The Prism

The face looked strangely familiar to her – the well brushed salt and pepper mop,  the pair of big, bulging eyes staring with all earnestness through a pair of thick lenses and that walk with a slight stoop – everything reminded her of something, somebody, which she could not, at the moment, honestly place a finger on. He was standing by the roadside –  his tall frame hunched up against the sharp, piercing draught of ice-cold wind,  his ungloved hands dug deep into his trouser pockets trying to hide his ruddy face into the folds of a well-used muffler tied loosely around his neck – when Sonu, the driver, taking pity  on the solitary figure swerved the car close to a stand still. The man took the seat by his side thanking him profusely for the unasked lift. She appreciated such acts of kindness. And the man looked decent enough. So she kept quiet.

“This is Loveleen Nigam with the headlines….” blared the car stereo. Soon after, the songs would follow, she thought. Old Hindi Film songs which she loved so much. They sat quietly, all three of them, as the car covered distances in a smooth glide. Forty five minutes later, Sonu pulled the car by a tall tower which was a testimonial of flawless workmanship of glass and metal. It was the office arcade in the centre of the city. The man turned around and looked at her gratefully,” Thank you very much for the lift. You saved me from the painful one and a half hour bus journey to the office. Anyhow, I had missed the usual one that I take and was waiting for the next one which would have taken half an hour longer to reach me here. Thanks once again.” “Hope you will get the right bus and not have any problem going back home in the evening.” She replied softly. He nodded quietly. However, he took a few more minutes to get off the car. She thought his eyes were moist when he had looked away. But she was not sure…It could be the refracting sunlight.

Sonu drove away through the throng of traffic.  “Tum mujhe yun bhula na paaogey….” The sad lilting voice of Lata Mangeshkar filled the inside of the car like a swirling mist. Sonu was looking at her intently through the rear view mirror. Madame had again receded into a cocoon of forgetfulness. What had Sahab said? It was a disease with her…a disease with a complicated name…Al….Alza…He couldn’t pronounce it easily. So he left it at that. The song had now changed to a foot tapping, romantic number. Sonu loved the song. “Pyar mein kabhie kabhie aisa ho jaata hai.….” The lyrics made him pine more for Mamta, whom he fondly called Mammo. She was the tea-seller’s daughter. They had their stall at the far end of the gully where he stayed. Sonu would one day marry Mammo. It was all decided. He would work for a few years more and then buy a second hand car from his savings to start his own transport business. And then he would ask for her hand from her father. Until then he had to take care of Madam whenever Sahab was not around or at work.

Back home in the village, he had always seen his father returning home late at night horribly drunk abusing and beating his mother in anger and frustration. Her only sin was that she was married to a person who did not have the spine to retaliate back to the  world outside which was too powerful and demanding  on him. Notwithstanding, she would wake up each morning to serve him tea and pack his lunch with a smile on her bruised lips and shine in her blackened eyes when it was time for him to leave for duty.

Later in the night, Sonu wondered what made a marriage tick ? Was it love or something more? He did not have the answer. And thinking too much about anything gave him a head ache. So he sighed deeply, changed side and closed his eyes firmly. Tomorrow, he had to take Madam out for her morning ride to all those places where Sahab thought  she might be able to regain her lost memory. Everyday, they would play the same game of picking Sahab up by the roadside and dropping him to office pretending that he was a total stranger asking for a lift as he had missed his bus because that was the way Madam and Sahab had first met almost thirty years back.

Would Madam ever  remember anything or ever recognize Sahab for that matter? Sonu did not know. But one thing was certain. As he was losing himself in the soporific maze of  wispy  dreams, Mammo would be there waiting for him….to show him the way.

Cigarette Stub

Tangy Tuesdays

Image from Google

Tanisha opened her eyes to the pale light of dawn filtering through the half closed window. Another long and dreary day stretched ahead, thought she dejectedly. The Grandfather Clock in the hall, one of Dhrupad’s antique collections, struck the hour – 05.00 AM. She missed the sound of water running in the toilet, the soft flip-flop noise of Dhrupad’s slippers on the floor and the manly fragrance of his after-shave lotion. This was the time he would prepare for his early morning stroll by the Chamboli river – a serene strip of lush green meadow where the only sound pervading the atmosphere would be of the birds chirping in the trees. Yet, Dhrupad made it a point to be spic and span for the occasion which was the butt of many a jokes between them. Before moving out of the house he would nudge her hard, “Get up and be about girl!” Sprawled lazily on the bed, she would just about manage to open one eye and drawl sleepily, “Not now!” And he would be gone with a half-smile playing on his lips, “Lazybones!” His words would echo in the empty hall beyond.

She clung to the silences now – the silence in the bedroom and the hall beyond. Dhrupad was gone. Gone forever. Deven, Dhrupad’s friend and physician, had shaken his head in sheer despair, “Too late Taani.” He had said,”I had told him to stop smoking a long long time back. But he wouldn’t give up. Now both lungs are badly damaged. Beyond cure.” He had sighed heavily, resignedly.

Tanisha had sat dry-eyed on the floor while Dhrupad’s mortal remains were taken to the crematorium a fortnight later. From then on life had been an endless march on a lonely trail.

She turned her face into the pillow. Memories were like gaping wounds oozing blood and raining tears. Nevertheless she could have let herself be flooded by them but for the soft whimpers and scratches at the door – “Dodge!” She smiled through  searing pain. Six months after Dhrupad’s death, Neela, her sister, had  one fine afternoon come along with this tiny, black furball curled up in a cane basket, a heart warmer of a Pug, just forty five days old. They had named him Dodge perhaps with the thin hope that he might be able to broom away the agonizing emptiness that not only gripped Tanisha but every nook and corner of the house with his furry presence.

Dodge did make a difference. He was furnny, amiable, very, very persuasive and a stickler for discipline too. 05.00 AM sharp and he would be ready for his morning walk! He had his favourite spot too – by the river side. And he made sure that Tanisha was up and agile at the pre-fixed time to take him out without fail.

Now as he scampered down the bed of velvety grass, Tanisha wondered how time rushed by. Dodge was a year old now – playful and inquisitive as ever. The other day he had made it a point to wiggle out a piece of scrap sticking from beneath a rock. He had spent almost fifteen painstaking minutes to scratch hard at the boulder till he got what he wanted. And then he had sat on the grass with his possession safe between his paws, proud and victorious. On a closer inspection Tanisha had realized it was nothing but a burnt out cigarette stub.

Today again he was after some small grub which he had scooped up off the street and flaunted about like a long-lost valuable. Now he was chewing at it hard and romping around merrily. Did he whatever but he wouldn’t let go that tiny morsel which he held tightly between his front teeth. Tanisha, a little distance away, scolded him in vain. He ran back to her and squatted on the ground with the dirty piece of paper poking out of his mouth. Dodge had a quaint look in his eyes – mischievous almost challenging – same as Dhrupad would have, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, when Tanisha chided him for smoking.

Dodge was looking straight into her eyes mocking her, daring her to snatch the stained object from his mouth

Tanisha stared hard at it. It was the remaining of a half-smoked cigarette.

A wave like feeling rose up her spine…… Could it be true? Could this really happen?

Yes…………… was happening right in front of her eyes.

A miracle……….unthinkable……………..unimaginable…………….delightful

Dhrupad was back….

Chicken Changezi, Chaff & Chi

People have family physician. We have a family Orthopedic surgeon, which rather explains the situation. Simply putting, we are a family of ‘brittle bones’. Maa’s been suffering from chronic Arthritis. Since when? I don’t even remember the exact day/date/year.  As far back as my memory travels time, I have always seen Maa limping. And it has always been like that.

“Arthritis is 25% hereditary,” says Dr. M, “You’ve got to take great care.” He peers into the X-ray for the twenty-fifth time and lets go a single sigh – deep, resonating and ominous.

“What’s wrong now?” I whisper.

“Nothing extraordinary. Your heel bone is protruding out.” He points at the X-ray plate and I stare incredulously at the slim, white curvy thing sticking out by the right side of my right heel. It is quite apparent. Somewhat like the curved edge of a sharp blade. Or more like a curly baby horn popping out on the soft head of a calf. It nods its head incessantly – a vigorous attempt  to get rid of the monster plonked on its head. But  as much as it may try the appendage won’t disengage and is determined to make its presence felt.

So is the case with me. I feel the pain 24 x 7 – an excruciating, throbbing, debilitating sensation which increases ten folds as I place my foot gently on the floor. The thought of a sedate walk is something of a luxury now. The painful inheritance enriches me  with newer devices to keep me balanced on my two feet, however weak and handicapping these may be. Necessity is the mother of all inventions, as they say !!!

“And it is going to get worse day by day.” Dr. M’s prediction coagulates in my brain as soon as the words drop from his lips.

What nonsense! I have never heard of such….

My physiotherapist  Kapil is more illustrative, “What happens when you press a gob of clay hard with your hand from the top ? It gives in under the  pressure and spreads out like melted butter. So is the case with your foot. It is unable to bear your body weight… “

And my heel is spreading out its tentacles….” I finish for him.

“There’s only one solution to your plight.” Says Dr. M, “Reduce a few kilos in three to four months time and you’ll be much relieved of the present discomfort.”

This is the first time ever that Dr. M has spoken of dislodging the carbs off my girth that I have so fondly accumulated over a period of more than two decades. Earlier whenever I have broached the subject, he has been emphatic that a few kilos are essential for an influential persona. It kind of adds to your personality.

Now…. How? How do I say good riddance to my body fat which has always been so stoically loyal to me in every season of my life – my days of adversity as well as merry moods? Ooooh! The unfaithful me!!!I am sure I’ll suffer from identity crisis when I see my scrawny self in the mirror months later?

My sis has a ready solution, as she always has, “Join a Diet Club ?”

What? You pay to lose what has been yours for sooo long ? I am aghast.

“That’s the in thing.” She says and counts examples of all those illustrious colleagues who have exerted supreme will power and got converted into trimmer bodylines in no time.

“They’ll put you on husks, chaff and bran.” Informs my 03.00 am friend (or foe, I wonder!)

“Thanks”. I grimace.


It took a few weeks more to put me on the path of renunciation. Had it not been for my chauffeur, who by some quirk of fate, one fine evening pulled up right in front of Sweta Nakra’s Diet Clinic by mistake, I would have endlessly bidden time to get mentally prepared to give myself a break off the platter of ‘good food’ and that chilled glass of swirling calories.

But that is not all.

License precedes check.

Last that I entered the cardiologist’s clinic, I made sure I had a sumptuous fill of chocolate pastries before he could tell me to be off all that I lived for.

This time before Sweta took me over completely a sudden spell of gluttony had a stronghold on my palate. It so happened that the week previous to my fateful visit to Sweta’s, everywhere that I went, people were talking of Chicken Changezi and how forebodingly delicious it was. Even those who were on a strict  regime, gave examples of how their fridge, at that very moment, was loaded with bowls full of Chicken Changezi to which they had said a disinterested no and looked away, amazed at their own will power and lack of desire, which in turn, proved how a nutrient rich diet could make you think differently and elevate you to a higher mental plane where you easily gave up on what was so dear to you just a few months back, without batting an eyelid.

I would have emerged so called ‘inspired’, had I not laid my eyes on that tumbler full of  rich, brown Chicken (Changezi what else?) curry, with the oil spilling all over the plate placed  strategically underneath, in my sis’ fridge. And the inevitable happened…

The next few days were spent battling with stomach ache and cramps precursor to an intestinal malfunction…

So much so for the taste of the tongue.


My chi is back in town. No, I am not talking about my maid. Chi – the  Pranic life force, the core of my being, is now right in place, whirling around the seven chakras of my body in perfect rhythm as I munch on salt-less salads, sip on insipid soups and gulp down oil-less curries with glasses of warm water, I am in seventh heaven. As long as my jaws get their regular biting exercise, nothing is distasteful. In fact, I have come upon the  gateway to a whole new world where everything is healthy and healing.

And I am happy coz I still have something fresh and untested  to hog on…..

Thanks to Sweta who have kept me alive sill with her ‘scientifically’ planned meals.

Happy Munching….

Image from Al Jawahar’s

The Hangover

Bengalis have this incorrigible habit of romanticizing about Durga Puja in the first half of the year, i.e. from the months of January to August and in the second half of the year, i.e. post Puja,  from the months of September to December.  ruminating over how this time the Puja was not so great as it was last year and how it could have been more enjoyable had it lasted a few days longer. Odd the race is and its capacity to kill time with tireless debate over what was not and what could have been.


However, it is also the race which has the most extra-ordinary power of imagination, creativity, devotion, intellectualism and gluttony. There is not one Baangaali or Bong, as they are lovingly called, who doesn’t keep a bottle of Gelusil MPS Liquid handy in all seasons to combat the acidic belches or the favourite choonwaa dhekurs, as they are fondly called. These disruptive dhekurs are the biggest hurdles in a Bong’s peaceful existence as they leave that bitter coat on the taste buds preventing them from munching on a few more freshly fried maangsher shingaara (Mutton Samosas).


Talking of imagination, ask a Bengali and he will tell you a thousand clever ways of stalling work with crafty unionism. How the soil of Bengal is not at all suitable for any rail, metro, road or any other upcoming project which are otherwise running smoothly and successfully in other States of this country. How the ‘centaar’ is conspiring against the red/brown/black government of the State with a hidden agenda of wiping off the entire Bengali populace with one swipe of a Rightist’s/Leftist’s/or whichever arm that be it.


Technology is a subject they can chew on with relish like the Meetha Patti Paan they chew after every meal. How all technologies invariably fail due to the duality of thesis and anti-thesis inherent therein, is something only a Bong knows best. Futility of Maya, is the pivotal concept around which a Bengali’s life is thematically constructed. Therefore, not to do anything is the sovereign and sublime path to immortalization, is a stubborn belief that a Bong can swear by and die for.


The race’s devotion to lethargy and armchair intellectualism, at its pinnacle if the room is air-conditioned to the right degree, are enviable traits which none other race can compete with. However, when it comes to creativity, let me take a U-turn and proclaim that this is a race which stands tall and apart. Be it weaving, crafting, sculpting, cooking, writing, painting, designing, filming, singing, composing or just plain gossiping or adda, Bengalis have taken all art forms including elocution and conversation, to the ultimate level epitomizing human prodigy at its exemplary best. As one surfs from one Puja to the other in the Capital, the decoration of the idols and the pandaals manifest the unique conjugality of  worship and creativeness, devotion and enjoyment, bonhomie and the sincere urge to attain greater heights of  spiritual intent. Amidst the festive celebrations of the yearly Durga Puja, the true essence of Bengal and Bengalis come to surface and can best be evaluated. Some of the pictures that I sporadically clicked during various Pujas :

Panaecea Panaecea Image0336

In The Name Of Religion


When we pick up an issue like whether religion is overrated, we are actually trying to look for an alternate which is less hyped and more efficacious. The debate instantly spurs the following questions:

 What is religion?
 How is religion so important?
 Can we do without religion?
 What is the hype all about?
 If not religion, then what?

Genesis of Religion

Perhaps it’s our consumerist mindset that provokes us to view religion – its utility and futility – in terms of rating. Religion is no goods or service which can be ‘rated’. It is a way of life. The way we think. The way we act. The way we perceive life and how it should unfold. Whatever good things that we have been brought up with and taught repeatedly traces its origin back to religion. However, here a distinction is necessitated between religion and ism. When we talk of religion we tend to equate it with either the ism that we are born into (Hinduism, Islam, Christianity etc.) or the rituals (Pooja, Vrat, Brahman Sewa, Teerath Darshan etc.) What we fail to understand is that religion is much beyond all these things and more pervasive and all-encompassing than we realize.

With the dawn of reason, the primitive men realized the strength of unity in order to survive the wrath of Nature and that of fellow humans. Men united to form tribes. To sustain cohesion and harmony within these tribes and prevent men from warring with each other and getting divided into factions religion came handy. It was used to induce fear of isolation, punishment and the inevitable end; at the same time it also introduced and encouraged the ideas of goodness, ethics, propriety and brotherhood. So for early human civilizations, religion acted as an adhesion.


Misuse of Religion

With the growth of social order and its various complexities, religion changed colour and shape. It donned the drapes of various isms, dogmas, practices and rites. And like all other human endeavor, it came to be misutilized as well.

We misuse religion when we use it as a tool to:

 Resort to fundamentalism
 Create and pursue divisive and discriminatory means
 Distort and re-create history on non-secular parameters
 Spread hatred and disunity amongst people
 Refuse to understand or respect the beliefs & concerns of fellow beings, and above all
 Use it to secure personal profits and power


Significance of Religion

Religion is a body of supreme knowledge, revelations and realizations accumulated over ages. Even though a high-powered microscope may not be able to spot it in our DNA, yet it is somewhere mapped into our genetic matrix. Whether we consciously admit or not, we cannot do without it or some form of it in our lives. And that something may or may not fall strictly within the purview of any particular ism but can definitely be what we live for and value the most. It can simply be good deeds like helping the weaker sections of society, providing those who deserve support and assistance, involvement in community service to keep the environs clean and healthy, imparting knowledge and education, shouldering familial responsibilities or simply doing your day to day jobs with great honesty and sincerity. In that sense, religion is very, very personal and your very own.

Misunderstanding Religion

Problems arise when we restrict religion to what is written in the Shastras and Scriptures which we may or may not be able to follow or assimilate ourselves in its true sense or may be influenced to understand the way these have been interpreted by others. Keeping all complex jargons aside, what we tend to forget is that the very basic aim of religion is to sustain our lives, society, this entire world and the vast cosmic creation beyond, of which we are a part and parcel, in a healthy and wholesome manner. That is what is Manav Dharma all about. This we can only do if we keep away from and discourage the spread of dissenting and destructive factors and forces which time and again crop up within and around us. So, for our own survival and sustenance, it is important that we embrace religion.

Hype about Religion

With the advent and development of modern means of communication, the globe has come to reside next door. When modern day Swamis can travel in extravagance (Mercedes and BMWs) and dedicated TV channels be aired for twenty four x seven telecasting of motivational talks by gurus and professional speakers, religion automatically comes under the spot light. Perhaps it is unavoidable. And why keep it under wraps when we need it so much? But again behind all this avoidable glamorous entrapments we have to seek the true meaning and motive. Otherwise chances are that we may be befooled and beguiled without our knowing.

The Ultimate of Religion

From time immemorial men have taken a break from day to day work and asked these questions:

•Who am I?
•For what purpose have I taken birth on this Earth?
•Where do I go when death takes over?
•Who has created me and this Universe?
•What is the sole motive behind this entire Creation?
•Do I really have a control over my Fate and Future?
•If no, then who is the Creator and Controller of my life and this entire Cosmos?

And again, it is this eternal search that has catapulted men the world over to seek the answers in religion. This search is universal – the ultimate query of every human discipline, study, research and discourse. The ways and paths are merely different. Science and History have sought these answers and Religion has provided the support. Similarly all religious beliefs have spoken the same thing over and over again albeit in different languages. There is a oneness underlying all diversities and divergences. It is we humans who have confused and contorted what is simple and lucid.

Alternate to Religion

When we debate over the relevance of religion in today’s world, it is the doubt embedded therein which comes to the fore. Religious beliefs and the way these have been preached the world over have augmented ambiguity and scepticism more than quenched our thirst for the Ultimate Truth. A seeker must never doubt. A Doubting Thomas can never come upon what he seeks. To know you have to surrender. And in unquestioned submission is reposed Knowledge Absolute, Truth Absolute and Divine Absolute. It is the only alternate to religion.

However, in order to surrender you have to eliminate the unnecessary.
In order to eliminate you have to know.
In order to know you have to perform.
In order to perform you have to believe.
In order to believe you have to practice.
In order to practice you have to take to your own religion which suits you best.

Would you still say that religion is overrated?


(This post is a part of Indispire’s Topic of Debate Is Religion overrated?)



Kyunki Himmesss Bhai Knows

The Xpose Dard Dilo Ke Song Himesh Reshammiya, Yo Yo Honey Singh[1]Bollywood of the 60s. A glitzy film award function followed by a glam-infested cocktail party where two rival heroines (Chandni and Zara) contending for super stardom fall out with each other. Soon after the cat fight one of them is found lying dead on the rocky sea shore at the back of the hotel where the celebration is taking place. Suspects are many but who is the actual culprit need be exposed, of course, in due time.

While watching the movie Xposé, had I not been reminded of many a yester year films, novels and sensational news head-lines, I might have wholeheartedly endorsed the originality of the story-line. And that is what makes me mention a hugely forgettable and indubitably unforgivable movie in this post because it reminded me of those memorable golden classics ( in bits and pieces), be it film or book, which have time and again proven to be inerasable and unmatchable benchmarks for authors and filmmakers, book-lovers and movie-buffs alike.

Xpose is a fine example of flawed direction will be an understatement of the century. As the narration shuttles back and forth from flashback to the present and back, intermittently and cluelessly, viewers like me, can only be excused for remaining glued to the screen because of those sudden glimpses of the extraordinary strewn here and there, noticeable not by virtue of a strong script but because these seem to be straightaway lifted and punched in to make a mock-tail of a murder mystery which could have otherwise been unraveled through superlative craftsmanship had the movie been reposed in the hands of ace directors like Ramesh Sippy, Ravi Tandon, O. P. Ralhan and others of their league (Aah! the Old Is Gold tribe!).

A girl (Sonali Raut) in drunken stupor pushed out of the terrace of a hotel in the dead of the night preceded by a rowdy altercation with another (in this case, girl) is vividly reminiscent of a similar situation so brilliantly put together in Teesri Manzil, the super-duper suspense packed hit of the 60s, directed by the Alfred Hitchcock of Hindi Cinema, Vijay Anand, with trendsetting music by R.D. Burman. Vijay Anand, as I have said many times over, is one of the most underrated directors of Hindi cinema. But can Anant Mahadevan take over from where Goldie Anand left ? Not by any means.


Intended or unintended, a drunken girl staggering off a high rise and losing her life in the prime of her youth also reminds one of the unfortunate Divya Bharati case of the early 90s when the promising super-star purportedly in inebriated state lost her balance and slipped off the balcony of her fifth floor Versova apartment. It is said that she was not alone when the mishap occurred and had there not been an ulterior motive a young life could have been saved on time. As usual the matter was quickly hushed up. But rumours are still afloat…

The tinsel town, with its shades of black and grey, has always been mystifying and dangerously alluring. It is now that being elevated to the stature of an Industry, the film fraternity has come of age and employed various progressive management techniques like image makeover and brand building etc., majorly borrowed from the West, I suppose, to appear more professional and upbeat in their public profile. But it was not so earlier, in the 50s and the 60s, when professional rivalry and jealousy used to get the better of cordiality, camaraderie and sportsman spirit. Resultantly, drunken brawls, mud slinging and brick batting in public were not uncommon. Pivoting around this plot is Xpose with a horde of unremarkable and to some extent clichéd characters who are perennially insecure and suspicious of each other.

Again, at the expense of being a suspense spoiler, the actual expose of the murderer(s) strongly reminds one of Christie’s The Oriental Express, where every character on the train had a motive and an inclination to collaborate in a foolproof murder.


However, Xpose has its own bunch of spellbinders and amongst them the potentially most impactful and mesmeric is of course our own Himmesss Bhai, who in the film is a go-between super stars Rajanikanth and Rajesh Khanna. An ex-cop who takes to films because his ego is too big for his scrawny, average built, sky-rockets to super stardom in the South and now wishes to take over Bollywood by storm. A string of inexcusably gross punch-lines replete with double innuendos (which make you wonder whether you are supposed to laugh or cry) later, Himmess Bhai, the super-cop-turned-super-hero, in the final act, exposes all and sundry before the blindfolded Lady Justice. Meanwhile, he manages to not only fall in love with the many times youthful and ‘innocent’ Chandni (Zoya Afroz) but also save her ultimately from being truly exposed. Incidentally, Himmess Bhai is also the music composer of this film. Consequently, the immense injustice done to the awful lyrics is something which needs to be heard to be believed.

All said and done, as Himmess Bhai and Chandni walk arm in arm, in the last scene, stiff like a pair of bamboo sticks, the viewers are left agape puzzling out who exposed whom and how! And long after the film is over, resonates behind an uncanny nagging feeling that there was more to be exposed which was left unexposed and it could have been more fulfilling had the audience been left to decide who should have exposed whom and why!!

Confused? So was I and greatly thankful for the “The End” which took one hour and twenty odd minutes to appear on the screen.

Over A Virtual Cup Of Coffee : With Vimala Ramu

and-she-waited-60-years-a-novella-400x400-imaduvfj77vjkaqc[1]I know Vimala Ramu since when? But that is immaterial. What is important is that I have been tailing her around the blogosphere from time immemorial, or so it seems. The wit, humour and spark in her writing elevated her blogs to something more than mere leisurely scribbles. More than once I have been struck by her ingenuity which has always proved to be an alternate perspective finer than a mere smart move. The septuagenarian, in her own inimitable style, has always presented an approach to life which has been novel and inspiring.

When “Colors”, an anthology of her blogs, followed the trilogy (“Rain Song”, “Dew Drops” and “Wind Chimes”) with which she had debuted into the world of printed publication, I did not waste time to grab the same. And thank God I did as never had I come across such a delightful potpourri of impish humour and witty take on life! To say “Colors” was enjoyable would be an understatement. It was therapeutic.

So, when Vimala gave me an inkling of what was coming next out of her vast booty of experiences my antennae cocked up and remained so till I received a complimentary copy of the novella “And She Waited For Sixty Years”!!!

Beautiful Aradhana falls in love with Ajay. Being from a conservative family she is not able to express her feelings for him. In due course of time Aradhana is married to Vinod – an idea life partner, understanding, caring and supportive. It’s a marriage made in heavens. While Aradhana’s loyalty towards her husband is faultless yet she often dreams of Ajay and wonders what her life would have been if she were married to him. Life takes its own course for Aradhana, Ajay and Vinod and it is after sixty years of fulfilling married life, Aradhana discloses to Ajay that he was her first love. Not exactly a run of the mill story based on an unusual subject exacting a lot from the readers in terms of acceptance of a candid and unseasonal confession of love at first sight.

 The acknowledgment in the very beginning of the book humbled me. My contribution to the novella, in my opinion, was minimal. But what augured an interview was not gratitude but a whole lot of curiosity and an irresistible urge to get into the mind of the authoress who could conceptualize a theme so different and structurize a plot so engaging on the same.

I delayed not a moment more to invite Vimala to a virtual cup of steaming, hot , chikodi coffee and take advantage of this opportunity to elicit from the authoress the unspoken words hidden between the lines. What followed was an interesting session of questions and answers between innumerable sips of dark, liquified caffein and again the grand dame did not hesitate a bit in hitting the ‘ball in her court’ ( as she put it) with that right amount of forthrightness, eloquence and may I add a whole lot of chutzpah.

As she settled down in the downy sofa, elegant and glowing, her exotic Kanjivaram saree splayed around her equally aristocratic persona, I volleyed my first shot

Why wait for 60 long years?

The reply was a patient one

You must understand that what Aradhana was telling Ajay was not a wanton statement told for titillation with a bated breath like ‘I love you’ as portrayed in chicklit romances. It was a responsible sharing of a bit of information of something long past and which was not targeted to elicit any cataclysmic effect All she wanted was to let him know that he did play a role in her early life though unknown to him. As such it required utter privacy (not for the usual reasons) and lot of maturity on the part of both Aradhana and Ajay. Such an opportunity presented itself only after 60 years.

Well, we are in the age of Right to Information. Aren’t we? But isn’t there something more to love than just information sharing ? I cajoled her into the next more intimate query:

Do you think fidelity is just a figment of collective imagination? I mean who has the password to a woman or for that matter a man’s mind?

 She smiled a little knowingly before speaking up :

Fidelity is purely a mental state supported by meaningful physical activities. It is not just repeating ‘I love you’ hundred times and changing your mind in a second due to some trivial reason.

Well, my curiosity was irrepressible and her smile had encouraged me to egg on…

You have in your book illustrated a kind of balanced rope walking in so far as man-woman relationship is concerned? Your heroine Aradhana is a devoted wife yet she nurtures an almost juvenile crush for another man who is not always physically present with her? In that sense proximity seems dispensable to a fertile mind. Do you agree or disagree.

She shrugged and perhaps bided for time as she took a slow sip from her coffee cup..and then

Yes, the key words here are ‘juvenile crush’ and not ‘balanced rope walking’. Aradhana secure in her marital state never had the necessity to do ‘ balanced rope walking’. Her one sided love for Ajay was indeed a pleasant episode from her teenage years and it remained a pleasant memory and nothing more.

I was engrossed and thoughtful. How could a woman love two men at the same time without compromising on her loyalty. I had to ask her to find out :

Well, there is a thin line of demarcation between love and fascination. How would you define Aradhana’s feelings towards Ajay? Is it actual love or is it love for the idea of love? Is the emphasis more on love at a conceptual level?

Pat came the answer without much ado

Well, as far as the young Aradhana was concerned, it was the real thing for her. But, teenage itself is such a period that ‘love for love’ is often mistaken for ‘love’ itself. But in her case, since her astral handicap was also there, there was no opportunity to nurture it further into a more adult level.

 I was insatiable. There is always so much to read between the lines, especially, in novels which offer what has never been said before

Realism and romance are antithetical to each other? A husband-wife relationship is more realistic because it is backed by social sanction and evolves with time? Does romantic love also has similar scope of growing into something more elevating and deep?

She patted my hand in a motherly fashion before replying

I would not say that realism and romance are antithetical but in an ideal situation they could be and should be complementary. A social sanction is only one of the firmaments on which marital love stands. There are so many other factors like loyalty, understanding, humour etc amongst which romance is not precluded.    

With the touch of her hand as though her indomitable spirit was transmitted into mine. I sprinted on

Coming to the most debatable issue of your novella – platonic relationship between man and woman? Do you think it can withstand the test and passage of time ?

She was contemplative and her reply equally so

Yes, platonic relationship or friendship as it is called in normal parlance is possible and it can withstand the test of time provided it remains purely platonic without other distractions like sexual overtones spoiling it, Such a friendship is possible between two mentally healthy, psychologically normal partners – a man and a woman who are both firmly secure in their own backgrounds.

I had a sense of de ja vue. There was a kind of timelessness in her words. Love unblended, unshackled, ethereal….”haath se chhoke issey rishton ka ilzaam na do…. pyar ko pyar he rehne do koi naam na do (Gulzar)”…..”do not sully love by the touch of your hand…let love be love without a name”….. .I moved on

“And She Waited For Sixty Years” is a woman’s perspective on life, love and relation. However, the reader is inquisitive to know Ajay’s feelings towards Aradhana which remains undisclosed in the novel. Is it deliberately contrived to keep the readers guessing?

She winked and I could again glimpse that impish side of her though not so much displayed in the novel which has serious as well as sardonic undertones

The feelings of Ajay are deliberately kept undisclosed as the novella is totally from the perception of the heroine. The fact that she is totally unaware of it lends a sort of ‘mystery’ to Ajay’s character. He is a charming person, at ease with everyone. But that’s about it. “Aradhana would ask her friends how one could come to know if the other person was interested or not”. With a total lack of feedback from the other person , Aradhana had almost a clean slate to begin her life with Vinod. If the reader is perceptive enough they are free to imagine Ajay’s mind from the stray sentences dropped here and there.

The reader in me was unplugged. With the second cup of coffee, I decided to plunge forward as though it were my last resort to sanity

There is a constant comparison (at least in reader’s mind) between Ajay and Vinod – the two men in Aradhana’s life. Do you think reality (Vinod) overshadows imagination (Ajay) as Aradhana’s life progresses ?

 This time, her answer was phlegmatic. Was there a chink in her veil, which she was desparate to hide, I wondered :

“Well, comparison is the last thing in Aradhana’s mind. As far as she is concerned, her attitude towards the two never reached the comparison level. As she says, Ajay was like one of the strands in the colorful bundle of optic fibers which constituted her life with Vinod”.

I shook my head to dust away the grains of doubt diluting my thoughts . Knowing Vimala one wouldn’t associate with her things like parallel worlds and suppressed desires. She is the kind who lives life to the fullest sucking up all the joys and beauty of existence around her and giving back as much in retun. She was not the one to cower down by oppressive norms and diabolic dictums of society. And its this fatih that made me ask her the next question unhesitantly

Do you think a candid confession of unrequited love can demean a woman’s position in society? You have dealt with taboos like homosexuality, exhibitionism , mental fidelity etc in your novel though in a peripheral way. Do you think it is as much taboo for a woman to declare her true feelings for a man who is not her lawful life partner?

 The answer was unambiguous, straight-into-the-face, practical and sensible

It entirely depends on the type of love she is carrying for the man who is not her lawful life partner- true or transitory, sexual or platonic, juvenile or mature. It also depends on her lawful partner, whether he is an understanding type or a person of violent temperament etc. It also depends on the society in which she lives. If the people around her are broadminded or the ones whose staple diet is gossip.

 There is something in Vimala’s personality, which can embolden one and idiotically so. You are not scared of a rebuff because you know even her snub would be gift wrapped in witticism. So I pushed on

Your take on feminism. Against the backdrop of Indian patriarchy, do you think it is overplayed at times and severely downplayed at others?

And I was right, wasn’t I? She was at her brazen best

According to me ‘femisnism’ is not an AAM ADMI cap which anyone and everyone can don and declare themselves as feminists. Nor is it a bra burning frenzy. Feminism is an individual inner feeling that comes up when one feels one has been dealt an unjust move, more so when there is oppression. This oppression can be from one’s own parents, husband, sons or daughters or any relatives. It is an urge to stand on one’s own ground without giving in to external pressures. This attitude when exhibited by a woman when confronting the other sex is strongly resented particularly in India where patriarchy has always held sway.

The afternoon had drawled into early evening. The shadows were lengthening and the sky was turning into a milder shade of grey. The gloss and sparkle on the face of earth was gradually ashening. It was time to say au revoire but not before I had asked the most anticipated question

The last  cliched one – what next ? A bigger novel ? A greater surprise?

 She laughed and said

A sequel? The characters in the present novella have all reached a ripe old age. What can come next is only obituaries. But then you never know!

Yes, with Vimala Ramu, we never know. She will always be there to explode us with laughter and intrigue us with some interesting anecdote of the past. More than that, she may come up with something absolutely unexpected and surprisingly thought provoking in her next venture. Till then we wait with bated breath.

Long Live Vimala Ramu, the witiest best I have ever come across!!!


This is the first of the Virtual Coffee Series conceptualized to bring forth a healthy and stimulating discourse on literature, art, cinema, theatre, music, culture etc. The idea is to invigorate an intellectual churning of  thoughts and ideas drawing the readers and the participants alike into the vortex of a steaming hot debate or engaging into wistful remembrances of the gone by. In either case,  the conversational mood shall be its mainstay and of course the mug of piping hot coffee to go with it!

Shall be eager to know how you like it!!



Meghma Calling…..

Megma, ten thousand feet above sea level, a sleepy village shrouded all the year round by envelopes of misty clouds, lies right on the border of Bengal and Nepal. Cavorts by Meghma the toughest stretch for bikers leading to the popular trekking paradise – Sandakphu. Megma or Meghma (Megh meaning clouds) boasts of a lone school Saraswati Mandir and an indomitable man with a mission…..



Meghma Mission

The man strode the steep mountainous roads with a purpose and an agility which belied his age. He was sixty one and still going strong! Sturdily built the smile on his lips left a silken glow to his eyes and whenever he roared with laughter the cloud draped peaks of Meghma echoed his child-like joy in countless booms. At the age of four he had nurtured a dream which he lived his entire life. It was a simple wish which had become his mission….to spread the light of education in every humble home of remote India. He had never quantified his achievement but devoted the best part his life to the crumbling edifice of Saraswati Mandir. Now retired, he still attended to the myriad jobs, from administrative to teaching, involved in running the school, however, obscure and uncared for the same might be.

The Odds :
He could see the two roomed brick house with thatched roof standing proud not afar. It always reminded him of an aged patriarch who had seen much of life yet refused to succumb to tortuous times. The walls desperately needed a coat or two of paint. When the clouds burst in anger the roofs leaked and the wild wind seeped through the loosely cemented brick wall sending a numbing chill down the bodies of those twenty odd little children who dared to dream with him – of getting to know the letters! There was never enough in those three class rooms which he and Neela ma’am managed to keep going – the rooms were sparsely furnished, the desks and chairs creaked and shook, the blackboards had lost colour and cracked from side to side a long time back, the chalks had reduced to stubbles, there were no picture charts or basic visual aids for the children to ‘see, learn and relate to’ and above all the scarce stationary, a basic necessity of the teacher and the taught, were perennially in need of replenishment.


Sandakphu 2

The Quiet Sleepy Village


The children had understood poverty before they could know the alphabets. Putting up at higher altitude they trekked around 2.5 km. each day to reach their “abode of enlightenment” sometimes shivering in biting cold and at others soaking wet in tireless downpours. Remember Ekalavya who had to give away his thumb as gurudakshina to Dronacharya? A price to pay for privileged learning? These children pay their prices too and a very heavy ones at that. There are days they go without meal and when the pencils turn into stubs, which their tiny fingers can barely clutch, they practice the alphabets on the ground and put a handful of pebbles outlining their achievement – milestones do we call them?
Yet when the tiny hands hold a roughly sketched painting of Maa and Paa and a little child reading a book by the fireside or a pair of charcoal eyes lit up in excitement when a sum is done right, it is then that a few droplets of rains prick the teacher’s seeking eyes.

The Brave Hearts :


Meet the brave hearts Chandra Kumar Pradhan and the ever smiling Neela ma’am, who against all odds, are unobtrusively making monumental efforts to keep the light of education burning in the tough rocky terrains of remote Meghma!
Chandra Sir joined Saraswati Mandir at the age of 19. Having retired last year as the principal, he still continues to be associated with the school, teach the children and even extend private tuition, all free of cost coupled with a warm smile and loving heart. Neela ma’am helps with the basic supplies. Despite the insufficiencies and scarcities, twenty children pitter-patter their way to the school every day with a happy smile and heart full of expectations. What new are they going to learn today?


nelson mandela


My School Days :

For us schooling is just that part of life for which our parents have bothered more than we have had time to worry about. Six plus and a chocolate-coloured bus would stop at the door-step to take me to the wondrous world of nursery. With growing excitement, I climbed the ladder – from prep to middle to high school. In the beginning of each month, the fees were deposited without fail and come May brand new books and note books found their way to my study table. Those were the golden days – free and fanciful – of exploring and expanding horizon with Science and History, picking up newer ways of solving Algebraic equations, gorging on more books in addition to what was enlisted in the syllabus or kicking dust in the sprawling school grounds and getting bruised in the volley ball court. Today, I see the next generation working harder preparing for exams, deciding on academic career, scanning the list of prestigious institutes for admission, surfing through the net for a bank of unlimited and easily accessible information and referrals and persevering for a better tomorrow.
While urban education is more about competition and preparation for higher pursuits, in rural India it is more than often a question of fundamentals. Is the midday meal being regularly supplied to the children? Are the teachers really taking their classes seriously? Are the village households motivated enough to send their children to school? Is the community gender sensitized? The issues are innumerable and obstacles at times insurmountable.
Against this rural backdrop, it does not take much imagination to figure out the stupendous efforts put up by two undaunted souls – Chandra Prakash Sir and Neela Ma’am – to keep the bell ringing!! And never forget the children, who brave the steep inclines and inclement climes to reach Saraswati Mandir each day on time.
Will Chandra Kumar Pradhan’s dreams ever come true?


The Bigger Dream :


Notwithstanding what lies in store in the future, Chandra Kumar dares to dream. As he shuts his eyes, the mist clears over a sprawling estate – Saraswati Mandir – its whitewashed walls sparkling in the rare sunshine streaming through the clouds. Children laughing and playing in the school grounds tended with care. Well-furnished class rooms with polished blackboards, side boards adequately stacked with requisite stationary, pin-up boards showcasing the talents of the students – hand-made charts, arts and crafts, a bustling canteen, clean corridors winding through rows of classrooms filled with attentive faces, an attractive library having just the right number of books to make the children of Meghma aware of the world beyond the sentinels of undulating peaks and above all bunches of happily smiling kids not only from Meghma but also from nearby neighbouring villages in tidy uniforms filing towards the school gate.


Chandra’s dream doesn’t stop at the school gate. He visualizes a brighter tomorrow for Meghma. Khimku, the tea vendor’s son, distributing the local newspaper along with cups of tea to his customers at the tea stall. Chandu, the shopkeeper’s son, signing the documents at the bank for the loan he wishes to take to extend his father’s shop. Khushmal, so fond of Daak Vans, taking over as the Post Master at the local Post Office. And who knows Rani, his most promising student, may one day cross over the narrow bounds of Meghma and opt for the district college to pursue higher studies? For each of his twenty odd students Chandra nurtures a special dream. And when they all grow up to become proud parents they will show their children the path that leads to the haven of learning – Saraswati Mandir. That is how Chandra wants his Meghma to grow – a literate Meghma, an aware Meghma, an incredible Meghma!!!


Is it too much to wish for? Is it too big a dream to fulfil for a Shining India? Will Meghma remain wanting with a half story?




Article 21a of the Indian Constitution embodies the Right of Children to Free and Compulsory Education or Right to Education enacted by the Indian Parliament on 4th August 2009.
However, right also entails duty. While we enjoy our right it is our duty to see others enjoy their rights too. It is time to enjoy our right and #Do Right!



At present, Saraswati Mandir’s needs are elementary – two set of blackboards and twenty set of stationary.
But these are the rudimentary steps on which shall be founded a day a larger and stronger assemblage of learning and sharing.
Let’s just not confine the word education to the pious embodiments of the Constitution.
Let’s make education a way of life.





this half story to make it complete.

Indiblogger with Indichange has taken the initiative with Tata Capital to complete these half stories.

I hope this meager contribution of mine, by way of this blog post, helps spread awareness about Chandra Kumar Pradhan’s mission to make education a way of life in every household in Meghma!

Please do visit

Hope Meghma’s mist filled skyline gets lighted with the blazing torchbearers of Saraswati Mandir – Chandra Kumar Pradhan and Neela !!!!



A Strange Philosophy You Would Love To Hate

THE STRANGERIt is one of my esteemed co-blogger’s comment on one of my blogs which had drawn me inexorably towards Albert Camus and his writings. Before that, I am sorry to say, I had not even heard his name. Camus (1913-1960), a Nobel Laureate in Literature (1957), was a French writer, philosopher and propounder of absurdism. The absurdists believe that the coexistence of the Universe and the human mind are in inherent contradiction with each other making it humanly impossible, given the vast realm of information and the unknown, to find the ultimate truth. Camus’ novel The Stranger (1942) is an archetypical statement on existentialism (though Camus rejects it) and the absurd.

Meursault, the protagonist of the novel, attends his mother’s funeral at the Home for the Aged Persons at Marengo. His calmness and composure, during the last rites, attract the attention of the inmates. On his return, Meursault revives his friendship with Marie, who used to once work at the same office where he works. Given to taciturnity, Meursault does not clearly elucidate his feelings for Marie. However, Marie is eager to marry him. He also strikes up a closer association with his dubious neighbour Raymond Sintes. By and by Raymond confesses that he is having rough patches with his Moorish mistress. On his request, Meursault gets involved in Raymond’s plan to teach her a lesson. However, both fail to take into account the resultant unpleasantness when the plan half succeeds. Raymond gets into a brawl with the girl’s brothers (Arabs) and it is Meursault, who in a heat haze, kills one of them.

Meursault is arrested and put under trial. It is during the court proceedings that Camus systematically reveals how societal dictates impinge upon the concept of natural justice. It is not the act of crime but the preconceived notions of the justice-deliverers that colour the rulings. Meursault is identified as a hard-core criminal by his behaviour preceding and after the killing  –  his atheism, his lack of remorse during his mother’s funeral rites, his physical intimacy with his girlfriend the very next day of his mother’s death, his refusal to break down before the magistrate as a sign of repentance, his total lack of guilt, his matter-of-factness during the entire trial proceedings and finally his disregard for the prison chaplain – are considered to be sufficient indicators of how unfeeling and criminal minded he is. We are conditioned by the established norms of the society and quick to being judgmental against those who do not conform to set behavioural patterns.

Parallely, Camus diligently addresses the issues of individual liberty – the freedom to express Camusoneself the way one wants – and punishment (as mitigated by the law implementers of the land) as a mechanism designed to progressively curtail free thinking and free living of those whom society considers detrimental to civilization. Contentious and debatable Camus creates a surreal atmosphere in his novel, The Stranger, wherein the protagonist as an individual is as dispassionate and detached a player amidst the “benign indifference of the Universe” – the L’ Etranger.

In stark contrast to the Karmic advocacy of a singular stream of super consciousness binding the cosmos in its entirety in one thread, Camus’ approach is relentlessly pessimistic. Time and again, the portrayal of individual existence usurps the form of an isolated journey, in the midst of frenzied monotony of day to day living, juxtaposed haplessly against an ever churning yet apathetic Universe. The revelation is almost suicidal and a betrayal of the buoyant note of optimism and hope that mankind vouches for. Underlies a Spencerian streak too hopelessly imputing utilitarian worth to a man’s aimless wandering following the currents of time’s linearity. Pitted against this ever-expanding vastness of the Universe, man is a condemned creature of circumstances – extenuating or otherwise.

Camus is disturbing and not exactly a hope raiser.  An upsurge of emptiness and meaninglessness overwhelms as Meursault is sentenced to the guillotine and no clue is supplied by the author whether an appeal to the next higher authority in hierarchy may yield a verdict in his favour. While illusion is as absurd as reality, one would, for the sake of an assumed continuum of euphoria, wish to hold on to a shadow of the former than give up irrevocably to the harshness of the latter.

Camus’ narrative is in the first person and except the last few chapters (Meursault’s life in prison) not exactly descriptive or introspective. Notwithstanding, Stuart Gilbert’s translation is lucid and conveys well the universal loneliness of existence howsoever gregarious the human species is intended to be.  Interestingly, the narrative focuses and floats on a string of happenings underscoring the essence of being in the awareness of one’s existence and surrounds. Even during the most dramatic or cathartic moment, there is no indulgence in nostalgic remembrance of the past or dwelling upon the lack of certitude of the future. Remarkable is the detached acceptance of the protagonist even as the last ray of hope appears to be progressively diminutive.

CAMUS 2Having said all that, Camus makes one think. However, even as he denies, Meursault’s fated end amidst “howls of execration” is a conformation to Society’s diktats. The Stranger has layered strata of incredulity and a realm of larger acceptance which is almost enviable in its accomplishment and at the same time implausible to attain if viewed pragmatically. Yet, it’s an unforgettable classic because in the final analysis it speaks of the timeless desire of man to live life on his own terms.

The Jaded Jersey

You can read the first part here



The colour orange was not exactly a blasphemy. Yet in all its shabbiness, it was loud enough to attract attention. The wearer of this eyesore (read jersey) was a chinky-eyed girl who had her nose immersed in an Ayan Rand. I think it was the Fountain Head. I was envious of her because more than once I had tried to emulate her stance and failed miserably. Though the Metro has a smooth glide, yet reading while standing inside the Ladies’ Compartment has often given me a stiff neck and resultant vertigo because of which I finally decided to give up on reading in a moving vehicle of any order.

The seats were as usual all  occupied – mothers knitting, aunts dozing, girls chirping, loud mouths gossiping…there were all kinds bunched together in that compartment bustling with gregarious humanity conspiring to survive another day in an over-saturated urban hole.

Amidst the ruckus was this plump girl having an animated conversation on mobile with, (I thought at first) her boyfriend, no, (but later got convinced) her husband. The realization was gradual, i.e.,  from conjecture (boyfriend) to ultimate confirmation (husband). Women go by their instincts.  Mobile chats have come of age. In today’s here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush-kind-of-life they are the only savior of sanity. Being an ace eavesdropper, my veteran ears can now pick up the subtlest of nuances of a one-sided talk in a jiffy….Its layered, to say the least, I mean, a chat with the Invisible One at the other end.

If you are in a settled kind of relationship, the chat is equivalent to that of reading out the weather report (Well, nowadays, even that is contrived to be  more watch-worthy; who listens to the droning news-giver on FM Rainbow?). You discuss (underlined) the perpetual tussle with your-not-so-happening-boss, never ending hang-ups with your best friend, ever-widening rift with your parents – the gen gap – they want you to get married and you have prioritized on establishing a career first and in general land up divulging to all and sundry the boring manuscript of your jaded life, in between strings of unbecoming yawns, because you know he (on the other end) won’t mind that you are completely faded out by the end of a not-so-uncommon day. You value him as a listener, a confidante of your unexciting secrets while he may be feeling equally sleepy  but manages to keep afloat and make appropriate noises, by way of intermittent replies, to pep you up, in a friendly way.

With the one you are just feeling the grounds about, there is a zing to the ring ! A kind of poorly suppressed undertone of excitement, an irresistible  urge to prove yourself to be interesting and smart, a withhold ready to erupt in a barrage of unrestrained outbursts – the blush on your cheeks, the shine in your eyes, the quiver on your lips say much more than you wish to disclose to strangers.

Alas! With the husband, its a different cup of tea all together. Its familiarity bordering on contempt graduated to the next level! You know each other too well to be disillusioned. You make factual statements which are as impassive as your facial expression. Even the volley of accusations that you throw at each other, at regular intervals, has lost the edginess of an impending word-war. In short, you are completely in sync with each other, to the extent of being zoned off  from the rest of the world, your absolute acceptance of each other epitomizing a perfection attained in the course of an age-long assiduousness .

So, I opted for the third…the deceptively placid tone, the shimmer-less smile playing on her lips,  the preparedness in her gesticulations  –  the girl was engaged  in a conversation with her dear old hubby. And it flowed somewhat like :

Tumhaare muh mein keedey pade. Par padenge kaise tum to khud hi ek keeda ho!” (May your mouth be infested with a horde of insects. But how could it be? Aren’t you an insect yourself?). This was an even-toned remark said in as matter of fact a manner as though she were making a casual mention of the current price of potato in the market. A flicker of smile went around – understanding, appreciative, amused – like a smooth glide of a sedate wave, pacific on the surface yet carrying  hints of undercurrents which a wise seafarer might think twice before navigating.

But what baffled me was the unperturbed countenance of  my co-commuter of Oriental ancestry. Unruffled she continued with her philosophical preoccupation; more engrossed than ever as I was left wondering whether the colloquial banters were too alien an exchange for her to understand or appreciate. If not, then how could she…………?

Routine is annoying. There is nothing pleasant to keep us tickled in a planned timetable of survival. The usualness of the daily rut bogs down. Yet we have a choice – to find humour and meaning in the mundane! And what else can furnish an outlet to our cooped up  existence than momentary respites stolen during the exhausting journey called life?

At the same time its a difficult choice because the choice lies with you…