowly wriggles away into the kitchen, only to bring back a packet of Haldirams aloo bhujiya. I cringe at his insane idea and tell him, “You are spoiling the flavour of the pasta.” But I can only hear how crunchy and desi my pasta has turned out in his hands.

On extremely tiring days, I just do the two-minute noodles thingie. When I am half-way through my plate of maggi, I watch him pack the noodles between two slices of bread, making it look like tentacles were flowing out of them. Even before I say anything, he goes on to reminisce about his college days. Like salt, bread goes with almost anything for him - sambar, rasam, avial and once, even thai green curry!

I’m no saint when it comes to mix-n-match with food. During my 12^th board exam preparations, my cousin, who was then preparing for his 10^th exams, came over to study with me. Late one night we got super hungry and ended up eating the left-over pani pooris (sans the paani) stuffed with Haldirams moong dal and grapes! Those were the only things we could lay our hands on without disturbing my parents. Eventually we ended up waking them up anyway because we both were literally rolling on the floor laughing. That was my first and last bizarre food.

Anyway, coming back to H. As much as I am awestruck by his outlandish food ventures, I am not offended, because he has only added his adventurous touch to my modest kitchen craft. He doesn’t force me to try these either. He knows and respects the fact that I have very stringent rules drawn on my plate.

Afterall, while being in love is about enjoying your similarities; marriage is about enjoying your differences as well. So, nowadays during weekends, I am entertained by these tea time horror movies in which H dips Parle Krack Jack (the pepper one) into his masala tea and gorges on Punjabi samosas with mayonnaise.

Two Years Later

Hello everybody! I hope you guys are doing great.

Ok, ok, I can sense your eyeballs popping out. Let me tell you, I haven’t absconded, not yet. I may have a million stupid reasons to justify my absence, but that’s not the point. Let’s cut the crap and get to the post.

For now, I don’t have any completed stories to share with you. Most of them are lying around as drafts in my inbox. So like the good old days of this blogsville, I thought I’d just rant away, just to get myself out of this cocoon, the writer’s block.

First. Today is day 634 of our married life. H and me. Not that I’m counting each and everyday and quizzing H, “Honey, guess what’s special today?” I can only imagine ghost hands scratching his head if I ever ask him this on any random day. But then, yeah, at times when I have nothing better to do when on the bus, I open the calculator and check how old (or young?) our marriage is.

The other day, H and I were at this party and random talk just drifted to blogs. On our way back home, H told me, “You really must update your blog. You know how special it is to us. I miss reading what you write.”

The zillion vows we take before tying the knot! Sometimes I get the feeling that wedding promises are like new year resolutions!

Anyway, Valentine’s Day is almost here and my last post was exactly 2 years ago. So this is the right time to revive the blog I guess.

I hope to be back more often, till then, spread the love!

P.S: My 100th post.

Rajan - Completed

"What would you like to have?" he asked, even before she settled into the chair opposite to him.

"One masala dosai" she replied, surprised at how he never questioned her for being late. She had to fight out her urge to justify the situation, lest he should assume that she was the late-comer.

She watched him as he went to the counter to place their order, his jet black shoes ticking on the wooden flooring of the café with each step. She noticed that the lace on his right shoe had loosened, making the longer of the threads to flip up and down as he walked. He wore navy blue pants to match the white and blue striped shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbow exposing his tanned hands laden with short hair lazily slanted to one side. The back of his pants were slightly crumpled in the middle due to the buckling of the knees inside.

Five minutes into their dinner and except for the sounds of the crisp dosa crumbling in her mouth and the sipping of tea, they were silent. There were occasional secret glances at each other through the corner of their eyes which went unnoticed by the other.

"I'd be leaving to Boston for a month" he said finally.

The words stung her. She realized, for the first time in her life how words uttered, could hurt a million fold stronger than those on print. She could feel her heart - another first in her list of firsts. It throbbed harder, faster and it blocked her throat, making it almost impossible to gobble down the piece of dosa that was cracking between her teeth.

A faint 'oh' was all that she could muster herself to say in the midst of the chaos that his words created in her – the 'oh' sounding more like 'Should you really go?' than an element of surprise.

All these emotions that struck her upon his utterance of these words confused her. She had never envisaged that she would miss someone, especially in real life. The only times she had felt anything close to such a feeling was when she was just a couple of pages from finishing up a novel - she would be caught in a maze of curiosity to know the ending, conflicted by the fear of missing the characters who had been a part of her virtual life for the past few days.

She wondered if he felt the same - if he would miss her as much as she would, if she would still be in his thoughts even though they were miles away, if he would count down the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes when they would be together again in the same café, sitting across a coffee stained wooden table.

Anyone could guess that their acquaintance probably began in a library.

One cold Friday evening of December, they had discovered that they were colleagues, when he returned to her her office ID card that he had found on one of the library shelves.

"Hi. I'm Rajan. I believe this card is yours." He had said, flashing the ID and analyzing her face to confirm if it matched the one on the card.

Rajan – the name struck her with a familiarity that she detested - a character in one of her favourite novels who sold his own children for money. The author had portrayed Rajan so powerfully that she had developed an urge to slap him across his face if she ever got a chance to meet him. In short, she hated Rajan and hence the name. But today, there was this gentleman, sharing the same name and looking straight into her eyes as if he had had an unblemished past.

Looking up at him for the first time, she noticed that an identical tag hung from his neck. Her ID card shifted from his hands to hers as she whispered a forced thank you to him, pitying herself for having to use those words to someone she despised, even if just the name.

"We work in the same company as well huh?" He had continued cheerfully, holding up his own ID card and unaware of all the thoughts that were screaming in her mind.

"I guess so." She said, sounding skeptical.

"Hope to see you around then, Msss…?" He dragged, waiting to hear her utter her name even though he had already read it off her ID card.

"Rashmi" She had finished, slowly turning her back to him.

Since their first meeting, they had often bumped into each other at the library, office corridors, café and the bus stop. However, it was Rajan who always initiated their conversation. Occasionally Rashmi would apologize to herself for equating him to some fictitious character who shared nothing in common with Rajan other than the name. It troubled Rashmi and hence as a matter of self defense, she began to accept Rajan's rare invitations for lunch, dinner or sometimes even for a short tea break. The relationship grew on them and their meetings eventually turned into a habit which either of them couldn't deny themselves the joy of.

"So… when are you leaving?" she asked, after a lengthy one minute silence which took a lot of courage to break.

"Tomorrow." He said, matter-of-factly.

It hit her harder this time. Like sand accumulating at the funnel of an hour glass and inevitably falling prey to gravity, her stomach sank, deeper and deeper into emptiness. The unfairness of the timeline that was left before he would leave made her feel inferior – stupid, that she had assumed and taken for granted, the place she held in his hierarchy of friends.

Twenty four hours, or lesser, she thought.

Their conversation continued as he briefly went through his itinerary with her, pausing in between only to take a sip of his tea or to answer her doubts.

"What would you bring back for me?" She asked him the next evening, when he called to say goodbye.

"Your heart." He replied, without the slightest hint of hesitation.

P.S.: Happy Valentines' day :)

Rajan

He was late for their early dinner. Had it been any other day, she wouldn’t have made a big deal out of it. But today, it was testing her patience.

She sat restlessly on the wooden chair of her office cafeteria, shifting her weight from one side to the other. The thick jute threads that made the seat of the chair weren’t as comfortable as they were meant to be. Tiny threads stuck out of the thicker ones, like short loose ends of unmanageable hair sticking out of her braids every morning. Sagging down an inch due to the weight of its occupant, the chair made her look shorter than she would have liked. Hence, she had her left hand tucked beneath her left thigh, in an attempt to look taller and also pull out one of those tiny threads that was poking her.

She felt irritated. Frustrated, at how she had hurried to make it on time for their dinner for which he was now running late.

Maybe, he was not to be blamed. He could be stuck in the traffic, a last minute meeting or an unexpected discussion with his manager. She was the one at fault. She was to be blamed for assuming his earlier displays of punctuality to be an excuse for not carrying her huge novel to the cafeteria.

The restlessness of being alone, devoid of a book in her hand made her feel miserable. The idea of watching people walking casually around the café, ordering, exchanging pleasantries with the café manager while waiting for the order, eating, drinking, discussing projects over sheets of paper scattered over the café table – were not what she was particularly fond of. For, this was just a world she dwelled in because she was expected to - a hectic world that kept her far from the crisp pages of books, their places, their beautiful details, their characters and their emotions.

To her fiction was real and the real, far from fiction.

She lived in a world of her own, that was hidden in the books she read. She knew that the places described in the books existed, but she never desired to visit them, for she was content picturing their beauty in text.

Over time, she even began to sketch the character of people based on the books in which she had come across their names. She was madly in love with some characters in the books, so much so that her heart skipped a beat whenever she read their names in others. She hated the way the character with that name was portrayed in total contrast by another author. There were characters she detested. Some pitied. Some envied. Some, she wished could be her.

It troubled her, confused her, to live in one world and merely exist in the other.

The restlessness of the wait grew on her, forcing her to finally get off the chair and quickly walk up to her office cabin to fetch the book. As she swiftly traced her steps back to the café, her wrists were already aching of bearing the thick leather bound novel.

Placing her purse on top of the book and holding them both against her chest, she walked faster. Having just a few more steps left to reach the café, she noticed that he was sitting in the chair she had occupied a few minutes back.

to be continued..

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Happy Pongal

This is very well another OB post. I am finding little motivation in the things around me to come up with some plot for my next story. So for now, this is all I have. Pongal wishes to all of you. Enjoy the festive celebrations and the food while it lasts, for, you never know when you will be stuck in a country that doesn't give you a holiday for Pongal.

“There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.” ~ Mahatma Gandhi



P.S.1: Thanks to Mask for the camera :D Posted this pic here before he could steal it from me. Else you would have found a Picture OB post in his blog this evening! :P


P.S.2: Visit his Flickr site here. Its got some interesting stuff. *Compensation for P.S.1* :P

Dreams do come true...

Hi all,

Hope you guys had a good start to the new year and I sincerely wish you all a wonderful year ahead.

I know I've been totally irregular with my posts. Its sheer laziness which I conveniently call 'writer's block'! :P After a long time, its a break from stories (as if there have been many) to share something personal with you guys.

A year ago, this time, I published one of my first 'long' stories titled 'The Lost Identity' in my blog. Exactly a year later, the story has been published! :D Ironically, the book says 'Short stories by bloggers'! :P

The book is titled 'The Eleven' and its got stories from other amazing bloggers as well (including my favourites Mask, Nivi and Suchitra). It’s priced at INR 150.00. I hope you guys can grab a copy of it. :)

The details of the book can be found here and you can order a copy here. Drop me a comment in case you need any help with the ordering.

That’s about it for now. I hope to follow this post with lots more good news and stories!

Take care and hugs! :D

-Prithz

An Inconvenient Truth

I sat beside her, my legs slowly getting numb. Her hands lay heavily on my thighs, occasionally lifting the end of her sari to wipe the tears that incessantly poured from her dark, sleep-deprived eyes. I simply let her have me by her side. I stroked her hair, pulling aside the thin strands of water-soaked hair that were falling on her face.

She looked horrible. Sick.

I wiped one stream of tear that rolled down her cheek once again. I wanted to let her know that I was there for her, that I would be there for her - forever.

Forever.

But the word ‘forever’ itself sounded so cliché at the moment. Such moments of uncertainty ought not to be teased by such words. Hence, I simple gave her my company, in silence.

I felt incapable of even relating to her emotions, let alone feeling her feelings. Of course, how much can you expect from a guy who was just 2 years old when his parents passed away?

One more tear. One more wipe.

I wished I could make her feel better. But, I badly feared that this emotion might wrap her for a long time to come, making her a totally different person.

I made a sideward glance at her. More tears.

I tried hard. But the only thing I felt was a big solid lump stuck somewhere between my stomach and my throat, making me feel sore. I myself knew about the loss of my parents only at an age when I realised that a father and mother existed in everybody’s life. I was told that I cuddled into my maid’s arms weeping – weeping because she was weeping and because everyone else around me looked at me with teary eyes.

Maybe, one day I would learn how she felt.

But I dared not to think about it, for; I didn’t want to imagine a day without her – a day without that laughter, a day without the sound of her anklets reverberating our home, a day without her faint voice emerging from the kitchen in between the clattering of vessels, a day without her presence during dinner, a day which would dawn without her beside me or a night which would sleep without her warm breath on me.

That would be the day I would realize how she feels now and maybe that would be the only feeling I would ever feel throughout my life.

Blades of Beauty

Tried my hand at photography!

"The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass; it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself."

- Henry Miller

Camera Courtesy: Mask's Nikon D80.

P.S.1: Picture copyright hence remains with His Honour @ Flickr.

P.S.2: @ Mask – P.S.1 deserves a treat I guess :P

Musafir

Pom. Pom. Pom.

The bus driver honked. The bus moved rather slowly, inching its way through what must have been a heavy traffic. I held on to the support bar on the right hand side lest I should slip from my seat. I didn't dare turn to the person sitting next to me. I could smell a strong fruity fragrance from her side – a very creamy one. My guess was a strawberry flavoured perfume – definitely a very charming lady, unless otherwise.

I sat there, quietly listening to the music that reached my ears from the lady's earphones. A melodious and lovely song starting with the words Pehla Nasha started to play. My knowledge is limited to tamil music, so much so that if you sing to me one line from any tamil movie, I would sing to you the whole song. Recently, my 20 year old daughter uploaded a few hindi songs in the new Ipod that she bought for me and that’s when I have begun to appreciate hindi music.

Pehla Nasha – the music went on with a sensuous saxophone interlude. I haven’t yet watched the picturization of the song and so I let my imagination run wild as I choreographed the beautiful song in my mind’s eye. My foot began tapping the floor of the bus in appreciation.

Few minutes passed. The sound track changed. The bus rattled into a stop. The lady next to me excused herself to get out of her seat. Her voice was sweet and gentle. I turned myself towards the aisle in acknowledgement, giving her ample leg space to make her way out. I could feel her soft fabric brush my arm as she walked away. I moved to the window seat, letting my head rest on the window sill and closed my eyes.

I swayed to the tunes of the bus’ path as my journey continued. My dreams continued. I was still under the influence of the song. I told myself to remember to ask my daughter to upload this song in my Ipod.

About half an hour passed. I noticed that no one sat next to me.

Just when I was getting restless to sit anymore, the bus buzzed with activity. I knew it was my stop. Strong instincts. The driver brought the bus to a hault.

I took the stick next to me and unfolded it. Positioning it firmly on the floor, I stood up. Setting my best foot forward, I heard my walking stick tap on the rickety bus floor as it led me on my dark path.

Tock. Tock. Tock.

Tag - A for Apple

A
http://www.apple.com/trailers/ - Apple movie trailers(A for Apple–fair enough?) :P

B
http://bighugelabs.com/flickr/ - My recently discovered toy to play with photos :)

C
http://www.cricinfo.com/ - For live cricket scores
http://www.cartoonnetwork.com/ - Cartoons for a stress free life

D
http://dictionary.reference.com/ - Quick online dictionary and thesaurus
http://www.devbio.com/ - Academics, at times :D
http://www.dilbert.com/ - Dilbert comics online

E
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Page - Wikipedia

F
http://www.freerice.com/index.php - Your vocabulary could earn a few grains of rice for the hungry
http://www.flickr.com/ - Some of the best captured pictures
http://www.fotosearch.com/ - Kodak moments :)

G
http://www.gettingpersonal.co.uk/ - Mind-blowing gifts for most occasions!

H
http://www.hinduonnet.com/ - The Hindu online
http://www.hallmark.com – Hallmark cards

I
http://www.imdb.com/ - Head to tail about movies :D

J
http://www.jstor.org – Journal store online

K
http://kaysonline.blogspot.com/ - Can’t think of anything but this. Busy man. No updates :(

L
http://www.lib.nus.edu.sg – University’s library resources

M
http://mugamudi.blogspot.com/ - Set foot on my blog with a “Main Hoon Na” comment. It speaks volumes now :)
http://www.musicplug.in/ - For songs :)

N
http://www.nus.edu.sg/ - University Website
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/ - Pubmed – For my academic reference

O
http://www.onelook.com/reverse-dictionary.shtml - What is the word you are looking for?

P
http://www.phdcomics.com/comics.php - Rib-tickling comics and so true!
http://photoshoptutorials.ws/ - A great learning platform for Adobe Photoshop freaks

Q
http://www.quotationspage.com – Just for quotes

R
http://www.rediff.com/ - Quick news (and gossip)
http://www.rd.com/ - Reader’s digest online
http://www.rottentomatoes.com/ - Movie reviews

S
http://www.swarovski.com – Every girl’s desire :)
http://www.sbstransit.com.sg/ - Singapore bus guide online
http://supershanki.blogspot.com/ - The complan girl is an avid admirer of your humorous outlook on life :)

T
http://talesfromme.wordpress.com/ - I love her style

U
http://www.us.playstation.com/PSP - A recent reference for my lastest gift :D

V
www.viralx.com - Nice videos

W
http://www.words4ever.com/ - Just for fun

X
http://www.xbox.com/en-US/default.htm - Wish list :D

Y
http://www.youtube.com/ - Practically everyone’s favourite I guess

Z
http://www.zazzle.com/ - An awesome gift site

~~~

I tag Dimplicious, RSubras, Venkatesh :D

Rule:

The Tag name is A for Apple
Give preference for regular sites
Ignore your own blogs, sites.
Tag 3 People.

She - Part IV

While commotion raged within the house, he sat on the verandah staring into the skies’ nothingness. Why would it have to be him who had to let go, he thought, seemingly trying to evade the inevitable.

The sound of her anklets awoke him to her presence beside him. Her feet stuck out of the embroidered sari as she knelt down in front of his chair. The bangles in her hand chimed as she effortlessly turned his chin to face her twinkling eyes. He looked into her eyes with longing and she gave back an assuring smile in reply. However, he could see the sorrow that lay beyond her smile, for, there he was, right in front of her – painting her mask.

He imagined her walking away from him. Slowly. Gently. Further and further away. She seemed to take away with her, everything that he could call his. Everything but one – a heavy heart which would henceforth just hold memories – of him, of her, of each other and of their masks.

She jolted his lap, stronger this time, persuading him to halt his imagination.

“Cheer up now papa. I’ll be there for you, anytime. You know that.” She said, winking at him and drawing him close into one tight hug.

Kissing her on her forehead, and cupping his right palm on her head, he blessed her. Leaning back on his chair, he sat there watching her walk away, only to become his neighbour’s wife.

~The end~

P.S.: You can read the entire "She" post here.

She - Part III

She walked another step closer to him, bending down to whisper into his ears, her long hair falling on his shoulders like a blanket. The warm air that she breathed out along with the cold touch of her earring on his neck tickled him. He loved it when she murmured secrets into his ears – it seemed to strengthen his faith, the faith that she trusted him more than she trusted keeping the secret to herself.

He felt a protective aura cloak him as she held his hand in hers – a feeling of security as if nothing in this world could harm him – not even the sickness that was troubling him now.

Nothing.

It was a unique feeling which otherwise only his mother could have made him feel.

Like grey clouds before a rain, her face was changing colour. He saw the tears pooling in her lower eyelids - waiting impatiently to muster one more drop so that they could surrender to the gravity that the slope of her cheek bones had to offer. The tears shone in her eyes, synonymous to the glimmering silver lining of every cloud.

Finally, nature succumbed to do her part. The lightening sincerely struck before the thunder.

Her teary eyes spoke before her voice did.

To be concluded...

She - Part II

His heart pounded in sync with her swift, confident steps as he watched her climb. Her thin legs carried her up the ladder.

Higher and higher.

Further and further away from him.

He stood here, at the foot of the ladder. His neck strained at the burden of the head looking up at her. He was unaware of how tightly his fingers were clinched around the bars of the ladder, as if they might crumble under his daughter’s weight.

Reaching the top, she called out to him. Her flimsy arms waving out to him in delight. He smiled back at her - a smile that struggled to strike a balance between joy and hidden fear. Joyful of her happiness. Fearful of watching her at a distance beyond his own arm’s length.

She began her slide down. Coming closer to him.

Closer and Closer.

Landing hard on the sandy ground, she resurged onto her feet to climb back on the ladder for her next slide. His fingers just managed to skim past her slender arms as she ran away once again.

He felt out of control – out of control over his own emotions. His over protectiveness was turning into a burden on himself. It wouldn’t be long before she feels the same, he thought.

Not long.

To be continued...

She - Part I

The early morning breeze fluttered the little hair on her rather bald head. It was funny, yet cute. She looked fresh - her cheeks tender and pink, highlighting the veins that ran within them. With a fine line of dark curled hair, her eyelids enveloped her eyes, like an orange peel covering the ripe fruit beneath. Her lips – rosy and thin, further accentuated her fair complexion. God had sent her with lipstick for a lifetime, he thought. Except for the rhythmic movement of her chest and the flaring of her tiny nostrils, she didn’t move a muscle. The four fingers on either palm were locked around her thumb, showing off her already overgrown fragile nails. She was more than comfortably cuddled into the bedding. After all, it was stitched out of her mother’s old sari.

He watched her, adoring the magic that the early morning rays had on her, or rather, vice versa. He wondered what she would possibly be dreaming. Of fairies? Gods with flowers? Clowns? Or maybe, just maybe, him.

He wanted to ask her, what it was, that she was seeing with her eyes closed.

Contemplating if he wanted her to be awake or sleeping, he gently swayed the cradle. She twitched at the movement, rubbing her nose with the back of her palm and sinking back into her comfort zone. He pulled back his hand, guilty of having disturbed her. He stopped breathing for a moment, lest she should wake up again.

He didn’t know what to do. He had never been this close to a baby. Never. Ever. Now he was left with no choice. It was but his daughter. He wanted nothing to hurt her. Not even the wind. A pang of belongingness ran like a gush of adrenaline.

Sitting back on the chair, he watched her, waiting to be noticed. Silent and patient.

To be continued...

Habits Die Hard

“Don’t bother mom. I’ll make the sandwiches myself.” He said, checking his watch.

Having 20 minutes to spare before his college bus was to arrive, he sat on the couch with the newspaper on the tea table. Glancing through the headlines, he began to evenly spread butter across the slice of bread. He made sure that every inch of bread had a generous spread of butter – a habit he imbibed from his mother. To him, she was the epitome of perfection and he felt relieved to have got her genes passed down to him rather than the ‘clumsy’ genes of his father.

Biting down the last bit of bread, he folded the paper and placed it under the tea table. He had 7 minutes left to catch the bus. This was the very part of the day he hated – leaving his mom behind at home and going to college. He slid back into the couch and stared at his mother. She smiled back at him – curled thin lips through which peeped a row of shiny teeth and eyes glowing with mischief, as they cast three fine lines from the corner that faded into her temple – the only visible sign of her age.

Her smile was magical and eternal.

Moving closer, he looked deeper into her eyes. He thought he saw a bead of tear building up in those tiny eyes of hers, possibly even faking the smile. Ready to leave, he finally whispered, “I love you and am going to miss you mom.”

Two years had passed since he had helplessly succumbed to let her sleep forever, but that wouldn’t change him one bit.

Black and White

Roshan sat on the tall chair and waited for instructions.

“Ok Roshan! Here we go. Read aloud each alphabet on this board. Line-by-line.” said the doctor in a friendly tone.

“P F W K C N S Q X D Y U…” He read along with no sign of trouble. However, slowly the letters appeared smaller with every other line. While he was half-way through the struggle to deciphering the last word in the 5^th line, the doctor spoke –

“That’s good! Now….. look at this. What number do you see?”

“18” said Roshan instantly.

“And this one.” the doctor continued.

“27” he said, even quicker.

Taking out the last plate in the stack, the doctor asked, “How about this last one?”

Roshan stared into the card, unable to notice anything but differentially sized green circles. He looked closer. Still nothing.

“It’s got no number. Just green circles.” he said, curling the corner of his lips into a you-can’t-trick-me-boss kind of smile.

“You really can’t identify any number Roshan?” the doctor questioned again, drawing his eyebrows together and staring straight into his eyes. Roshan was the first patient in his 2 years of private practice who had such wonderful eyes – sparkling and blue.

“Nopes.” He replied, this time more confident than the previous.

“Let me look at your eyes. Sit erect on this chair and look into this eyepiece.” the doctor said, moving over to the other end of the machine and seating himself on a high raised chair.

Bright rays of light flashed right into Roshan’s lens. It took him a few seconds before he could get accustomed to such high intensity of light. The doctor examined him for a minute in silence and finally broke the silence –

“I suspect you have colour blindness Roshan. Have you ever noticed?”

“Dammit!” Roshan blurted out, running his fingers through the neatly cropped hair. Getting himself back together, he continued bluntly -

“No. I havnt’t.”

The doctor explained to him that it is most certainly genetic (inherited from his father). After discussing the possible solutions, Roshan walked out of the consultation room – with one big shattered dream.

Later that evening, Roshan sat at the balcony, staring into the open star studded sky – it was no less beautiful than a neat blanket spread with tiny specks of glittering crystals. This was the first instance in a really long time that he was quiet. The silence echoing from him was too unusual for an energetic and enthusiastic guy like him.

As he was watching an airplane fly past the dark sky, his brother walked in from behind and said –

“Hey! Apart from the good brains, I heard dad gave you some bad genes as well! Well you pilot wannabe, get over it!”

Anger gushed right from the bottom of Roshan’s stomach. Without turning back to look into his brother, Roshan shouted -

“Shut up and get lost before I bang your head! A big head with no brains is all you’ve got.”

His brother stood there giggling.

Unable to bear it any longer, Roshan spun around on his chair, pointed his index finger to his eyes and said sternly,

“He gave me amazing blue eyes! You didn’t manage even that!”

His brother fled out of the room, leaving Roshan to stare into an identical pair of blue eyes – only that they looked remorseful.