never-a-day-without-a-line

Are creative writing course any good?

2012-02-09T12:14:00.001+03:00

There is often a debate whether creative writing courses are any good. Some writers believe that the art cannot be taught, while others believe that you can groom some talented students to become published authors.

Kurt Vonnegut, in his interview for the Paris Review, gave some useful perspective. He responded to the question if there was any theory regarding creative writing art:
It was stated by Paul Engle—the founder of the Writers Workshop at Iowa. He told me that, if the workshop ever got a building of its own, these words should be inscribed over the entrance: “Don’t take it all so seriously.”

He also mentions what sorts of students in a creative writing class are likely to become published authors:
INTERVIEWER
How common is storytelling talent?
VONNEGUT
In a creative writing class of twenty people anywhere in this country, six students will be startlingly talented. Two of those might actually publish something by and by.
INTERVIEWER
What distinguishes those two from the rest?
VONNEGUT
They will have something other than literature itself on their minds. They will probably be hustlers, too. I mean that they won’t want to wait passively for somebody to discover them. They will insist on being read.

I am copying below text from the interviews of Chinua Achebe and Alice Munro in the Paris Review.

Chinua Achebe:

INTERVIEWER
Have you ever taught creative writing?
ACHEBE
No.
INTERVIEWER
Why not?
ACHEBE
Well, I don’t know how it’s done. I mean it. I really don’t know. The only thing I can say for it is that it provides work for writers. Don’t laugh! It’s very important. I think it’s very important for writers who need something else to do, especially in these precarious times. Many writers can’t make a living. So to be able to teach how to write is valuable to them. But I don’t really know about its value to the student. I don’t mean it’s useless. But I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to teach me how to write. That’s my own taste. I prefer to stumble on it. I prefer to go on trying all kinds of things, not to be told, This is the way it is done. Incidentally, there’s a story I like about a very distinguished writer today, who shall remain nameless, who had been taught creative writing in his younger days. The old man who taught him was reflecting about him one day: I remember his work was so good that I said to him, Don’t stop writing, never stop writing. I wish I’d never told him that. So I don’t know. I teach literature. That’s easy for me. Take someone else’s work and talk about it.

Alice Munro:

INTERVIEWER
Because you didn’t like teaching fiction?
MUNRO
No! It was terrible. This was 1973. York was one of the more radical Canadian universities, yet my class was all male except for one girl who hardly got to speak. They were doing what was fashionable at the time, which had to do with being both incomprehensible and trite; they seemed intolerant of anything else. It was good for me to learn to shout back and express some ideas about writing that I hadn’t sharpened up before, but I didn’t know how to reach them, how not to be an adversary. Maybe I’d know now. But it didn’t seem to have anything to do with writing—more like good training for going into television or something, getting really comfortable with clichés. I should have been able to change that, but I couldn’t. I had one student who wasn’t in the class, who brought me a story. I remember tears came into my eyes because it was so good, because I hadn’t seen a good piece of student writing in so long. She asked, How can I get into your class? And I said, Don’t! Don’t come near my class, just keep bringing me your work. And she has become a writer. The only one who did.
INTERVIEWER
Has there been a proliferation of creative-writing schools in Canada as in the United States?
MUNRO
Maybe not quite as much. We don’t have anything up here like Iowa. But careers are made by teaching in writing departments. For a while I felt sorry for these people because they weren’t getting published. The fact that they were making three times as much money as I would ever see didn’t quite get through to me.

John Gardner, who was a writing teacher himself, said in this Paris Review Interview that the art can be taught, but, he didn’t give details on how. He wrote several books on the craft of writing. I have read two of them, The Art of Fiction and On Becoming a Novelist, which I found very impressive and enlightening. I am quoting two paragraphs from his book The Art of Fiction.

I assume from the outset that the would-be writer using this book can become a successful writer if he wants to, since most of the people I’ve know who wanted to become writers, knowing what it meant, did become writers. About all that is required is that the would-be-writer understands clearly what it is that he wants to become and what he must do to become it. If no matter how hard he tries but he simply cannot do what he must do, this book will help him understand why he was not sent into the world to be a writer but for some other noble purpose.

When we begin to persuade that certain things must never be done in fiction and certain other things must always be done, one has entered the first stage of aesthetic arthritis, the disease the ends up in pedantic rigidity and the atrophy of intuition.
If you are not already tired of the excerpts from the Paris Review, and are still keen to read more on the topic, you can refer to the following articles:

Article on Atlantic Monthly on creative writing
BBC on creative writing

Padharo Mhare Des

2012-01-31T09:29:00.000+03:00

There are several versions of Padharo Mhare Des which has become the theme song for Rajasthan tourism, but this one has feeling of real folk song.

The other versions are on this link and this link and this link

Types of sinners in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment:

2012-01-29T15:02:00.000+03:00

The definition of crime has changed since Dostoevsky wrote Crime and Punishment in 1866, for example, prostitution is legal in some countries. Nevertheless, the basic human disgust against sin hasn’t changed. It doesn’t take much philosophy to distinguish the right from the wrong. The motive behind the sin determines the seriousness of the offence from human angle. In this novel, there are various characters who sin, but their motives are different.

Sins of ideology: Raskolnikov is a sinner of ideology. He killed the old woman with a conviction that he did the right thing by freeing the world from a usurer. Before his crime, he had published an article in which he refers to several leaders around the world who pursued their ambitions without caring about the price others had to pay for their ambitions, which they believed to be sacred and noble.

Sins of rudeness: Katerina Ivanovna Marmeladova, Catherine, is a sinner of rudeness. She curses and abuses Sonia, beats her own children and drunkard husband, but she doesn’t nurtures any ill will towards anyone. She laments that Sonia has to resort to sins because of the destitution of her family, and sacrifices her limited income to honour the memory of her dead husband. She also has noble dreams of running a school for women.

Sins of malice and envy: Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin is very selfish man who cannot think beyond his own goodness. He plans schemes to humiliate people and creates division among relatives. He doesn’t care whether his schemes wreck lives of people. He is disgraced on two occasions when his schemes fail, once when he meets Raskolnikov along with his family, and, second, when he slanders Sonia. His sins may not be punishable by law, but they are detestable from moral point of view.

Sins of compulsion: Sonia is a sinner who has taken up crime of prostitution when she could not bear to see the children of her step-mother crying out of hunger, but, she hates her situation and desires to get out of it. She is abused by her step-mother but still thinks her kind. She has firm faith, and reads Bible regularly. She is shocked when she learns about the murder Raskolnikov committed and exhorts him successfully to surrender to the police.

Shake it

2012-01-16T15:17:00.000+03:00

While returning to my office in the afternoon, this is the second time I saw this toy in a car. It just dances on its own, from the minor vibrations it receives from the earth. I like its rhythm and energy to celebrate when there is no one around to see him.

Revolutionary Road and some reflections on emotions, reasons and insanity

2012-01-16T11:28:00.000+03:00

Yesterday I watched the movie Revolutionary Road. I know that MBC Max shows some good movies at 11:00 PM, but I am not certain of the days of the week. It just happened that I was watching the TV when this movie started, and, as always, I could spot in the first couple of minutes that the movie is worth watching. It is a fantastic movie which makes one involved to the last scene. It is story of a couple in 1940s living in Connecticut who are unhappy with their life and miss a spark in it. The husband has always wanted to live in Paris, and, his wife too gets fixated with the idea that their move to Paris will bring happiness to their life, so she plans going there where she would support her husband and he would just explore what would suit him best to do, his passion, although he doesn’t know yet where his passion lies. It looks like a fanciful, romantic idea on the part of the wife, who appears to be too much in love with her husband, but turns out to be sort of monomania. There are some other interesting characters as well; in a nice angle, the movie shows how insane people understand each other much better.

The movie doesn’t have much drama, but has some intense emotional outbursts, which show impressive acting on the part of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet. This movie, in my view, was one of the successful examples of a delicate subject handled very craftily.

We call somebody insane when he has gone beyond the boundaries of reason, when his actions are totally unreasonable or natural. I think whenever we move away from reasons, we are looming on the boundary of insanity, but there is probably an acceptable level of how far you can pursue your fancy, and at what stage it becomes totally unacceptable. For example, some adventure sports might be called insane by the people who don’t like any sports, and some dictators might have been termed insane, although they controlled their affairs well. Probably at a level when one cannot see the risk in pursuing his monomania, or he doesn’t or cannot care what the consequences of his actions are, it might be called insanity. Crime is also committed in the moments of insanity, and, under the influence of alcohol one is likely to commit which he would not do otherwise, because his has shed his guard of reason. Dostoevsky in his novel Crime and Punishment has explored in details the psychology of a criminal and it reflects sort of insanity which most people cannot see.

We are all likely to be insane, and we are actually insane at one time or another, but the good news is that we can control it, by constantly referring to our values of peace and reason.
Everything we human beings do has to be guided by emotions, so in reality there is no such thing as reason. But, what we call reasons are tamed emotions serving to bring total harmony, while what we call emotions may be totally individual, and it is the indulgence in these emotions which can potentially lead to insanity.

Rich-guy-poor-girl plot idea

2012-01-14T17:32:00.000+03:00

In one of his interviews, VS Naipaul is critical of many British writers of the Victorian era, including Jane Austen. He says, ‘Jane Austen is for those people who wish to be educated in English manners. If that isn't part of your mission, you don't know what to do with this material.’

I have read Northanger Abbey of Jane Austen and intended to read more of her novels. Recently, I saw the movie Pride and Prejudice. I loved the movie. It was fantastic in terms of screen play, nice acting, and truly remarkable in terms of cinematography. But, I did not like the story. I said, 'What a pity that I don't like the story in movie which is based on such a famous novel.' I felt that the heroine's character hardly shows up except that she is outspoken and does things her own way, and the hero is hardly a character, except that he is rich, generous and reserved. I might have been prejudiced after having read what VS Naipaul’s views, but I felt that it is another rich-guy-poor-girl story. The novel must have depicted the story very vividly and wittingly, but in essence the plot remains the same as it was of Northanger Abbey- a poor girl meets a rich guy, the rich guy is interested in her, they face some problem, and ultimately they get married and live happily ever after.

This is also a typical plot of Mills and Boons novels. I haven’t read any of them, nor do I intend to read any, but so I am told by my wife.

There is some spiritual about this plot which appeals to girls. Not only this, many popular fairy tales, such as that of Cinderella, are also based on the same plot idea. I always considered these fairy tales as bad stories for young girls because they do not show any merit of the rich guy except that he is rich and can afford jewelry and diamonds. Is that the only qualification of a worthy man?

This plot idea has been successfully used for many Bollywood and Hollywood movies, I haven’t seen many movies, but I can at least recall examples of movies such as Pretty Woman, Bridget Jone’s Diary. These script writers are smart and they do show some nice traits of the rich guy, but probably they would not matter if he were not rich.

The philosophy of Charles Schultz , the creator of the "Peanuts" comic strip.

2012-01-12T09:23:00.001+03:00

I am copying the text as I received in an email. I am copying it as is because I find it an interesting way to reflect what really matters in life. First, I had read such point of view was in in Steven Covey's book Seven Habits if Highly Effectively people in which he asks the reader to imagine himself dead and imagine their relatives and friends giving a brief speech about him. What you would wish people to talk about you when you are dead is nothing about your worldly achievements, but about the difference you made in their lives.

You don't have to actually answer the questions. Just read the "entire" e-mail straight through, and you'll get the point.

1. Name the five wealthiest people in the world.
2. Name the last five Heisman trophy winners.
3. Name the last five winners of the Miss America Contest.
4. Name ten people who have won the Nobel or Pulitzer Prize.
5. Name the last half dozen Academy Award winners for best actor and actress.
6. Name the last decade's worth of World Series winners.

How did you do?

The point is, none of us remember the headliners of yesterday. They are not second-rate achievers. They are the best in their fields. But the applause dies. Awards tarnish. Achievements are forgotten. Accolades and certificates are buried with their owners.

Here's another quiz. See how you do on this one:

1. List a few teachers who aided your journey through school.
2. Name three friends who have helped you through a difficult time.
3. Name five people who have taught you something worthwhile.
4. Think of a few people who have made you feel appreciated and special.
5. Think of five people you enjoy spending time with.

Easier?
* The lesson: The people who make a difference in your life are NOT the ones with the most credentials, the most money, or the most awards. "They are the ones who care."

Human development index in India

2012-01-08T11:53:00.001+03:00

An article on the Frontline magazine highlights what India could learn from Brazil to progress on the path of human development and alleviation of poverty. In the past few decades, Brazil’s achievement in terms of human development index has been impressive. The following statistics reveal bitter reality of human development index in India, which is often forgotten in the glamour of GDP growth and economic progress. The economic progress is mostly visible in the cities, while 70% of the Indian population still lives in villages.

The easy view of the situation can be that the population growth in India makes it difficult to achieve development, while it is also true that when people get education and better living standards, the average number of children per family naturally comes down.

I am adding the statistics below. Please click on the image for an expanded view.

The Talwar couple to stand trial

2012-01-06T13:29:00.000+03:00

The Supreme Court has cleared the way for the trial of the dentist couple Rajesh and Nupur Talwar for murdering their daughter and the servant Hemraj. Several months ago, when I had written a post criticising an article published in Tehelka in which the author had tried to prove innocence of the couple a few friends felt that I was jumping to conclusions and it was devastating for the couple to be accused of murder of their daughter. What annoyed me was media’s eagerness to be the judge before the trial, which was rare because most of the times they are eager to prove the accused guilty before trial. It was evident from the media drama that the couple are really very well connected. They not only act well, but manage the show very well too. When the UP police arrested the father Rajesh Talwar in 2008, there was much outcry in the media and perhaps it was due to the media pressure, and certainly some political influence, the case was handed over to the CBI. The CBI closed in the investigation inconclusively, but the investigation did point out towards the guilt of the parents, which was enough reason for their prosecution.

Indeed, falsehood is bound to perish.

Link to my previous post mentioned above

The magic trick - Flash Fiction

2012-01-03T10:24:00.001+03:00

The magician spread his hands wide in the air, as if he was about to grab something from it, but he didn’t, and brought his hands closer, and drew a red handkerchief from God-knows-where. He placed the red handkerchief on a small table, and lifted it slowly, revealing a lazy turtle below it, who was unsure why he was there and what was his agenda for the day. The school children who were barred by a rope from reaching out to the stage, gaped with amazement; some were so amazed that they forgot to clap. Vipul was not impressed. He said to his friend, “It’s not a real turtle. It’s made of paper. I had a plastic lizard and I frightened my mom with it.’ At the same moment, the turtle turned its head and looked towards Vipul, who stepped backward fearing this product of magic might have heard his remarks. The magician now announce in his shrill voice, “I need a brave child to come here. Who is the bravest of you all?” Vipul’s friend found him a bit frightened, so they pushed him forward, chanting slogans, “Vipul is the bravest! Vipul is the bravest!”

Vipul now walked towards the stage, straightening his sweater, and smiling to hide his fright. The magician showed a jug of water, and made some boys dip finger in it to assure that there was real water in it. The boys shivered as they dipped their fingers in it, and one of them said, ‘It’s colder than ice.’ Vipul was looking at the magician strangely, and thought that the magician will make him drink the water. “Now I am going to pour the water on this brave boy. It’s not so cold today. Yesterday, it was the coldest day ever. I poured water on a boy, and it froze before wetting the boy's hair. Are you ready, brave boy?” Vipul shook his head in negative, faintly hoping that the water would freeze over his head too; but the crowd cheered, “Yes.” The magician smiled, and came near Vipul with the jug in his hand. “My mom will kill you if I catch cold,” said Vipul. By that time, the magician turned the jug of the water on his head, Vipul gave a shriek and closed his eyes, only to realise that instead of water, flower petals were falling on him. He jumped grinning, realising the trick, and waved before the audience as if he had performed the trick.

One Line Thoughts (5)

2011-12-25T12:32:00.001+03:00

It is more important to be true to oneself, than being right to someone else.

Sometimes, who you are doesn't count as much as where you are.

It doesn't matter how often you have been are knocked down, but how often did you rise again.

You cannot be proud of anything if you are ashamed of truth.

I’ve never seen anybody losing a thing by being patient, or winning a thing by being desperate.

You can ridicule innocence as much as you can ridicule a child.

The ‘expatriate affairs’ tab for paying government fees through the ATM reads ‘alien control.’

It doesn’t matter what you do, but how you do it makes a difference.

I always sleep and dream anew, I always see but observe anew, I always write but think a new.

One of the illusions of the youth is that there is nothing like maturity that comes with age.

One has to have a child's heart to indulge freely.

Innocent assumptions are better than intelligent guesses.

He thinks so simply that he struggles to explain himself.

Previous posts as One Line Thoughts

LuckByChance, and struggle of a character

2011-12-23T22:36:00.000+03:00

Today, I sat down to watch the movie LuckByChance (they write it without spaces) and I started liking it from the beginning. It showed interesting scenes of India, and there was subtle humour in the movie, which is rare in Indian movies, especially in the part where the hero attends the acting school Nandkumar Acting School something. They have interesting sarcasm on Shahrukh Khan. I noted one of the idea of Shahruk Khan being a brand and my wife noted another as Shahruk Khan having ditched the directors like Aziz Mirza and Abbas Mastan who made him a star. In the acting school, they invite Mc Mohan to distribute acting certificates and the students urge him to repeat the dialogue of Sholay. The angle of showing martial arts classes with the ‘ha ha’ of Bachna ai Haseeno song was also interesting. Everything felt alright in the movie; interesting characters and insights on the film industry poured one after another, the tussle of hero and screen play writers, the superstition of producers, the desperateness of the people trying their luck in the film industry, the vainness of the successful people in the industry and so on. I wondered if this movie has broken the record of Naseeb for showing maximum number of film actors in a story.

But, I felt something is missing in it. Well, it reminded me of a discussion I had with a friend sometime back on stories. This movie story, at least in the first part, missed ‘a character’ and ‘emotional struggle of the character.’ You can hardly say what type of person the hero is, except that he is witty on two occasions and uses a situation to his advantage. His character only shows up in the last part of the movie where he becomes selfish and opportunist after becoming a successful film star.

My wife said that the movie is a satire, and I added that it may be a satire but not a story. A story which is not around a character, ends up becoming a commentary. We human beings are concerned with the story of an individual, even though, we delight in knowing a culture, profession, gender, traditions, and country through the life of one person. The hero of this movie has an aim, he wants to become a film star, but what compels him to be one is not clear; and, what is at stake if he doesn’t become one? Apparently nothing. In a classic sense, it is not important what a character does, but why he does it makes all the difference. It doesn’t matter what he wants to achieve, but why he wants to achieve and what does he risk losing if he doesn’t achieve it makes the struggle interesting. If Amer Khan in Lagaan would not win the cricket match, the poor villagers will have to pay the double tax. In the movie Hera Pheri, three characters want to make quick money, but they have different motives. One wants to pay back a friend’s loan so that his friend’s sister can be married, another wants to prove to his mother that he is a successful person, and the third wants to regain the pride of his father by being sitting outside the house free from credit. The physical struggle to make quick money, powered with this emotional zeal makes the story interesting.

Recently in a movie Guzarish, which had few of the most popular star cast as Hritik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai, they brought up an interesting subject of euthanasia. I think the movie did not do well on commercial basis. I saw only part of the movie, and was bored to see the hero begging to die. Who would want to know the story of a person who wants to die? You want to die? Well, find a doctor like one of Michael Jackson, give him all your money and let him kill you slowly but surely. The hero has already given up the struggle. His wish to die would be inspiring if he wanted to free someone of pain of seeing him in such helplessness. It is not even a sacrifice, as in the case of Mein Azad Hun, an Indian version of Meet John Doe, in which Amitabh Bachchan commits suicide to create a scandal against the corruption in the public offices.

Another example of a movie ending up as a commentary is Peepli Live. The man who becomes centre of a media drama has no emotional struggle. He is a man of slow understanding, dumb to be more accurate, whose is prompted to claim to he will commit suicide. He doesn’t have an understanding of what he is doing, why he is doing it, and what scandal his declaration has brought to the village. He is a victim in the drama, who doesn’t know how to fight, or if there is a fight or not. You are not interesting if things are done to you, but if you do things differently, like Rajesh Khanna of Anand who meets cancer with bravado. Things are anyway done to billions of people every day, but who is interested in their stories.

A recent movie Apahran had story of a hero whose father’s idealism doesn’t let him succeed in public service exams, and he ends up becoming a criminal. This story is unexciting because the struggle to succeed or resistance against becoming a criminal is not emphasized enough. In contrast, there was a movie Shakti three decades ago, in which an idealist police officer Dilip Kumar refuses to compromise with criminals who have abducted his young son. The son grows up rebellious in nature and adopts life of a criminal after having failed to get a job. It is in the climax of the story that the son learns that his idealist father loved him always, but never expressed it. The character of the father becomes forceful because he is asked to pay a high price for his idealism, the life of his son, and he chooses idealism. The story also emphasizes the anguish of a son against the idealism of his father.

In the movie, LuckByChance, the hero starts showing some interesting shade after becoming successful, but then he is cajoled to regret his selfishness, although he is still not true to his remorse. He is neither selfish, nor remorseful. The film ends without any conclusion, with a wrap up commentary from the heroine on the film industry, which made me wonder whether the story was about the hero or the heroine. It started with one character and ended with another.

As I have given the contrast of the story of Apraharan and Shakti, on a similar theme. A contrast of LuckByChance will be Rangeela, which is story of a middle-class girl who wants to become a film star, and has an outspoken egoist lover who wants to walk out of her life after some misunderstanding. In fact, many characters in Rangeela are memorable, while I do not remember the name of the hero in LuckByChance. In Rangeela, the dreams of the two characters are different, but they are deeply attached to those dreams, and these dreams collided in an interesting manner and end on a satisfactory note. Amer Khan knows how to pick a story.

LuckByChance is not only confusing in terms of characters, but also on theme. The title and story suggests that it is luck that makes people successful, and while the hero keeps on harping that it is the choice that people make which make people successful, and there is nothing like kismet.

But, one thing is for sure, Farhan Akhtar is lucky to have a sister, Zoya Akhtar, who dearly wants him to become a film star in real sense. I know of at least one more committed sister, Ekta Kapoor, who tried very hard and hasn’t given up even yet trying to make her brother Tushar Kapoor a star. But, somehow she has come to accept that Tushar Kapoor will do well in the roles of a loser, as he started doing with the film Mujhe Kuch Kehna Hai. Well, it is not only sisters who have tried hard to make their brothers do well in films, but brothers like Salman Khan and Aaamir Khan have done their bit to make Suhail Khan and Faisal Khan as film stars. After all, you might be lucky to be born in the film industry, but you have to have some charisma to be a star, which makes a middle-class person like Shahrukh Khan a superstar.

Richness through cheap pleasures

2011-12-22T13:05:00.000+03:00

Henry David Thoreau said, ‘That man is the richest whose pleasures are the cheapest.’ I chatted about the habit of writing something on daily basis with my colleague. He said that he used to write diaries, which served as good source of remembering the past. I shared with him how the human memory works in mystical manner, as we remember things that we have forgotten so many years ago. I believe people in old age remember their childhood the most, although they have become very distant with that phase.

Yesterday, I took photos of business cards which I had collected over years. I found taking a photo from mobile phone as an easy way to keep the backup, as typing all those phone numbers and emails will be very difficult, and one is likely to make mistakes. When I was collecting those cards, I remembered a game that I used to play in my childhood when I was seven or eight. I don’t remember the exact process, but it was played with the collected faces of match boxes, which came in a huge variety because there were so many brands of match sticks. Children will win and lose the treasure of collected cards in the game. We used to be very impressed with the boys who had the biggest collection of these cards. My colleague, who is from another part of India, also remembered this game and said that a match box brand with a ship was the most common, so some chaps would exchange the match box card with ship with another. I vaguely remember some rare cards were worth several of common ones.

He then mentioned another interesting game that he used to play in his region, which was called chappu. It was a game which a group of boys will play, each having a small ring, which could be made of old deep fly pan’s handle, the mouth of a pitcher or something else. A boy would challenge others and throw the ring, and the following boy has to throw it in a way that it gets within a hand-spread width. If it was an inch farther, the boy would try to stretch his hand to make it reach within. If the second ring gets within a hand-width area of the first ring, the thrower wins, otherwise he loses. They maintained integrity as not to throw the rings very far off to begin with. The currency to win and lose was from the faces of empty cigarette packs, and each brand had different value to it. It required a lot of skill when it was to be played on an uneven ground. Some boys used to lose all their currency of cigarettes pack cards in one game, and then they will helplessly watch others play.

Then we chatted about the game of marbles, which I believe was popular in all parts of India, or may be around the world. I am not sure if is still popular in the age of PlayStation. My colleague said that on Sundays they used to get so indulged in winning and losing for hours that one of the boys’ mother would come with a stick in hand to fetch him home.

I mentioned to my colleague my post which I had written some time back in which I mentioned the insight that men like to take aims. Most sports relate to aiming in some or other way.

I believe a man is the richest in the childhood because his pleasures are the cheapest and most accessible, and his motives are free from vanity.

Character analysis of Jane Eyre

2011-12-03T09:13:00.001+03:00

I haven't written as many posts on a single novel as I wrote on Jane Eyre of Charlotte Bronte. I is not because I was most fascinated with this novel, but because lately I started taking notes while reading a novel, and thus I was conscious of more aspects of a novel than I otherwise would be. I wrote the character analysis of Jane Eyre some time back and kept on updating it to the extends that it seems like the longest post on this blog ever. I am copying it below.

Spoiler warning- This post contains details of the plot which might take away the suprise effect if you haven't read the novel yet.

All virtues, no vices:

Jane Eyre relates her own story and does so impeccably. You cannot find any vice in her. The only time she revolts and hurts somebody is as a child when she unleashes her frustration on her aunt. As a grown up woman, she is not envious of Miss Ingram or Bertha and pities them both for different reasons.

Even when she accosts St John for persistently trying to make her accept his marriage proposal, she feels guilty for her rudeness.

However, this absence of vices doesn’t seem unnatural in her character because she doesn’t emphasize her virtues either. Perhaps she thinks that being an obstinate person is enough vice.

She is content with her wisdom and philosophy and doesn’t feel the need for any endorsement.

People reading through physiognomy:

Jane Eyre takes pleasure in reading the soul of a man through his physiognomy. She cannot help drawing her conclusions when she reads a person, such as in this paragraph:

But I liked his physiognomy even less than before: it struck me as being at the same time unsettled and inanimate. His eye wandered, and had no meaning in its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I never remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there was no power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval shape: no firmness in that aquiline nose and small cherry mouth; there was no thought on the low, even forehead; no command in that blank, brown eye.

Jane scorns the shallowness of other women when they seem to be impressed by the features of a visitor:

These last were discussing the stranger; they both called him ‘a beautiful man.’ Louisa said he was ‘a love of a creature,’ and she ‘adored him;’ and Mary instanced his ‘pretty little mouth, and nice nose,’ as her ideal of the charming.

‘And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!’ cried Lou-isa,—‘so smooth—none of those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and such a placid eye and smile!’

Superstitious and metaphysical guidance:

Jane is a bit superstitious. She can have premonition of a catastrophe. She often mentions of the ‘watcher’ or ‘monitor’ who reminds her of the right path and perhaps the same monitor apprises her of any good or evil on her way.

When she is about to get married to Mr Rochester for the first time, she has a nightmare which she relates to him. She finds herself pitiable, lonely, and hopeless in this nightmare, which she narrates thus:

On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all my first sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I thought, sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I strained every nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and en-treat you to stop— but my movements were fettered, and my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, with-drew farther and farther every moment.

What leads her to reunite with her lover is also an apparition in which she hears him shout her name, but he is nowhere around. She later on learns from her lover that he did cry out her name in utter despair. This is narrated below:

All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones.

‘What have you heard? What do you see?’ asked St. John.

I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry—

‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’—nothing more.

‘O God! what is it?’ I gasped.

I might have said, ‘Where is it?’ for it did not seem in the room— nor in the house—nor in the garden; it did not come out of the airnor from under the earth—nor from overhead. I had heard it— where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being—a known, loved, well-remembered voice—that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.

‘I am coming!’ I cried. ‘Wait for me! Oh, I will come!’ I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was void.

‘Where are you?’ I exclaimed.

The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back—‘Where are you?’ I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush.

Submissive or rebellious:

Jane struggles to find the medium path. She shocks her aunt by her revolt just before leaving for the boarding house, although she had been bearing all the injustice patiently prior to that.

When she is proposed by Mr Rochester and realises that she cannot marry him, she flees. She also finds it hard to resist St. John when he proposes her for marriage. She refuses him but cannot be harsh enough to make him stop insisting on his idea. She says:

I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my dealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own, between absolute submission and determined revolt. I have always faithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting, sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither present circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me to mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John’s directions; and in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side by side with him.

Docile yet indomitable:

There are fewer scenes of confrontation, which is compensated with unceasing narration. And, whenever there is confrontation, Jane is on the receiving end. She stands there helpless, accessible, conducive, and sympathetic. She is seldom leading a confrontation, but mostly reacting to what other character say or do.

She is pliable, yet she can be decisive in the moments when she realises she has to act. She is docile but seldom confused. She easily spots that she is in love with Mr Rochester and doesn’t hesitate to admit it to herself, no matter how unconventional it might seem.

When she finds out that she cannot marry Mr Rochester because he is married, she insists her independent thus:

‘Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.’

‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you.

She finds St. John virtuous and handsome, but never nurtures romantic notions about him. When St. John proposes to her, she rejects him and persists in it with subtle defiance against the passionless insistence of St. John. She has no doubt that St. John doesn’t love her, and spending life with a passionless missionary will not be a service of God, but injustice to oneself and her husband. She says:

‘I scorn your idea of love,’ I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. ‘I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.”

She seeks love and needs love, she cannot stand coldness of St. John, but this want of good terms doesn’t break her will or confuse her about her emotions towards him.

When she meets Mr Rochester again, he is a blind man who needs support and she is a rich woman capable of making her own choices. As she says:

‘No, sir! I am an independent woman now.’

‘Independent! What do you mean, Jane?’

‘My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thou-sand pounds.’

‘Ah! this is practical—this is real!’ he cried: ‘I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it.—What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?’

‘If you won’t let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want company of an evening.’

‘But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote your-self to a blind lameter like me?’

‘I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own mistress.’

Thankfulness:

She is thankful to her aunt for whatever goodness she had bestowed to her and tries to be kind to the old lady when she is on her deathbed, and refuses to leave the place during her last days.

Out of thankfulness to St. John she proposes to accompany him to India, although she knows that she is going to dislike the experience and be away from any possibility of seeing Mr Rochester again.

She is thankful to the Rivers and distributes her fortunes among them to remove their poverty.

Self-control:

Jane Eyre has remarkable self-control, which at times seem unnatural. It is because of her exploration of the self, the novel has excessive details of how she feels as compared to what others did.

I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her—to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow.

On another instance, she contemplates:

Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, it is because I am insane—quite insane: with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.

Secretive:

She is very secretive. She doesn’t share with Mrs Fairfax that she has been proposed for marriage by Mr Rochester. She doesn’t reveal the entire story of her destitute to the Rivers. Not only this, she keeps the name of certain place and other details from the reader itself, by mentioning the city as S-. Perhaps this secretiveness also makes her a more believable narrator. She can come across very open and sharing, while maintaining the secrecy of the affairs as she chooses.

Spiritual vs. romantic love:

Her love is truly spiritual love, not a romantic one. She nurtures no romantic notions about marriage and isn’t dismayed that her marriage ceremony is plain and free from the decoration or society, and merely a sanction from priest and God, because she cares none for the approval of the society.

She loves Mr Rochester despite his eccentricity, sinful history and ugly looks. She forgives the fact that he was untruthful to her and almost deceived her into a marriage. She cannot forget him and returns to him without any reserve, finding true solace in serving him. She doesn’t try to romanticise or idolize Mr Rochester after she falls in love with him and accepts him as he is, declaring to him that he has always been ‘hideous.’ She doesn’t over emphasize the gentle manners or goodness of Mr Rochester and leaves it up to the reader to make a judgement from the way his kind treatment to his servants and scorn for his prejudiced friends.

She cannot bring her up to revolt against Mr Rochester even when she learns that she has been deceived. And, interestingly, she is in a humorous mood only while talking to him. She admits he is ‘hideous’ but loves him despite his ugliness, and loves him more when he loses eyesight and has scars on his face. She cares less for what she gets from her future husband who turns blind, and worries how she can be useful to him.

Individualistic and courageous:

Her code for spirituality and morality is more endorsed by personal beliefs than by the social approval.

She has enough courage to pursue her whims or will without any regret or caring for endorsement, even from other women. She affirms her individuality on several instances, such as:

I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow professes to say,—‘I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.

Friendless:

Bronte uses this word many times in the novel and often it is used to describe Jane Eyre. She is harshly treated by her aunt and her children, but she cannot gain sympathies even of the servants of the house. At the boarding school, she meets Helen Burns, who is more a guide than a friend, but she dies young. After having spent six years as a student and two years as a teacher, she leaves the Lowood School friendless. She becomes governess of Adele, but cannot really sympathise with her. She cannot be friends with Mrs Fairfax or any other inhabitant of Thornfield. She visits her aunt after a long time and observes her cousins thoroughly but has none of the womanly, friendly chat with them. When she revisits her aunt, a ploy for the authoress to introduce fortune in the life of Jane, the narrator doesn’t note anything positive that made her reminiscence of her old days in Gateshead. She insists that she has forgotten and forgiven, yet all she notices is bitterness, failure, misery and doom. There isn’t even mention of the bird who was friends with her when she lived at Gateshead as a child. The authoress struggles to get in the heads of women. She can depict their characters through observation and dialogues but she struggles to depict it through action, which she only does well while trying to depict the aversion of her aunt. It seems even if she knows the motives of the women characters, she only knows them superficially, or one might say she is passing a judgement on them.

She likes Rivers sisters dearly, but cannot be so friendly to confide to them about the marriage proposal she received from their brother, until she is dismayed and shares her predicament with Dianna. At the end of the novel, we learn that she often visits the Rivers sisters and they too visit her, but this relationship doesn’t seem one of dependence, but of cordiality. In the entire novel, she relies too much on herself and probably thinks that relying on other people will make her less independent.

Her only weakness is her love for Mr Rochester, which too she would only accept on equitable terms. She admits that she is friendless, when she rebuffs Mr Rochester.

Still indomitable was the reply—‘I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now.

Jane Eyre- Use of two words in a rhythm to create effect

2011-11-03T10:08:00.000+03:00

Lately, I’ve been reading Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte and I enjoyed it more than Wuthering Heights written by another Bronte sister Emile Bronte. It is one of rare novels in which the narrator has a character, unlike the narrator of Wuthering Heights or Frankenstein who is like a jinni of Arabian Nights or Baital (a jinni as well) of Vikram telling the story. I started taking notes as I read; what good a reading is if you cannot take notes. I thought, collected these notes will make a good post or amateurish article on the novel, but I do not have the patience to complete them and put them together as one piece. Blogs are useful for people like me who are impatient and wanting in focus. So, I will write down my observations on the novel in separate topics.

I’ve noted recently that Charlotte Bronte uses two successive rhythmic words very successfully. I am sure she has been using it all over the novel, one cannot use a talent selectively, but I noted it while I am at the middle of the novel and will write some of the examples below:

‘And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-night; but of happy love and blissful union.’

So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger.

…or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes.

I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting.

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid…

His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint.

…I felt the spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame.

…it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal:…

Women driving in Saudi Arabia

2011-10-08T10:12:00.001+03:00

This is one of the bonus posts, the posts that trigger as a response to an article or blog. I read this article on Arab News in which the writer has strongly argued for while women need to drive, at the same time highlighting the ironies that their inability to drive creates.

We may love it or hate it, the reality is that Saudi Arabia is not ready for women to drive. The roads are scary enough for best of the drivers, they would be completely chaotic with women behind wheels, not because women will drive badly, but because people who do not see women on roads will be ogling at them. The boys, who chase taxis and cars with women in them, at times even when they are with their father, would make sure to chase the woman until she reaches home. And, trust me, no one would call it harassment or come to protect women. They still don't come when these boys chase cars, stop the cars in the middle of the road to hand over their phone numbers, or block the traffic at traffic signal to urge a girl to open windshield and accept his phone number. The mind-set in Saudi Arabia is that any woman who is alone on the street has to be either a rag picker or an easy ride. Tell me a woman who was not honked at when she was waiting for a taxi.

What is easy to do and must be done immediately is to introduce radio-taxi for women which should be at discounted rate and available round the clock. These taxis will ensure that if a woman has any emergency, at least she can call a taxi and go to the places where she wants to go. With fuel prices and cars being cheap in Saudi Arabia, I believe it is not difficult to have cheaper taxi services. In fact, there is no need to have a separate taxi service, but it can be compulsory for taxi companies that they will make one taxi available for every ten taxis they have for women only radio-taxi service. The social belief that works against women driving is not because it is against Islam, but that women will go lose when they get to drive. This is the same belief which works against demand for a cheaper taxi-service for women.

Markheim: The struggle of good and evil

2011-09-29T13:35:00.003+03:00

I finished reading Markheim. It is a wonderful short-story which was first published in 1984 by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is only narration of less than an hour and mostly contains the dialogues of Markheim with the devil. Stevenson has dramatised the confusion and desperation a criminal goes through immediately after he has committed the crime. Devil comes to help Markheim, but he snubs him.

Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph. "No," said he, "I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing to commit myself to evil."

He further expresses his repulsion for evil:

"And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?" asked Markheim. "Do you think I have no more generous aspirations than to sin and sin and sin and at last sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. Is this, then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red hands that you presume such baseness? And is this crime of murder indeed so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?"

Stevenson has also made a comparison between evil character and evil act, as the devil says:

Evil, for which I live, consists not in action but in character. The bad man is dear to me, not the bad act, whose fruits, if we could follow them far enough down the hurtling cataract of the ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of the rarest virtues.

It is also fascinating to see that Stevenson has used the dramatic description which we can see in cinema these days. The following paragraph is enough for a director to show fear and frenzy.

So loud was the beating of the rain through all the house that, in Markheim's ears, it began to be distinguished into many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread of regiments marching in the distance, the chink of money in the counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to mingle with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon him to the verge of madness. On every side he was haunted and begirt by presences. He heard them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, he heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a great effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and followed stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he would possess his soul!

In another expression, through the words of devil, Stevenson has dramatized the maid coming nearer the scene of crime. I can imagine it exactly it is in an thriller movie:

But time flies; the servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures on the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer…

A man who spent his entire life in crime can defeat devil and can resolve to face the consequences of his evil acts, replacing fear in his heart with peace. The devil reminds Markheim of his evil past and makes him believe that there is no hope for reform.

But the visitant raised his finger. "For six and thirty years that you have been in this world," said he, "through many changes of fortune and varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have blenched at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty or meanness, from which you still recoil? Five years from now I shall detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way; nor can anything but death avail to stop you."

However, Markheim chooses freedom over slavery of evil:

Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. "If I be condemned to evil acts," he said, "there is still one door of freedom open: I can cease from action. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love of good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have still my hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you shall see that I can draw both energy and courage."

Such is the powerful of goodness over evil, as it can triumph lifetime of evil deeds with one time surrender to goodness.

Midnight’s Children

2011-09-29T10:46:00.004+03:00

Some days ago I wrote a post on the novel Wuthering Heights in which I expressed my discontent and satisfaction with the novel. I said it was not a bad novel because I did not feel irritated by it at any stage, nor did I put it aside after being frustrated with it. There were several books that I have put aside. One of them was The Portrait of a Lady in which James goes in exasperating details of the characters, and dialogues are too stiff and sometimes so long that they run in a page, and appear too refined to seem natural. Interestingly, all characters seem to make sense except for the main character whom everybody finds fascinating. I could not understand whether she was stupid, proud, confused or unfortunate, or all of it, and, what puzzled me more was what made men and women adore her. Anyway, I did pick up this novel again and read it delightfully to the end.

I have put aside David Copperfield but I do not have a single point of criticism for the novel. It is one of the best novels I have ever read, very enjoyable and unforgettable. The way Charles Dickens brings his minor characters to life, especially through their dialogues and mannerism, is truly inspiring. I started taking notes on techniques of characterization by Charles Dickens, but misplaced them. In the book The Technique of Fiction Writing, Robert Saunders Dowst wrote an interesting view that minor characters of Charles Dickens are gods but major characters are lifeless. I put David Copperfield aside because it is too good, and because, as Dowst describes, the main character doesn’t have a strong desire or pursuit. He is there to bring joy in lives of other people, but we cannot say what is missing in his life and what does he want to achieve. This takes away the tension in fiction- you do not care what the climax will be because there is nothing wrong with the hero, and you feel that it is like a record TV series which you can watch at your convenience, you will not lose any sleep trying to know what happens next.

Yesterday, I read one of the books that I had put aside three times in the past. It is one of the most celebrated novels in modern times, Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. The book won Booker of Bookers, the best book to win Bookers Prize in 25 and 40 years of the history of the award, in 1993 and in 2008, thus, it must have some genius in it, so I thought. I realise that the book still irritates me. The story goes nowhere, the characters are hardly believable and have no desire or purpose in life, in fact, the entire book seem to me chatter of a mad man who was once a genius. Yes, there is wonderful, and often entertaining, description of India, scornful, yes, because it is hard to describe India, or any nation, without being scornful, because one should not be a writer if he can’t see what is wrong around him, which perhaps fascinates most people around the world, especially the British. The most frustrating part of this novel is that children, as young as 10 year old, should describe women sexually. It is, in fact, disgusting when this description is for mother or aunt. I have read three novels in which the story is based on adultery, The Great Gatzby, Madam Bovary, Anna Karenina and The Scarlet Letter, and there is not a single expression of indecency in these novels, but they show the sinful character as a loser and show the damnation of unbridled passion. It is hard to understand what the theme of Midnight’s Children is, and what is the author is trying to say. He is a genius, no doubt about it; he handles English prose like very few people can handle, and can describe things vividly like very few writers can, and can make you chuckle with his nonsense, but it is hard to find where is he making sense, where is the mantra in the madness? Is it pointless sarcasm, aimed to for the sake of cheap amusement? He picks up symbolism and themes, such as fascination with nose, finger, toe, impotence, greed, identity-clash, and so many other things, but all these put together do not seem to tell one story. Is it about India and Pakistan, the two countries born in the midnight? May be, but the novel has nothing about Pakistan, it’s all about India. Pakistan exists in the book as it does for any Indian Muslim, a reality but not known intimately.

But, I must say that my understanding is shallow, and perhaps there is something wonderful in the book which I could not see, or perhaps I had different expectations, because the people who gave this prize Bookers of Bookers were certainly experts in literature. I have only read two third of the novel until now, enough to make a judgement, and I am sure I will read it fully because there is something enchanting in its style. I will be keen to know if this book becomes part of syllabus for students of literature, which tells about the novel’s indispensability to humanity and literature. It will be interesting to see how much sought after this book is after a hundred years, because that will be the real test of its being a valuable book.

Justice by crowd

2011-09-26T14:46:00.000+03:00

A couple of days ago I sat watching an Indian news channel on TV and they had three stories of police atrocities in which the police was shown brutally beating up people on the street. Indian police has always been ruthless, however, these days with the prevalence of mobile phone cameras, such incidents become widely known to bigger audience who being detached from the scene watch it with sympathetically.

However, it is not only that the police is brutal in India. A few weeks ago I saw a video clip in which few men murdered another in broad day light in road rage. They persisted in this violence amid thousands of people who watched them. If Indian public catches a driver after he has caused an accident or a thief, they will not worry about handing him over to the police, but will give him share of their own frustration through merciless beating. The amazing thing is that this beating is considering not only acceptable but also desirable, which shows lack of faith in the police and legal system to punish the guilty.

When I was in India in the last few weeks, two incidents occurred which made me reflect on this attitude. One of my friend’s father visited his home during Eid and his jeep was stolen within minutes after he entered his home. He is an officer in the Forest Department so he informed his colleagues to keep an eye on the roads going out of my home town Bhadra. He also called up police to report the case. Within 20 minutes, the police reported that the thief had fled after deserting the vehicle in a nearby village. He was chased by some people through fields and after having realised that he is going to get caught, he escaped. A lot of people had words of sympathy to share with my friend, but no one was happy that they found the vehicle. Everybody lamented that the thief got free, although they had made arrangement to catch him and give him a sound beating.

In another incident, some people got drunk and drove a tractor and trolley in my street. Due to some construction work, they could not go through and, in their confusion, they hit an electricity poll. I heard the bang and went out where saw that they were trying to flee and in the process causing the electricity poll to fall further, which caused sparks due to electric short circuit. I shout at them and asked them to stop and get down. They were on weak footing, so they obeyed. I got hold of the driver, while the rest of them fled. Immediately after most of the neighbours gathered and they telephoned the police. One of my neighbours came and slapped the driver whom I had caught. I covered him and urged my neighbour not to beat the guy. I said that the police should take whatever action is required. This driver was saved from further beating. After a while, the police came and the driver was handed over to them, however, the driver ran away and wasn’t even chased because it was dark. The crowd blamed the police to let the driver run away on purpose. We were out of electricity for one full day. When I met my neighbour next day, he expressed disappointment that I did not allow him to beat up the culprit.

In fact, in most cities in India, it is part of entertainment to beat up a culprit collectively. It is also expressed in the phrase ‘lightening up one’s hands’ (haath saaf kar liye). What they don’t realise is that the crowd can have collective will but may not have collective conscience. Who will dare to stop an angry crowd while risking his on beating? Justice by crowd is no justice at all, and the worst form of justice by crowd is rioting when the crowd doesn’t even realise that the people they are killing are not even actual culprits.

Tiger Patoudi and Al Pacino in their youth

2011-09-25T09:03:00.001+03:00

In their youth, the resembled like brothers do

Wuthering Heights

2011-09-24T11:35:00.004+03:00

In past few months I have read A Portrait of a Lady, The Great Gatzby, The Catcher in the Rye and Wuthering Hieghts. I could write something about each of the novels, but this post is only for Wuthering Height. Whenever I am reading classing fiction, I cannot help analyze the novel and passing my judgement on the same. There is kind of voice that is constantly playing in my head and I contemplate writing a blog post of it, but hesitate from it for several reasons, which include my lack of authority on literature, my unwillingness to discuss literature as it seems to me a purely mental exercise on someone’s imagination and craft, and also because it might be a spoiler for the person who intend to read the novel. For these reasons, I avoided writing a post and with time the voices buzzing my head die down. This time, I want to give them shape of a blog post, before they become smoke.

As for the spoiler, a warning can do the justice. I have been careful in the past not to write any comment on fiction and reveal how the story progresses, which is a very hard thing to do, but, this time I will not take such pains.

If you have not read the novel, and intend to do so, do not read the read the post. As for succinct advice, it has fine English prose, but nothing sort of romantic novel, although it is seemingly a love story turned in a tragedy, and there is hardly any humour or lighter moment in it. It is very akin to Frankenstein in which narrators keep on changing and they all have to tell a tale of failure, madness, and destitude.

The novel contains story of three generations in 250 pages, which is enough to tell that it is a fast paced story and never gets dull. The story is told because it must be told. So the main narrator who starts and ends the story has no role in the story itself, except that he observes some miserable and repulsive people and finds a woman who tells him how these people ended up being miserable and repulsive. The story starts with the main character Heathcliff being bought in a house as a foundling and ends with his death. It never becomes clear whether the authoress sympathised with or detested Heathcliff because sometimes he is wronged while during most of the story he takes shocking revenge, even from the people who had no role in his misfortune. In fact, he is not even taking revenge, but following his whims. The narrator and other characters do pass their judgement on him, often comparing him with devil. It is hard to call him a hero, because the word hero is associated with something good a person does to the world, but this man only brings tears to the eyes of people, and even if one or two people love him, it looks silly on their part to do so. He is neither an anti-hero, because there is no hero in the story, nor a noble man fallen to destitute, because he has everything ignoble about him. What is mainly missing in the story that if there is a demonic force, there should be some opposite force too, to give a sense of balance, but nobody seems to have the courage or will to repel the atrocities of Heathcliff. He is inconsistent in will, love and revenge. He seemingly returns as a gentleman, but brings no gentleness or manners about him.

There is hardly any character in the story which the reader could sympathise with because they are all silly and weak. The only person who is always angelic is the maidservant who is the narrator of the story most of the time. She is stoic and composed, sincere in her duty, while applying reason, which is missing on part of the most of the characters.

But, did I stop reading the novel at any time or regretted having read it? No. I have kept some novels aside, partly because they are too vague for me or because the story progresses too slowly, but not this one. I did not feel irritated, except when reading the dialogues of a servant which are always in some accent, which is very far away from regular English. The novel certainly has intense drama; besides, you do not regret reading fine prose, which it certainly has. I did find one character interesting which was of the heroine, who loves one person and marries another, and somehow love both and feels morally justified in doing so, or cannot bring herself to hate either of them. Perhaps she is too nice or too wicked to do so. She knows that Heathcliff has evil designs and is a dangerous companion, yet doesn’t hate him. Not even when he elopes with her sister-in-law. It is not clear why a shrewd person would elope with a woman he doesn’t love and create troubles for himself.

Perhaps the moral of the story is that if you find an urchin, help him sending to an orphanage and fund him there, but don’t bring him home. Now thinking about the moral, I do recollect that the authoress did try to show that excessive love shown to this orphan plants the seeds of all afflictions in the story, because it makes one son jealous who takes revenge from the orphan after the father dies, and gives the orphan his reasons to take revenge when he is capable of the same. So another moral of the story is that parents should be fair, children are very jealous of love shown to their siblings.

Post script:

Every novel has several underlying themes. I believe one of the theme in this novel is that fanciful love, and faith in a person without ensuring whether the person deserves it, brings destitute. There are three women in the story who fall in love with men who did not deserve it and end up ruining their life in consequence. In the words of the maidservant, the authoress has tried to hint that love shouldn’t be purely whimsical and reason should never be abandoned. When Catehrine asks Mrs. Dean, the maidservant, whether she did a right thing by accepting the marriage proposal by Edgar Linton, the later reasons with her to make her think rationally. I am copying the dialogue below, which is being narrated by the Mrs. Dean herself:

'You accepted him! Then what good is it discussing the matter? You have pledged your word, and cannot retract.'

'But say whether I should have done so--do!' she exclaimed in an irritated tone; chafing her hands together, and frowning.

'There are many things to be considered before that question can be answered properly,' I said, sententiously.

'First and foremost, do you love Mr. Edgar?'

'Who can help it? Of course I do,' she answered.

Then I put her through the following catechism: for a girl of twenty-two it was not injudicious.

'Why do you love him, Miss Cathy?'

'Nonsense, I do--that's sufficient.'

'By no means; you must say why?'

'Well, because he is handsome, and pleasant to be with.'

'Bad!' was my commentary.

'And because he is young and cheerful.'

'Bad, still.'

'And because he loves me.'

'Indifferent, coming there.'

'And he will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman of the neighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband.'

'Worst of all. And now, say how you love him?'

'As everybody loves--You're silly, Nelly.'

'Not at all--Answer.'

'I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!'

'And why?'

'Nay; you are making a jest of it: it is exceedingly ill-natured! It's no jest to me!' said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to the fire.

'I'm very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,' I replied. 'You love Mr. Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him without that, probably; and with it you wouldn't, unless he possessed the four former attractions.'

'No, to be sure not: I should only pity him--hate him, perhaps, if he were ugly, and a clown.'

'But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world: handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from loving them?'

'If there be any, they are out of my way: I've seen none like Edgar.'

'You may see some; and he won't always be handsome, and young, and may not always be rich.'

'He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would speak rationally.'

'Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, marry Mr. Linton.'

'I don't want your permission for that--I shall marry him: and yet you have not told me whether I'm right.'

'Perfectly right; if people be right to marry only for the present. And now, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your brother will be pleased; the old lady and gentleman will not object, I think; you will escape from a disorderly, comfortless home into a wealthy, respectable one; and you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. All seems smooth and easy: where is the obstacle?'

If you open your heart, you can enjoy anything

2011-09-21T09:11:00.002+03:00

Yesterday I went to a barber shop. I sat waiting and scanned through dozens of magazines, most of them were the copies of the same issue of an catalogue style magazine for furniture, apparently meant for free distribution; I scanned through it attentively. I also tried to read Arabic headlines in a classified newspaper. I never found myself more attentive to magazines and newspapers as I am in a barber shop, because it is the most boring place to be in. My friends in Aligarh were open to give me a company to any place in the University, but never to a barber shop. It is a torture for the person who is not there for a haircut. I like the fire show by babers in Saudi Arabia to further sterlise a new razor blade. They dip the razor in spirit, and then ignite it with a lighter, and then spray more spirit on it so that it spray results in fire balls. The Indian barbers, when pleased, are expert in giving massage to head and shoulders, which is accompanied with sound effect of their clapping. Some of them are very patient and detail oriented. Once a friend of mine in Dubai was at a barber shop when another called him and asked where he was. 'This man is carving Tajmahal on my head,' was his reply.

The barbers also need entertainment, and south Indian barbers do not chatter much as those from Lucknow, who are almost sycophant. The last barber I used to visit was very far away from my house because I seldom like to change barbers. He expressed deep worries when I did not visit him for one month while I was on a vacation. He expressed his sorrow in the same emphatic tone several times, with slight variation of words, and also hinted that he was expecting a tip for Eid which passed during my vacation. The guy was nice because he played Indian songs and movie channels on the TV. When I say Indian, I mean Bollywood. Another Arab barber was also nice because he played an Indian movie channel which his Arab and Pilipino colleagues watched with lots of interest.

The barber I visit these days is close to my house. He is from Kerala. Yesterday, he put the TV on and played news and entertainment channels in Malyalam. The news seemed okay because the background music and images created a sense of panic and I felt something is happening, even though I did not understand anything. All news channels have the same music director. Then he changed the channel and a music contest was on. The presenter spoke in Malyalam and English. Then one of the participants sang and I enjoyed the rhythm in it. I started drawing my analogy that the rhythm of Malayalam or Kannada, these south Indian languages all seem the same to me, is like one is rolling wooden cubes through an huge iron pipe. I extended this analogy further and Hindi seemed to me like round stones, the kind you find besides river bed, Urdu like pearls and English like ice cubes. Now you get my bias, we can seldom shun it. But, honestly speaking, I did enjoy the rhythm of Malyalam songs and music. When I left, they were playing a song in which a colourfully dressed hero was dancing and following a not-so-colourful heroine. When I came home, I told my wife that the barber had played Malayalam music and I mimicked singing it using unintelligible words. She asked, ‘Did you enjoy it?’ I said, ‘If you open your heart, you can enjoy anything.’ Then I reflected that the only time when I was not enjoying Malayalam music was when I had closed my heart to it.

Da and ma

2011-09-18T15:51:00.002+03:00

It is a bonus post. When I write a comment to a news article and feel like posting it in my blog, I call it a bonus post because it was triggerred as a response to someone else's idea.

I read an article in The Hindu on abuse of English grammar and wrote the following comment. I am myself very bad at grammar, but I have a talent to come across as knowledgeable.

It frustrates the person who has been treating the language seriously, but, at the same time, this is the reality across cultures. I am especially annoyed when ‘the’ is replaced with ‘da’ and ‘my’ is replaced with ‘ma’ because you are not saving efforts in typing either. People break rules, and it becomes a rule, especially when native speakers of English do it. We should not expect seriousness in casual conversation or SMSs. There are too many funny expressions in Indian English that do not make sense, such as ‘tripling’ to denote three people riding a bike. In my recent visit to India I observed English phrases written in mega sizes with grammatical errors, such as an English newspaper had its tagline 'Without Fear Without Favour.' There was no comma to split the two phrases. The name of India Islamic Cultural Centre in New Delhi also seemed odd to me, because it should be either Indian Islamic Cultural Centre or India’s Islamic Cultural Centre. I also noticed several errors in English ads. Probably it is because we do not take the language seriously. I would also like to add that replacing ‘he’ with ‘they’ as an act of chivalry is more frustrating because it is purposefully used in formal English.

Music Everywhere

2011-09-18T11:15:00.002+03:00

I have so many observations from my recent visit to India that I can write several blog posts, but I will only write the ideas that I must write.

Music Everywhere:

Mobile phones seem to have killed audio cassettes and even radio in small towns where FM is not available. The choice of most people for songs is mostly very good. They pick the romantic songs of 60s and 70s which have tickle nostalgia. I visited the farmer for one of my farmers. My father and I waited while he came, with a mobile phone in his pocket and garlic in his hands. He talked while he was peeling the garlic and the mobile phone in his pocket played songs. It is amazing to see how eloquent farmers are. They convey all the meaning in fewest words.

The drivers from my town are notorious for playing third rate Punjabi songs, which are sung from some unventilated corners of gut and make you feel that the singer is somewhere between hushing and yelling. It is as if a person naturally gifted with a loud voice tries to speak in a low tone when depressed. While I travelled to Jaipur the driver in my car too played the same Punjabi songs and I could not resisted sharing my observation that his colleagues like only these songs. He took a note and played collection of Bollywood songs from 70s. It was much better, one good song could take away the ill effect of ten. At the same time, I also felt sorry for the degradation of Urdu poetry in Bollywood songs in the past few decades.

I stayed for a couple of days in Delhi after I missed my flight. A group of carpenters worked in the night and played FM for their entertainment. FM has a very fine selection of songs classic Indian songs which they play only in the night. Perhaps they have some intelligence that listeners of these songs do not sleep in the night.

When I sat in the aeroplane yesterday, the music still accompanied me. A co-passenger was playing the same type of songs on his mobile phone, or, perhaps he had a headphone but the volume was so high that it spilled. I was not surprised because the flights from between cities of Saudi Arabia and India are full of dramas. Once I travelled when my fellow passenger asked the retirement age in Air India to an air hostess who was in her 50s. She gave a persuasive speech that oldies are more committed workers, while the youth only create an illusion of work. She also shared that they are leading a campaign to make the retirement age up to 60. Anyway, I wouldn’t get into the dramas of Air India and will remain focussed on music which a passenger played in the aeroplane. Initially I found it irritating, but the same time the aeroplane started making strange rattling noise. I said to myself, Either this noise will die in a while, or I will get used to it. I applied the same wisdom to the charity by music. I got used to it, and it became nonexistent for me, except for some nice tunes which I liked. It is one of the wonderful capabilities of human beings that we can easily ignore the things that do not concern us.

Catching a frog - Flash Fiction

2011-08-09T11:28:00.002+03:00

I did not write a post in this blog since past 18 days which followed a short vacation. I seldom write when I am on vacation, which is kind of ironical because I should have more time to write, and it is very hard to restart writing blog posts. I gave up the habit of forcing myself to write some fiction daily, which helps a lot in keeping the writing faculty functional. A couple of days a friend of mine asked why I was not writing blog posts lately, and I said writing was like exercising. You do not wish to exercise before you begin it, but after you have completed, you feel better. Writing is exercise for intellect, and our body and mind do not like exercises. It is easier to attempt other hobbies for mental exercise, when you know the results, but in case of free writing when you do not know the result, it is very daunting. I was first inspired by Donald Murray’s book and it was based on his motto I named this blog: Nulla dies sine linea. He compared writing with terror, the terror of blank paper and not knowing what to write. The strange thing is that things do shape up as you write. I wrote the following flash fiction in 10 minutes, things just shaped one after another.

I ended this story with a critical view of the fairy tales that talk so much of the imaginary world to the kids. Most of these stories are of a poor girl who finds a handsome prince and they live happily ever after, as if the happiness of the life can only be guaranteed by a prince. If a tale is not about a prince, it will have an envious step-mother, a witch, a magician fairy-grandmother, an elf and what not. Its pity that even teenagers today are consuming stories of vampires and werewolves. We are not being honest with the imagination and intelligence of a child when we tell stories of creatures that do not exist, and the stories that don’t further any moral thoughts either.

Previous post on similar thoughts

The starting point of this story was a daily flash fiction prompt to write a story that included the words: dress, frog, trip

Catching a frog

Little Tanya did not like it when her mother scolded her for getting her clothes dirty in the garden. She did not reveal to her mother that she was trying to catch a frog, who dodged her and jumped in the water the moment she was ready to clasp him from behind. The sound made by the water was the most depressing sound she had ever heard. She sat down close to the pond and waited for the frog to show up, but he didn’t. She hid herself behind a bush, thinking he might be seeing her from beneath the water, but there was no sign of him. She thought he might have become busy eating or sleeping, because all animals do is to eat, sleep and play.

It was on her way to home she realised that she spoiled her frock while sitting on the muddy ground waiting for the frog. She tried to rub the dirt off it, but it was too sticky. Now she had double disappointment. When she came home, she rushed to her room, tiptoeing, and changed her clothes. She sat down on the bed reading a book. In a while, her mother came in and was pleased to see that she was reading a book, and she accepted her pleasure without guilt. But, as her mother was going out, she realised her dress was changed and asked her what made her change her dress. ‘It was itchy over the shoulder,’ was a reply from Tanya. Her mother was not satisfied with her reply, she wasn’t satisfied with any reply ever, and she demanded where the dress was. Tanya’s face became tense, giving a proof of her guilt, and she further hesitated from revealing where the frock was. Her mother went to see the clothes in the laundry room where she found the dirty frock. She was very cross with Tanya. She said she was tired of washing several clothes for her in a day, and that she was an untidy child. Tanya said, ‘Sorry.’ Tears rolled from her eyes. She did not like the frog, frock and her mother at this time. She wished she could catch the bus and go to her grandma, who was never annoyed about anything she did. She decided to go to the bus station and get in the bus, and get down where she would see the old school in the grandma’s village. She was confused whether the name of the village was Jansal or Bansal but she could tell it from the green fields that surrounded the village. She dropped her book and went to the bus stop. The sun was right on the head and there was no bus around. She sat at a stone bench on the bus stop, pressing her cheeks with her palms and contemplating what would she tell to her grandma upon reaching her place. She avoided looking around, because she feared that one of her neighbours might interrupt her plans, and wished she could not be recognised because of her cheeks hidden in her hands. Someone patted on her shoulder and she turned around to see that it was uncle Mohit. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded smiling. She was about to speak when the bus arrived. She looked towards the bus and the passenger getting off. To her disappointment, her father got down from the same bus too. She smiled cheerfully, and Uncle Mohit felt she has been waiting for her father. He greeted her father and went his way. She clung to her father’s thighs and returned home. She did not talk about frock or grandma with him, but she did tell him about the frog that escaped. ‘Did you think that frog would become a prince?’ asked her father. She did not answer. ‘Frogs do not become prince, and princes are not always the best people in the world. What is important is the kindness of a person, not how rich he is,’ told her father and she listened to him attentively.

One line thoughts (4)

2011-07-24T12:15:00.000+03:00

Oh, cloud and sun, you make me talk to someone with whom I have nothing in common.

Maturity is to keep your mouth shut when bull goes around.

One of the fascinating roles of fiction is to tell us how we all are children of same father and mother.

If art and science do not serve humanity, it is mere vanity.

A colleague always addresses me as Saeed Bhai, with a smiling face, and I don’t want to correct him as it would take his smile away for a moment.

I am wondering if it is safe to read stories of Poe before going to bed.

When vanity walks in, sanity shrinks.

If you've to ask for one talent from God, ask for the talent of conversation. It can sort out most problems, as long as you are not selfish.

What made Darwin think that man would not enjoy jumping from one tree to another, and slapping a sleeping tiger.

Optimism and pain do not like one another.

Doing the right thing may not be always doing the wise thing. When it comes to making a choice, wisdom should prevail.

It is one of the times when you feel tenderness in your heart and humour in your words.

As I age, I lose spontaneity, vitality and optimism. And, I turn to wisdom to compensate my loss.

Dialogues across generations and Chekov’s stories

2011-07-21T12:23:00.002+03:00

Among several books, I am currently reading Anton Chekov’s The Cook's Wedding and Other Stories. I had enjoyed reading stories of Chekov in the past too, and I find this collection of stories truly wonderful, something that a lover of art of storytelling must read. Most of the stories I have read so far are related to the children. Chekov describes the psyche of a children with colourful and credible vividness.

I was reading a story Home in which a father tries to explain to his young son that smoking is bad for him. I am quoting a paragraph which shows the train of thought of the father, who has been unsuccessful in convincing the son why smoking is bad. The irony is that the father himself smokes and cannot find good grounds to forbid his son to do it. The paragraph is:

"He has his own train of thought!" thought the prosecutor. "He has a little world of his own in his head, and he has his own ideas of what is important and unimportant. To gain possession of his attention, it's not enough to imitate his language, one must also be able to think in the way he does. He would understand me perfectly if I really were sorry for the loss of the tobacco, if I felt injured and cried. . . . That's why no one can take the place of a mother in bringing up a child, because she can feel, cry, and laugh together with the child. One can do nothing by logic and morality. What more shall I say to him? What?"

This story also highlights how the methods to reprimand the young have changed through generations. The older generation did not use much of words, but a sound thrashing to tell the young that a bad act must never be repeated. It happened in my culture too. Father’s in my older generation seldom talked to their children, especially to sons who shied away from their fathers. It was a show of respect not to find yourself standing before your father. It was amazing that those fathers still received lots of reverence from their sons, after all blood speaks. Nowadays fathers start with the attitude of bringing up the children as friends. I am fascinated when I find so many behaviours common across various cultures in the world, after all we are all children of the same father and mother. The following paragraph shows reflection of the father, a preceding paragraph to the one quoted above, and has a good insight that good behaviour should not be driven from the love of reward or fear of punishment, but from a conscience.

"Formerly, in my time, these questions were very simply settled," he reflected. "Every urchin who was caught smoking was thrashed. The cowardly and faint-hearted did actually give up smoking, any who were somewhat more plucky and intelligent, after the thrashing took to carrying tobacco in the legs of their boots, and smoking in the barn. When they were caught in the barn and thrashed again, they would go away to smoke by the river . . . and so on, till the boy grew up. My mother used to give me money and sweets not to smoke. Now that method is looked upon as worthless and immoral. The modern teacher, taking his stand on logic, tries to make the child form good principles, not from fear, nor from desire for distinction or reward, but consciously."

We must take things as we found them

2011-07-13T12:18:00.002+03:00

This line is from the novel David Copperfield. When young David visits Yarmouth for the first time with Peggotty and wonders that the town could be improved, Peggotty remarks, ‘we must take things as we found them.’ In this small phrase from a not so educated woman Charles Dickens stated philosophy that can change lives.

I recently started reading The Great Gatsby and it is one of the few books that I found fascinating from the first page. In this novel, Nick, the narrator describes Gatsby’s smile in a paragraph, which I am quoting here:

‘He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on YOU with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.’

It is hard to describe when you know a person is judging you or not, but the subconscious doesn’t make a mistake in it and this is why we like or dislike some people. We may not be able to analyze what we dislike in somebody, but our subconscious can spot the body language of the person who is judging us.

I read some years back in which a Hollywood star (I think it was so, I can rely my memory to some extent, for I have no source to verify it now) mentioned about an Indian spiritual leader Osho, a man who was popular as well as known for scandals, and claimed to be a god on earth, anyway, leaving apart his claims of divinity, the star mentioned that when he met Osho he felt he was not being judged. It was upon reading this when I realised how much we judge and what difference not judging can make to people.

When we start judging a thing, we start doing injustice to it unknowingly. If only people know how much rest they will give to themselves, if they judge less often.

One-line- thoughts (3)

2011-07-12T17:21:00.002+03:00

I saved these in my mobile and did not post them on twitter. As I collected a few of them, I am posting them as a blog post:

----

There is a thin line between extraordinary and weird, but it’s not so thin that you cannot see it.

If you cannot put down a man’s sprit, you cannot put him down on anything.

The only secret of happiness is to understand wisdom of God in everything.

Forget the words, let the feelings settle in. Words will come later.

Maturity is to appreciate the beauty of a flower and not wishing to take it home.

He is the One with whom I can talk anytime.

The eyes will shrink, the back will bend, and the cheeks will become hollow. Only the smile will stay young, so smile beautifully.

She walks like a river, I wait like a sea.

Atrophy of intuition- Flash Fiction

2011-06-23T11:28:00.002+03:00

John Gardener wrote an impressive book on craft of fiction which he titled The Art of Fiction. I have read more than a dozen books on the craft, but I was not impressed by any book as much as I was with his. He writes candidly in the preface, (it’s not exact quotation. I am taking the liberty of casual writing on blog and citing quotations based on memory), ‘Let’s assume that you are going to become a writer, because all the people I knew who wanted to become writers, knowing what it meant, did become writers.’ He then says, ‘If you cannot do what you must do, no matter how hard you try, you should realise that God created you for some other noble purpose.’ I was also impressed by another remark in the introduction, ‘When one begins to be persuaded that certain things must never be done in fiction and certain other things must always be done, one has entered the first stage of aesthetic arthritis, the disease that ends in pedantic rigidity and the atrophy of intuition.’

I read a prompt for flash fiction today, which was to write a story that contains the line: "Don't say I didn't warn you." I did not think of character, conflict, dialogue or any other thing that should be part of fiction. I just started writing. It might seem childish or nonsense, but it certainly is intuitive. Here it is:

Now we are going to sit on the hump of a camel, you on the front and me on the back, and take a ride through the snowy mountains. You gonna feel the chill, and the thrill. You might fall down and freeze, and stay mummified for a million years. If your soul doesn’t not like this, "Don't say I didn't warn you." The camel we ride, doesn’t eat or drink, but once in a week, it needs a human to eat. He ate one yesterday, and if we don’t finish our journey in a week, "Don't say I didn't warn you." Far, afar, after the snowy mountains, we will find a lake and pink fish in it. The moment you see the fish, they would fly in the air and pluck your hair. If it hurts, "Don't say I didn't warn you." For the music in the night, you will hear wolves howl. It is sweet and melodious, unless the pack gets up close and growls. If it terrifies you, "Don't say I didn't warn you." We will take a boat and reach on the shore of a land that glitters like a star. It is peaceful and heavenly, but not a bird to be found whom you could call friendly. When you feel lonely, "Don't say I didn't warn you." No, it’s not time yet, we still have to fly. If you hate the earth, I will take you to the sky. It’s guitar being played by a mermaid on the moon, no, no, it is not your the alarm, stay with me, there is no harm. Let’s go now to the snowy mountains, on a camel hump, if you wake up now, and miss your chance, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

When is your wife getting pregnant, sir?

2011-06-22T09:55:00.004+03:00

Sharing and intimacy is so critically important in Indian culture that it puts people in awkward situation many times. Every person who knows you well wants to be updated of the most important events in your life. When a man has completed education and starts working, the common question he faces is, ‘When are you getting married?’ (All questions apply to women too.) When he is married, the question becomes, ‘When are you going to have children?’ When children grow up, there is no peace yet. The questions shift to children and people ask, ‘When are you marrying your son (or daughter)? I have a couple of friends who are not married yet, although they are in mid-thirties. They cannot sit in a gathering without receiving a banter on their not having been married until now. One of them, who is a police officer, was laughing about it himself. He said to me, ‘I received a group of people who claimed that they were from Pandu Samaj. When a man or woman is single after 30 years of age, they declare him a Pandu. They wanted me to become part of their society, and help them with donation to promote the society. They took pride that many prominent personalities in India, such as Atal Bihari Vajapayee, A.P. J. Abul-Kalam, Sister Mayavati, were members of their society.’

If you are famous, you get the questions more often. When journalist run of questions with Rahul Gandhi, they ask, ‘When are you getting married, sir?’ When he gets married and will have a son, the question will be, ‘When is he becoming the prime minister, sir?’ Karan Jouhar has found an answer. He says, ‘I do not believe in the institution of marriage.’ When Abhishek Bachchan was single, he was quizzed, ‘Who are you going to marry, sir?’ When he got engaged with Aishwarya Rai, the questioned changed to, ‘When are you two getting married?’ The media was especially excited because this marriage would make two days of story. No more hunting for news. After they got married, the question was, ‘When is Aishwarya Rai getting pregnant, sir?’ Abhishek Bachhan replied some time back wittingly, ‘We cannot hide a pregnant Aish.’

As I was searching the news for Aishawarya Rai pregnant, as a reference link to the news I copied above, I found the news Amitabh Bachhan announced that Aishwarya Rai is pregnant now. Interesting co-incidences happen, isn't it? It is news on BBC too. Thankfully I do not watch TV, otherwise I would be sick of the news on Indian TV channels for the next two days.

One-line-thoughts (2)

2011-06-22T09:16:00.002+03:00

I use twitter to post my one-line-thoughts. I copy them when they become lot of words and make a post of them in this blog. I have mentioned on my twitter profile: ‘My tweets are mostly one line thoughts that escape the clutter of my mind. If they seem to refer to any person living or dead, it is a mere coincidence.’ This disclaimer applies here as well. I have copied the one-line-thoughts for past few weeks. I have grouped them this time, as they are too many.

Work, life and other trivia:

Too many post-it notes do not mean a lot of work, but a lot of confusion.

It’s funny what men would do for thrill.

The term ethnic cleansing must be replaced because it carries the undertone that a pestering wound was cleaned.

Don't read a newspaper in the morning. The headlines will not change; and your mood during the day might change for better.

A sneeze so elegant that you cannot hear it.

If an animal were to write about human beings, he would say, They make a big fuss about everything.

Hard and unpopular questions, not sweet and spicy conclusions, is the sign of independent media

A mind so refined that it seldom stirs.

One certain merit democracy has that it makes power struggle less bloody.

Gladwell says-devote 10,000 hrs to a goal to become successful in it. I'll give 5 hours every week to writing for the next 40 years.

I distrust all Facebook applications that seek access to my information.

Art

Photography is like hunting and fishing where you go for a catch, but unlike hunting and fishing you do not eat up your catch.

Vagueness is only repulsive when it conceals the truth. There is certain vividness in it too, as when it is part of imagination or art.

When art is the only source of livelihood, both art and artist suffer.

When writing is detached from conscience, it is either commerce or propaganda.

Passion and persistence:

If you love something deeply, you will be persistent in it.

You are passionate for something that you want to do first thing in the morning.

Other values, virtues and spirituality

Jealousy, greed and conceit are three silent demons.

Education loses its purpose when it fails to inculcate values.

You cannot change yourself, you can only contain your evil and extend your virtue.

Your patience makes me impatient.

We never muster courage, we only banish fear.

Ignorance takes the senses to a higher level of serenity.

Sorry, the path to simplicity is not simple.

Love and will power make the powerhouse of emotional energy.

Both rich and poor have sorrows, but people pity at the sorrow of the poor and wonder at that of the rich.

Belief is the simplified form of all reasons.

I cannot think of anyone who achieved something by being desperate, but there are many who gained success by being persistent.

Apart from earning a livelihood, all efforts should be spend to seek peace or pleasure.

Forget confidence, have faith. Confidence is unconscious and aimless like wind while faith is deliberate and persistent like the sun

You need optimism to live without hope.

If you are fair, you will not have any fear.

If you judge less often, you judge more wisely.

Respect for stupidity is a sign of wisdom.

Often people with some awkwardness have something very natural about them.

Joy of a thing is conversely related to the sense of its deprivation.

It doesn’t matter if you are evil if you keep it to yourself.

I doubt if having dreams makes life more meaningful, but surely having a vision does.

Most contradiction are because of lack of value system.

If only people realise how much rest they will give to themselves when they stop judging.

You’ve become old when you stop deriving pleasure from a paper boat.

If you wait for the right moment to say ‘this is life’ you will say so, but rarely.

Except for work, one should do a thing for pleasure or peace only.

On gender-neutral language

I think proponents of gender neutral language won't like hehe as an expression of laughter. They'll argue, ‘Why not write she she instead?’

You shift from mankind to humankind to make it sound gender-neutral, but it still has man in it.

Previously one-line-thoughts

No one like her - A short story

2011-06-21T09:56:00.010+03:00

I am Frank. I have been Curly’s friend for her life since the day I was fascinated by her confidence and charm. When she used to roam around on the streets of Moscow, she did not know that one day her life would change and she would go down in the books of history, children will be taught her stories and her photo would appear on a postal stamp. Oh, what an honour! We devils would die to have that honour, why shouldn’t we vie for it, if some of the devilish politicians among you human beings can dream of it.

Curly was simple and intelligent, unlike most of her friends. She had a firm body, elegant posture and keen eyes. She knew that motorcars were means of transportation, and never ran after one. Her ears always stood upright for any noise that she might hear on the street. The scientist wanted a stray dog for research because they felt that stray dogs are already so tormented by cold and hunger that they wouldn’t mind some more torture, what more, it came with little bit play. They picked up Curly because of the way she stood gazing at them, without judging. She was pleasantly surprised when she was brought to the research facility, where everyone greeted her with a smile. She overcame with joy when she was given a bath in a tub filled with warm water. I noted that her eyes were wet because of thankfulness to God and her owners. She splashed in it for an hour and did not want to come out of it. She liked the lather but sneezed because the fragrance of the shampoo was too pleasant to her taste. When she jumped out of the tub, she was dried up with a soft towel. She couldn't believe it when she was served food in a plate and thought it was not real food because it did not have bad smell. She was thrilled, and believed her life had changed forever.

They gave her different names, I liked Curly the most, but finally everyone settled for Laika. The head of the team, a white haired, small nosed guy, said to her, ‘Sweetie, you know you are going to be famous. No dog ever in history could achieve what you are going to. You will be the first animal to orbit the earth. The whole nation would be proud of you.’ Curly fixed her gaze at his small nose, which was full of hair. The scientist was moved by her indifference and innocence. He scratched his nose, took a deep breath, stroked her head and walked away solemnly.

They trained her for several days. In this training, she did not do anything, but things were done to her. As a part of her training, she was kept in a narrow box for weeks. It scared her and she stopped defecating and urinating, but she would do so when she was asleep. She was made to sit in machines which would look like a spacecraft from inside and go zoom zoom at such high speed that you cannot imagine. I only sat once in the machine, and vowed never to repeat the mistake. Oh, I can’t tell you, when she would come out of the craft, she would not even yelp out of terror and would not eat for one day out of shock. Doctors would check her heart beat and she would only look at them helplessly. She was given a gel-like food, which was to be given to her in the spacecraft. I tasted it once, it was tasteless. I did not want to have it again. However, Curly was loyal to her owners, and entered those machines gracefully. I thought she would bite one of those scientists, but she never did. In fact, her fatigue was replaced with pride when they smiled and clapped upon her finishing every training session. She never suspected them of having malicious intensions, although she did grit her teeth and uttered grunting sounds before entering the machine.

Days before she was sent to the space, scientist took her to one of the colleague's home to play with kids. She was so happy there that she did not want to return. She shed tears when she had to say goodbye to children. The children cried too and did not want to let her go. Their parents told them that Laika would visit them again, although they knew she would die going round the earth because the fire-car was never expected to return to earth. How conveniently parents lie to the children!

On the launch date, I don't remember what it was, when she was made to sit in the cabin, with her food, and some arrangement to keep her warm, she looked worried. I decided to accompany her to cheer her up. They tried to make a comfortable arrangement for her, so that she could stand up and sit down, but she could not walk around, the space craft has limited space, you know. They placed wires all over her body to monitor what she goes through.

My friends told me later on that the team of scientist were silent when the countdown to the spacecraft launch began, but with zero, they all jeered, although some of them felt sorry for Curly. You know, it isn’t a good feeling to send someone to death for no crime.

When the fire-car went up in the air, leaving a horrible cloud of fire behind, I regretted my decision to accompany Curly. We are used to speed, but not to such a noise. Oh, man, that was horrible. Curly was yelping and breathing too fast as if she had been chased by twelve dogs. I said to her, It will be alright and we will land on the moon in an hour, the beautiful moon. She tried to smile and appear calm. Then something went wrong. The cabin started to get too hot, and the heat became unbearable. Curly almost fainted, and I wanted to save myself from hell before hell. I kissed her as she lay unconscious and escaped the fire-car, what was its name, Strutnik, no, Sutnik, yes, Sutnik.

Curly was a martyr in the cold war. A lot of people did not like Russia so they had sympathy with Curly, who became popular with name Laika. In Britain, dog owners observed a minute's silence in memory of Laika. Animal rights groups protested outside Soviet embassies, several dogs and bitches joined them too. But, there weren’t any naked protests, as they do these days for animal rights. All were well dressed, save the dogs and bitches. We devils did not change, but you human beings have become weird with time.

Russians fought back the cold war's protest tactics too. A small monument was built in her honour near the military research facility in Moscow. I visit it every year and sit silently for one hour. Sitting there, when I close my eyes, I see her stoic face, her keen eyes gazing at me. Then her yelps start echoing in my ears and I open my eyes out of terror.

Even now whenever anybody says ‘like a’ and pauses, I think he is saying Laika. Curly, there was no one like her.

English, English, English

2011-06-20T17:15:00.002+03:00

I attended a workshop in my company’s training centre. I opened the notepad that was in front of me and found the word English scribbled on it several times. It was from someone who had attended a training some days ago at the same facility. He must have been another colleague who attended an English learning course or one who struggled to understand English while the trainer spoke in it. The word having been written so many times reflect the frustration of the writer with the language.

It reminded me of the days in my teenage when I was practicing spoken English with my friends. We used to have mutual agreement that if one of us makes a mistake another will not laugh at him. We still did laugh at mistakes, but it did not prevent us from practicing the language in spoken form. It was a bit difficult because in my University because most people jeered upon those who spoke English. The reality is that in most countries where the business language remains primarily English people do not have a choice but to learn it so that they can survive.

Previously on similar topics

Thank God I did not have computers in my childhood

His or her

Legacy of the Rajah - A short story

2011-06-18T15:13:00.001+03:00

There was unusual silence in the palace of Raja of Udhampur Surya Singh Gaur because the Raja was on his deathbed and all his family members and courtiers were waiting for his soul to depart peacefully. The servants were enjoying their free time in the kitchen chatting about their crops, rainfall and cattle. Throngs of people had gathered outside the palace to get news of the Raja’s well being. They heard the rumour that the Raja would appear in the jharoka in person to assure his people of his good health. They hoped to get sweets and exemption from some agricultural tax. They waited patiently without taking their eyes away from the jharoka. Whenever they suspected a movement, they shouted slogans, ‘Long Live Maharaj Surya Singh!’ After having shouted slogans since morning they got tired and decided to conserve their energy and give rest to their parched throats. Bansi, who was leading the slogan chanting crowd, implored to the sentry impatiently, ‘Brother, we are sitting here since morning and we did not get tea.’

Inside the palace, the withered Raja lied on his bed waiting for his death with remorseful eyes. His room was decorated with bright coloured tapestry, murals, armour and portraits of his ancestors who had ruled Udhampur. He face expressed helplessness of a deer that had seen a lion. The only audible sounds in the chamber were of his heavy breathing and chanting of mantras by the pundit. His wife, Koshalya, stood near his bed and fanned him. She had sent the maidservants away. The pundit was ceaselessly chanting mantras from scriptures, in a voice that sounded like grinding spices in a stoneware. Whenever he got tired, he murmured slowly like a nullah, but ascended it when the Raja cried, ‘Hey Ram.’

Uday Singh, the only son of the Rajah, was shifting his weight on his legs because he was not used to stand for hours. He thought about the royal procession and festivities which would take place to crown him. He was struggling hard to contain his impatience and worry which was because the Raja had not told him the secret place where the ancestral treasure was buried. He prayed to God and promised Him that if learnt about the untold treasure he would place an idol of gold in the royal temple.

Raja started breathing vigorously and rolled his head right and left, as if he was seeing a nightmare. Uday stepped close to him and laid his hand on his father’s forehead. The father opened his eyes. ‘The keys?’ the son whispered while pressing Raja’s hand rather crudely, and with a glint of greed in his eyes. The Rajah murmured, ‘Son of a donkey!’ He tried to spit but it only slid down on his face, making him even more angry. Uday pressed his hand harder, and continued to smile. The Raja slightly raised his right hand and pointed towards a portrait of a woman on the wall, which he had painted it himself in his youth. It was the only expression of Raja’s artistry in his lifetime. The son gave a satisfied smile and rubbed his father’s hand gently. ‘May God give you a long life!’ said he, and stepped away from him. The Rajah turned his face away in aversion. The pundit had slowed down chanting of the mantras to listen to the conversation of father and son, but as Uday looked at him angrily he raised his pitch with renewed energy.

Raja gave a hiccup and stopped breathing. He became stiff like a wood. His eyes were fixed towards the portrait, wet with tears. There was silence in the room. Pundit moved forward, felt his vein and shook his head hopelessly. He shut Rajas eyes with his hands. Koshalya looked baffled and gazed at her son, who came next to hear and patted on her shoulders. She got the message. She shrieked ‘Swami, you left us’ and banged her hands on the carpeted floor to shatter her glass bangles, one of the several decorated proofs that she was an honourably married woman. But, the bangles remained intact, save a few. Her expression was mixed with horror and dismay. She shrieked, ‘God, why did you not kill me, instead of him. What will I do without my lord, Sri Krishna’ She wept in a forlorn tone of a jackal, her tears followed soon. Women rushed to the room and consoled her, and urged her to accept the will of God.

Suddenly there was a whistling sound and everybody present in the room was stunned. They looked at one another, and there as another whistle, followed by gruff and gurgle. It was Raja who was making these sounds. His eyes were closed and his lips quivered, and he whiffed air every three seconds. ‘Swami,’ cried his wife and started rubbing his chest vigorously. ‘He is alive. Look. He is alive,’ she said to the assembly. ‘Open your eyes. Sri Krishna, make him open his eyes,’ she pleaded.

‘Koshalya,’ mumbled the Raja with his eyes still closed.

‘Yes, yes. My Lord,’ cried the wife. She choked because of the pleasant surprise. She believed that her sheer devotion and prayers had brought her husband back to life, the way Savitri had brought her husband back from death’s claws.

‘’Koshalya, I cannot die,’ said the Raja, ignorant of the irritation his words had caused on his son’s face.

‘Yes, you cannot die while I am alive.’

‘I cannot die until I tell you something,’ saying so he opened his eyes. His son, Uday stepped closed to him. The Raja fixed his gaze again at the portrait on the wall. It was only an outline of a woman in black and white, except vermillion between her hair and a red dot on her forehead, symbolic of her being a married woman. The woman’s eyes were closed, but her forehead revealed her pain.

‘Savitri,’ said the Raja.

His wife looked at him with disappointment. She said to her son, ‘He forgot my name.’

‘Abhay’s mother!’ mumbled Raja dolefully without taking away his gaze from the portrait.

‘I am Koshalya. Your son’s name is Uday. Swami, I bound you with my life. Don’t speak anything. We are all with you.’

‘But, Savitri is not with me. She became dear to God. Savitri, how unjust I have been to you,’ said the Raja and tears rolled from his eyes.

He looked at his wife Koshlya and said, ‘Khoshalya, death sent me back to settle one thing, to tell you a secret of my life. Koshalya, you were my second wife. Savitri was the first. I did not tell anyone, because of the terror of my father. She bore a son from me, Abhay. He is accountant in our treasury, but he deserves to be the King after me. Pundit, Prem Singh, Uday, will you all be just to him and give him his right? Otherwise, my soul cannot rest in peace. Who knows those death guardians send me back once again.’ Koshalya stared at the portrait on the wall and realised why she instinctively hated this portrait for all her life. ‘Sri Krishna! You destroyed me,’ she cried loudly, more loudly than she did when her husband had passed away. It was not clear whether she accused Sri Krishna or her husband for her destruction. Raja tried to console her now and patted on her shoulders out of sympathy.

Millions of dollars worth investment, but no place to urinate

2011-06-17T14:41:00.004+03:00

For two days I went to the corniche in Jeddah in the morning, and I loved it both days. Yesterday I had to rush to the office so I took some photos in a hurry. Today I was at ease and spent almost two hours taking photographs of birds and landscapes. I am going to post these photos on my flickr link which is here

I had two strong observations this morning. One was that your passion is what you want to do in the morning. I saw people fishing, riding cycles and motorcycles, watching the sea and sitting on the law. Most of them were expatriates. Inhabitants of Jeddah are used to waking up till late in the night and sleeping in the morning. It is common to see lots of cars on the streets even after midnight. Teenagers sleep in the morning till late afternoon when they have school holidays.

The second observation was not a new one; it is a thing that seems weirdly missing in the planning of the town. There are no public toilets, neither free nor paid. You can find mosques on every two kilometres, and if you are lucky to have the urge to go to the toilet when it is prayer time, its fine. Otherwise, you have to find a mall or supermarket. Even toilets there suck big time. It’s not as difficult for people who have cars as compared to for what it is for the people who do not have cars. They don’t easily find a public transport which is rare as well. If anybody poor get trouble with his stomach, he is going to have a tough time.

I drink lots of water in the morning, and as I was taking photographs near a mosque, I was aware that the toilets in the mosque would be closed because it is not a prayer time. There is only one paid toilet in several kilometres of beautiful corniche on north Jeddah (in the Southern corniche there isn’t even street light, which makes it easy for people to relieve in the open air after sunset). It’s not a joke. Hundreds of families go there on weekends to enjoy swimming in the sea, and after they are done, men take a shower from water cans in the open, while women go far away in the darkness to wash of saline water. Let’s come back to the rich man’s corniche. The investment done in development of the North Corniche is impressive. Some recent hoardings show that more impressive development is underway. They have already built car parks for thousands of cars, rocks for people get a feel of the beach, dozens of beautiful landmarks, dozens of shop that sell confectionaries, toys and beverages, but only one toilet in several kilometres. Nobody thought that people who would drink beverages would complete the natural cycle too. I feel pity for people who suffer from diabetes as they need to urinate frequently.

While going, I had spotted some pigeons near this toilet so I had decided to stop at this place on my way back. I went to the only paid toilet, and it was locked. I had thought this toilet could be an inspiration for Jeddah municipality to build more because it is a paid toilet, and they can earn revenue with paid toilets. A Bangaldeshi cleaner stood outside the toilet and he said that it would open in the evening after 4:00 PM. I wondered loudly, What if someone needs to go to toilet before that? He thought it was a question for him. He said, ‘You see that wall there? You can go behind it.’ He paused and noticed that I was not interested in going behind the wall, then he said, ‘You can also go to Sheraton.’

I wasn’t interested in either. I decided to wait for another hour when I would reach home.

PS: One more observation. The mosque in the background is one of the two beautiful mosques, but their paint has faded badly. If only they were painted anew, they will look much more beautiful. But, as I said, few inhabitants of Jeddah visit the corniche during the day time to notice the colours of mosque or sea.

Well-of-death - A short story

2011-06-15T11:37:00.002+03:00

I had started the habit of free-writing for 10 minutes every morning and found it extremely useful. In this technique, one starts writing without thinking whether it is good or bad, and does so for 10-minutes without stopping. It is best to practice in the morning. I started by reading the flash-fiction-prompts from Writing.com and most of the times wrote a story in 10-minutes, but it was seldom a good one. On one or two occasions I wrote somewhat acceptable stories, but wished to improve them. The result was that they could not be posted, because after leaving the story for a while, I start disliking it, and did not have energy to improve it and post it.

In the past week, I had stopped free-writing as well in the morning. Day before yesterday, I read a post yesterday from Daily Writing Tips which was titled Seven Ways to Build Up Your Writing Confidence. The writer gave the first tip as writing regularly. I haven’t come across a single successful writer who gave a advise to improve writing skills other than to writing regularly. I practiced it again for three days and today I felt that I have a story which can complete. I went on completing it. I improved it as much as I could and I will post it now, because I know that if I leave it, I will not work on it again, and it will become one of those unfinished stories that were never posted. It has been stirred from a photograph of well-of-death which I saw recently. I jumbled up my memories of a exhibition in Aligarh and a fair in a village next to my home town to create this fiction.

The stories is below:

Well-of-death

‘This is the well of death. Brothers, look at it. Can anyone even dare to walk in it? If there is anyone, who was fed on his mother’s milk, not on the powder milk, come forward,’ said the announcer through his microphone and paused to see the reaction of the crowd. He had too much shiny metal on his clothes, on his belt, trouser, jacket and hat, as if he was afraid of being shot at. His long hair was stiff and did not move in the air because of want of a wash. ‘Brothers, our brave young man Raju will ride a motorcycle in it. Faster than Rajnikant and more powerful than Akshay Kumar, he can put John Abraham to shame. Give him a big hand. Hold your breath and you will see the unimaginable. Whooooooo,’ said he and started dancing before the music played.

Two eunuchs, whose black faces had become white because of talcum powder, who wore too much red lipstick on their lips, fake jewellery and colourful dresses of women, danced on an elevated platform at the entrance of the well-of-death. They did not stop even when the music stopped, except when they paused to respond to the crowd, pretending to talk to them amidst the deafening noise of the fair. Their job was to attract crowd to the show. They pretended like film actresses on stage; they winked and gave flying kisses, amusing the young and the old. The idlers, who were not interested in spending money on well-of-death, loved the free entertainment.

People who had purchased the tickets went up and stood next to the railing on the platform at edge of the bowel shaped well-of-death, which was made of wooden panels, fixed close to each other. Fathers held their kids tight, lest they may not fall inside the well, out of excitement or fear. Two women who wore burka had removed their veil so that they could enjoy the show without any interruption. Some boys were looking towards the eunuchs, still trying to determine whether they were men or women.

Raju, appeared with his bike from a gate below and stood at the bottom of the well-of-death. He waved at the crowds and smiled, which brightened his bony face. He wore black tight jeans which showed outline of his thin fleshless legs, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket with patch work on it, and an embroidered image of Madonna on the back. His red bandana absorbed the perspiration on the forehead. He smoked a cigarette hastily and threw it on the ground and rode the bike over it to extinguish it. It reminded the kids of Rajnikant. They cheered. The door behind him was closed, now making the well-of-death a perfect bowel shaped territory for him to perform the stunts. He accelerated his bike several times while it was in neutral position.

‘If anyone among you is with a tiny heart, he should leave. We will return his money,’ announce the man with the microphone, jeering. Boys looked around. No, one left. No one would want to admit before a crowd that he is a meeky-cheeky fellow. The music stopped, with a loud recorded laughter of Sri Devi.

‘Ok, don’t complaint to us if you see frightful dreams after leaving the show. If anyone wants to go to bathroom, go now. Let’s begin the show. Ready? three, two, one, go,’ said he with a roar. Raju’s bike roared as he accelerated to maximum while keeping it neutral. Then he rode it, and starting from the lower part of the well, slowly, waving his hands, enjoying the music which started playing again. The music got louder, and the beats of a folk song had quelled the roar of the motor cycle. Raju accelerated and went towards the upper circle where he rode the bike slanting, defying the law of gravity. He accelerated more, causing the bike to roar more, releasing clouds of smoke. Now the sloppy wooden walls of the well were his stage. He went up and down, rode next to the upper edge of the well, causing the kids stepped back. The young clenched their fists. The cheering crowd ignored the smoke coming from the bike, for they got used to all kind of dust, smoke, walls eroded with urine, cow dung, and suffocating-smell of crowds, and their senses had reached to a higher level of serenity; for them not walking long enough to urinate was a joy more lovable than the hate of smell from a pool of urine.

Raju was now showing tricks on the bike. He sat on it; he handled it with one hand; he raised his buttocks and shook them to the tune of the music; he spread his legs; he went down and came up too fast, like fighter jets. The kids felt giddy seeing him ride the bike round and round so fast. But, he had the concentration of the universe; he knew no one except his bike. His smile showed he was thrilled by his own performance. The music was now replaced with recorded sound of a racing motorcycle. It was a signal for Raju that this show was over and he had to end the show. He slowed down. Before coming to a halt, he decided to show a trick of riding the bike his legs up in the air. He always wished to perform this, but never tried it. Here he went wrong, and lost control over the bike. The bike slid from his hands, he flew and rammed on the sides of the wooden well, and came rolling to the bottom. The bike halted violently on his knees. The music stopped. There was clamour in the crowd with mixed expressions of disappointment, sympathy and worry. The eunuchs realised something went wrong and stopped dancing. The announcer said hastily, ‘It happens. Small accidents are normal occurrences in big cities. Brothers, the show is over. Come again for another show, and bring your mothers too.’ The audience was reluctant to leave, but the organisers started showing them the way out.

Raju was brought inside the tent. There was no ambulance or physician to attend him. He was laid on a charpoy, and he was trying to stifle a cry of pain.

Shyam, his colleague, cleaned blood from his wounds with dettol, which made Raju utter a cry. He assured Raju that there were minor injuries and thankfully he had no fracture. He made him eat holy sweets from the nearby temple, which was the main attraction in the fair, where throngs of people had came to pay a visit to god and seek remedy for their troubles. ‘Baba will heal you very soon,’ said he.

Gajanand, the owner of the well-of-death, a tall and fat man, who seemed to have eaten all the food of his neighbourhood, came in. He was unhappy to hear the news.

‘What do you think of yourself? A hero? You ruined my business for several days. Do you want to shut it down forever? If you wish so, tell me straight away. I will sell it and go home.’

Raju was saddened. He stifled his anger, but did not say a word. He wasn’t brave before Gajanand.

‘Do you think I am running a charity that I will feed you for free? I have more people who are seeking jobs. I can train them,’

‘Ok, you bring someone and train them, and let me go,’ said Raju.

‘Son of a swine! Now you are showing me tantrums. Pay me the advance money you took for the treatment of your mother and you are free to go. Go to hell. You should become a truck driver. I am in the business for twenty years and never heard of a fool like you. If you have ride a bike in the well-of-death, learn not to get excited like a money. What were you playing the trick for? For a girl? It’s my foolery that I recruited people like you.’

He stamped his feet in the dust and left the tent. He knew that he had no substitute for Raju who was the hen that laid golden eggs. Using his shrewd business sense, he always paid Raju some wages in advance to make him feel obliged. As he stood on the gate of the tent, making a silhouetted image like that of a dinosaur’s leg, he said, ‘Don’t even think of running away, or else, I will break your legs and complete the job which the accident failed to do.’

He waited to gauge the reactions of those present in the tent. Everybody was serious like a medicine. As he left the place, Shyam giggled, causing Raju to smile. He said, ‘Son of a elephant! A hungry man will not cry as much if he loses his food, as Gajanand cries when he loses money. When his wife demands money for jewellery, he obliges without meekly. Slave of his wife! He will die fretting like this. Come, we will see a movie this evening.’

Oasis in the desert, and sweat and blood to create it

2011-05-28T17:25:00.004+03:00

The governments in the gulf countries have spent heavily to develop the scenic beauty in the Arabian Peninsula which is predominantly a desert. I woke up an hour earlier than my office time and went around taking some photos. I saw this place where this expatriate worker was watering the plants. It is ironical that expatriate workers like him who toil to keep the cities beautiful and clean hardly have any rights. Some companies do not pay them salaries on time, and when faced such a situation the worker has only choice of staging a protest which is a sure recipe to be sacked and deported to his home country. Thus, when faced with such a tougher situation, the worker prefers to wait patiently because while continuing his job, he at least has hope to get the salary, while on the other choice he surely chooses joblessness in the home country.

Photography learning for this pic: The light is usually very harsh in Saudi Arabia so one has to keep the shutter speed very high. However, I realised later on that in this photo I should have kept the aperture small (high f number) so that there will be more depth of field.

The second photograph is of construction workers who were up and working early in the morning on Friday so that they will save some efforts when the heat is at peak during the day time. During summer, most people complain in Saudi Arabia that it takes 10 minutes to the car AC to show effect. These poor workers work with iron, concrete and asphalt without any shade.

Flower or plant

2011-05-28T17:14:00.002+03:00

These flowers fascinated me because of their velvet like texture on the arch like top and sort of thorny base. I am not sure if each of them is a flower or plant in itself. The effect of heat is visible in the dried leaf. It died the same day after I took the photo.

Photography tips: I used Tamaron 70-300 lens to act as a macro lens, however, the light was not enough in the morning so I used fill-in flash. But, I did not realise while taking the photo that the hard fill-in direct flash caused an undesirable shadow in the background.

Uprooted

2011-05-26T12:10:00.001+03:00

It is the root of a huge tree that stood next to the boundary wall of my compound. It was among several trees that were uprooted, because some residents felt that the dry leaves created too much litter. The birds that chirped on it have found another nest, but the cars that stood in its shade on Friday afternoons haven’t found an alternative.

Flowers that never bloomed

2011-05-25T10:46:00.004+03:00

I noticed that this flower in my compound was already dying due to the summer heat. Most flowers that spread some colour in Saudi Arabia during the spring give up in the summer. This plant had a bud about which I was almost certain that it would never bloom. The same day the flower fell down, after living cheerfully for its destined life, and the bud never bloomed. It reminded me of an Urdu couplet

Phool aise bhi hain jo khiley hi nahin,

jinko khilne se pahle khiza ka gayi

The translation of this verse would be:

There are flowers that never bloomed

Before they could, autumn took them away

It is from a very philosophical and sentimental song Zindagi ka safar. The first stanza means: The journey of life, what a journey it is; nobody could understand it, nobody could know it

Resilience

2011-05-23T09:35:00.004+03:00

The trees in this photo were robbed of all their branches and leaves some months ago. They had giant branches and shadowed this street, giving it a pleasant look which is rare to see in Saudi Arabia as most of the land is not friendly for trees. After they were trimmed bloodlessly, they stood naked and pointless. Within a few days, new leaves emerged and gave some cover to the nakedness. I was impressed with their resilience and took a photo. I took another photo some days ago and they seem to be heading to give their glorious shadow once again, silently.

As this post is about trees, I will write some reflections that were buzzing in my head since yesterday: A tree doesn’t get bored standing still at the same place for a lifetime. Every leaf that falls brings hope for new leaves. When it is alive, it provides fruits, shade and nests, and, when it is cut down, it leaves behind wood. It doesn’t complaint of its environment, a cactus plant would never ask why it was left in the desert and why it never got to see a river, and whether people like or hate its thorns.

PS: These two photos show that I have learnt how to make my camera do a better job lately. These two photos are from the same road and show the same trees, yet the angle of the photo and shade of the green is very different.

Burden of my destiny

2011-05-22T15:58:00.001+03:00

I wrote a post some days ago in which I had mentioned my lame excuse for not taking photographs in Saudi Arabia that there is no photography culture here, and going around with a camera is an odd thing to do. I started clicking in public places, within few days after realising that my excuse is not valid and I can at least take photographs when there are no women or children in my camera range. I took photo of this car, which I see it every day on my way back from the office. I think this tree fell down during the floods in Jeddah in January this year. Nobody cared to take the tree off the car and the car’s tyres flattened with time. It looks as if the two have embraced their destiny. The notable thing is that there is little dust on the car, it doesn’t look as if it hasn’t been washed for months, and that the tree was cut down before it got uprooted, but it hasn’t give up its spirit and still has green leaves, as if it is smiling even in this fall.

Joy and purse

2011-05-22T15:52:00.001+03:00

‘I say you do not understand it, ladies of the full purse and varied wardrobe. You do not know what it is to live with a perpetual longing for pretty things—to starve eight months in order to bring a purple dress and a holiday together. What difference if it rained, hailed, blew, snowed, cycloned?’

This quote is from the story The Purple Dress by O. Henry. The joy of ownership is inversely related to the sense of deprivation. If you feel a thing is within your reach, there is little pride in owning it. I had written a post earlier too in which I narrated a driver of a purple car and how he indulged in driving this car which had nothing distinctive except purple colour on the first half of it. I believe anticipation of joy increases the actual effect of joy, but the anticipation of a shock doesn’t do anything to lessen the impact, in fact, it makes it makes one miserable for longer time. Alfred Hitchcock said, ‘There is no terror in a bang, only in the anticipation of it.’

Small Fry - A short story by Anton Chekhov

2011-05-17T12:08:00.002+03:00

This story has a sequence in which one victim vents out his anger on another poor soul who has done no to harm him. I read a story by Mulk Raj Anand, I think it was titled Duty, in which a policeman, deeply annoyed because of his harsh duty, beats up a villager who happens to pass by.

Chekov has touched various themes in this story, which vary from poverty, boredom, festival mood, bureaucracy, nepotism, ambition, childhood, morality, and repressed emotions, but he has done so without losing the singularity of effect in the story. The time period in the story is barely a few minutes, the place is one office and there is one main character in the story. This is why some writers believe a short story is the most difficult form of written art.

It is believed that good prose should use all the senses, such as sight, smell, touch, sound, and logic to add on the top of them. This story uses most of the senses, and one paragraph is entirely about the sense of sound, as it goes: ‘Nevyrazimov put his ear to the open pane and listened. The Easter chimes floated into the room with a whiff of fresh spring air. The booming of the bells mingled with the rumble of carriages, and above the chaos of sounds rose the brisk tenor tones of the nearest church and a loud shrill laugh.’

The story has good use of symbolism as well. The lamp seems to suggest the hope in Nevyrazimov’s heart which fades as his agitation increases with continuous reflection. Chekov writes: ‘ lamp in which the kerosene had quite run dry was smoking violently and threatening to go out.’ The cockroach seem to represent restless soul that does not come to terms with its surrounding and space, as the writer says: ‘The stray cockroach was still running about the table and had found no resting-place.’

The story comes to a quick but well crafted end, and the temporal delight in the end closes the loop with the anguish in the beginning of the story. It reminded me how some students in my university used to comment on a person who was far away by saying ‘he is a big braggart’ or ‘he thinks himself to be too smart’ or ‘he is a real idiot’, and when the subject would approach close by, they would smile and greet him genially. It was more sort of amusement than hypocrisy. I think teenagers do not really understand the meaning or implication of hypocrisy.

You can read this story on this link

Sharing what pleases your eyes

2011-05-14T11:54:00.000+03:00

Few people who know me very closely are not surprised when they find me fascinated with something because they know it will pass away. On the contrary, they expect some new fascination every few weeks, and Majid sums up in the express, ‘what is the new drama you are in?’ He has good memory, so he can recollect all the things that impressed me such as advertising, 7-habits of Steven Covey, emotional intelligence, leadership concepts (especially level-5 leadership), Toastmasters, naturopathy, fitness, fiction writing and photography. I do not yet believe that any of these topics was not worth the time. I imbibed much of seven habits, emotional intelligence, naturopathy (or I should say right food) and fitness as part of my daily life. These things go on without any extra efforts on my part and I do not feel one can do away with them. I consider religion as the basis of all, so that too goes without saying. I gave up attending the toastmasters meetings because we do not have people that are interested in it, and I saw the weekend conferences or meetings as taking away from my relaxation of the one and half day weekend I get. I do not like it when they start equating Toastmaster’s speech contests with leadership, as if a good speech is all you need for leadership. I could name many awkward speakers and shy people who have made great leaders. I still believe it is a great concept for professionals, but I can do without it, because at this stage I do not have big professional aims. Seven-habits, emotional intelligence and level-five leadership are important learning that help everyone, even a housewife.

These days I am increasingly fascinated with photography. I talk about it more than literature that I used to do. I believe I am still more consistent with literature. I do try to spare at least half an hour to read classic fiction, and 10 minutes as the first thing in the morning to write a story. Almost all the times I succeed in writing a new story in 10 minutes, but a story written in such a short time is seldom so good to be posted in the blog. I wrote a few which I liked but could not edit them to post on the blog. I have too many thoughts on Henri James’ The Portrait of a Lady but probably may not find time to write them. I do keep a track of written words every month and I am satisfied with approximately 20,000 words I write every month over blogs, fiction practice or comments.

When I had purchased my Canon D500 DSLR almost two years ago, I did not realise that it will take me so long to know my camera. A fellow student of my university recommended me this camera and said after I would start enjoying taking photos from this camera in two years, I could buy more accessories. I did buy a lens and flash after a year. However, I took almost two years to know the camera. The photographic terms are so complicated for a novice that he prefers to stay away from them, and in addition to this he has not pressure to learn them because in automatic settings the camera gives very good photos. Whatever good photos I have taken thus far were all in automatic settings. I learnt the features of my camera recently and learnt how you can manipulate the available right by choosing right combination of speed, aperture and ISO setting. I learnt what an underexposed or overexposed image is, and now look at the histogram of the photos to ensure right exposure, and I shoot them in RAW when I intend to do post processing. It took me two years to know what the rule-of-thirds in photography is and what it really means.

A few days ago, I complemented a photographer on flickr and he responded back saying ‘I hope you will post more photos, especially typical to the place you live.’ That time my excuse was that there is no photography culture in Saudi Arabia, and it is not usual to see people in the outdoor taking photographs. Not only this, you have to be careful that a lady, even ones who are fully covered in black, or kids do not face your camera, otherwise you can be in trouble. But, at the same time, I realised it was a lame excuse. Yesterday, I went out to do some grocery shopping in the morning and found a few objects that could make a photo with a story. One was a car that I saw everyday on my way back home, a Hilux carrying weight of a fallen tree for several months. I came home and this was the first time I went out with the camera without a case. I will post these photos in this blog, alongwith the text explaining what compelled me to think it will make a good photo. They are not very artistic photos, but still better than no photos at all.

I believe photography is sharing perspective and what delights your eyes. You learn to enjoy a visual spectacle and then pass it on with some creative touch to it. I will try to do that from time to time.

Story, drama and movies

2011-05-07T11:53:00.002+03:00

I am not much into movies but sometimes do enjoy watching good movies. In the last week, I watched two movies, The Ghost World and The King’s Speech. I loved the Ghost World more and saw it thrice in parts when it was shown on different TV channels over the weekend. The subtlety of the characters was brought up wonderfully in this film, and what I loved the most was cinematography, the choice of colours to show the characters and the cast. I think the movie was not a commercial success because it lacked struggle of character leading to a definite climax, which is a formula all good stories must meet in order to become commercially successful. I too felt that the story ended abruptly, without a conclusion. Among many good aspects of this movie, such as sense of humour and real life characters, it has so many people coming in to add effect and all of them look so real and believable, even if the person shows up for a second. The King’s Speech too had great acting and real-life drama to portray the struggle of a Prince who becomes a King.

I had something thoughts while watching these movies which I wanted to write down.

1. A sensitive subject needs great artist to do justice with it, otherwise you end up spoiling it. There are few directors in Bollywood, such as Prakash Jha and Ramagopal verma, who can do justice to a variety of subjects. I have been less in interested in movies and directors lately, so do not know whether there are more. Yes, there are some good movies too such as Once upon a time in Mumbai or Pyar ke side effects which bring up the contrasts and drama without overdoing it. I only watched the movie Guzarish for few minutes and wondered if the film producer really hoped it would do well in box office. It is a story of a man who wants to die. Who would be interested in a man who wants to die? Instinctively we love people who struggle, even if this struggle might seem trivial or against themselves as in case of split-personality. But the lack of struggle takes away the entire thrill of drama. In King’s Speech there is struggle of physical impediment and the characters physiological barrier to it, but if he was not to fight against it to win, there will be no drama left in the movie. I read a book on writing in which the writer said that a girl who goes to a library to read her favourite fiction book will be shocked to know that she is driven by the same instinct as of the people who watch a fight on the roadside to see who wins. We only get ourselves in a drama to know who wins. We watch sports for the same reason and unfolding dramatic news on the TV for the same reason. When the fight is not between two opponents who have to fear from one another, and the stakes of losing are not high, we simply do not think it to be entertaining enough.

2. The real drama lies in the upper class or lower class. My friend Majid often says that middle-class is only for consumption while the real colour of life is either in the elite or in the poor section. I saw part of the movie Kabhi-Kabhi and my wife commented that Yash Chopra only created movies on the lives of rich people, and there were hardly any poor people in his movies. I shared the same observation that the drama has to come either from the rich or poor. If it is a drama of middle-class it has to be treated very artfully and requires the viewer to have equally good taste to appreciate it, for example the Bollywood movie Khosla ka Ghosala has drama of a middle-class family, but majority of audience will not appreciate the ironies in the story. The life of poor people is anyway full of ironies and you can find too many ideas to depict their struggle, and as for the rich people, even a small smudge on their shining dress becomes point of interest. A stammer will not make an interesting theme for a movie unless it is for a King and a family feud will not be interesting enough unless it is for a rich family who are otherwise very happy to worry about anything.

The heart and senses of youth

2011-04-21T11:40:00.000+03:00

We can often hear people talking about the life of youth and most people say that youth is the golden phase of life which never returns. In this phase, we enjoy life as youth more because we are innocent. We do not burden ourselves with the worries and challenges of life. We are less judgemental. We have smaller ambitions. We have less malice or jealousy. We do have insecurities as youth, but we forget them most of the times. We can talk about a stupid incident dozens time without getting tired of it. We do not judge before laughing whether a comment is stupid or intelligent. We can laugh while running to save ourselves from being caught after a mischief. We tend to get fascinated with things and become excited with a new movie or dress.

My wife’s aunt visited Jeddah a few years ago and we visited Taif together. She had travelled many countries in the world but she was fascinated to see the hills in Taif too, which I always found very dull and barren. She would exclaim, ‘See how beautiful these hills are, what different colours these rocks have, how beautiful the cactus is, subhaAllah!’ I was struggling to believe my ears, and I was wondering, is there anything beautiful about cactus? I would be equally surprised when an animal lover will say ‘look, how cute this bat is!’ But, those who study them do find them cute and beautiful, unlike people like me who think only rabbits and cats can be cute.

The tendency to get excited and fascinated in youth subsides with age. I think we need to learn to keep the tendency to get excited and fascinated alive for life. When we buy something new, a gadget or car or house, we are excited about everything, and as time passes by we stop admiring it and take it for granted. We need to learn to seek the thrill from it the same way we do when a thing is new. Happiness is only a state of mind and the good thing is that we have power to change our state of mind.

My point here should not be taken that all mature people should become childish and there is no good in growing up. But, my point is that we learn to stay keep the heart and senses of the youth alive.

Writing to delve into unconscious and discover self

2011-04-18T15:45:00.002+03:00

They say writing fiction is a process of knowing yourself. You get to know more about yourself than you otherwise would. I try to write some words of fiction every day following the motto of Never a Day without a Line. However, I do not post them because I do not find time to refine them in a way that they should be posted. But when I read prompts from Daily Flash Fiction and I try to write a story in 10-15 minutes. It works and I can come up with a story as I write.

I learnt about my affection for my father through my fiction. As a teenager, I argued him bitterly and disagreed with him on everything. Even now I disagree with him, but that doesn’t affect in my devotion to him. I was not aware of it until I started seeing a pattern in my sketchy fiction. Most of the stories that I wrote have parent and offspring relationship tussle. I never focussed on it but it does spring up. Sometimes I do not even realise that it has come up in the story. I am writing here some examples:

• One of the first stories I wrote was mostly depiction of a true experience when I met a taxi driver in Dubai whose son was terminally ill and he did not visit his home town for years because he did not have courage to see his son.

• I wrote a story Mothers in which a woman brings up the orphan daughter of her husband who had married without her knowledge

• I wrote a story about female infanticide issue. In this story the daughter, who had been living separately along with her father, comes in to sort out the trouble of her mother.

• I wrote a flash fiction in which a woman escapes an abusive husband with the help of a truck driver. Someone asked me this is a good start, what happens next. I said I do not have passion to write the entire story, but I can think of the quick plot, which goes as: The woman and truck driver get married and settle down in a new town. They tell the young child that the truck driver is his father, but the child grows up to learn that his biological father is someone else and he goes to hunt for his real father.

• I wrote a flash fiction in which an NRI comes to home to sell his ancestral house where the reminiscence of his dead father compel him to abandon the idea

• In another flash fiction, or micro-fiction, I wrote about a young orphan girl who goes on a sea beach and finds a bottle. She brings it home hoping that it will bring her mother back in her life. I started this story with the thought of a shellfish.

• I started a novella in which a father compels the son to study in the army school and live up his dreams of a heroic life, while the son loves art. I had full sketch of this story in mind but did not write it. The son goes to the school, runs away from it, and becomes a police informer where he uses his art to depict faces to help the police catch criminals. I had titled this uncompleted story ‘The Father’s Soldier.’ This was the only story where I started with the father and son relationship in mind.

• I was taking a course in Falmouth on Novel Writing and in one of the exercises we had to complete a story which was started by another classmate. I got a story in which a girl goes to a cemetery. I developed this story in a way that the girl goes to find the grave of her dead father, but learns that her father did not die but her mother had lied to her so. She learns that her father is in India, but no one knows about him. I painted another picture of an English man getting down from a bus, clad in a white sheet with names of gods on it and his forehead is covered with vermillion paste which Hindus use. The daughter was not to set off on the task of hunting her father in India. I actually saw an Englishman in these colours 20 years ago and fixed him here.
• I started another story of twins who were separated in young age because of the divorce of their parents. They are unaware of the existence of a sibling and years later the happen to be in the same class.

• As practice to write some fiction every day, yesterday I wrote a story of a young girl who suffers from cancer and succumbs to it, while her desperate father, a doctor, cannot save her life.

• Today, I started a story about a king dying while his son waits for him to reveal the location of a secret treasure. The king dies creating some melodrama but comes to life again immediately after, only to reveal that he had an illegitimate son whom he wants to give inheritance in the Kingdom.
I did not start any of the stories with an intention to narrate struggle of father and son, but somehow it reaches there.

Dothea Brande, in her book On Becoming a Writer, writes passionately about subconscious which she terms as unconscious. She says that writing fiction is maintaining balance between unconscious and conscious mind. We are mostly unaware what is lying in our unconscious, unless we dig into it. When we do, we may be surprised. The unconscious can tell us what things that truly matter to us and move us.

Do you love me? – The ugly question of loyalty

2011-04-17T15:34:00.001+03:00

When Uncle Sam went to war on Iraq and Afganistan, George Bush declared, ‘Either you are with us or against us.’ Indian Muslims are often quizzed, ‘Are you a Muslim or Indian first?’ Today, I read an article in Arab News about loyalty of expatriates towards Saudi Arabia. As if all the expatriates are living the American Dream with equal opportunities and promises of a secure future. They are treated as passengers on a railway platform and they think the country to be a temporary station. It is like a misyar marriage where the question of loyalty is kind of ridiculous. An employer reserve all the rights to kick an employee out of country at will, and even send him to jail without guilt by declaring him absconding, leaving his family in limbo who could not travel to their home country because the husband has to authorise their exit-entry visa.

A popular line goes in the private sector, ‘I work for money, if you want loyalty, hire a dog.’ The question of loyalty sounds to me like that of a jealous wife who asks her husband, “Tell me, do you love me?” She will not be satisfied even if the husband tattoos her name on his arm as a proof of his love. She can easily revert back, ‘I don’t trust you.’ The same way these so called loyalty seekers would not trust anyone who claims that he is loyal. I think the word loyalty should be taken completed out of such debates and ‘law-abiding resident or citizen’ should be the point of discussion, because many zealots disrupt peace in the name of their loyalty. Many dictators have persecuted masses because they did not trust them to be loyal. Hitler persecuted Jews by accusing them of not being loyal towards Germany. All the soft concepts, such as peace, loyalty, nationalism, integration, freedom etc. can be easily exploited by criminal minded people. In most countries where you see opposite sections fighting, such as Shia-Sunni clashes in Iraq, presently struggle in Libya and different factions fighting in Pakistan, all consider themselves to be loyalists and none of them are law-abiding citizens. Law is not a soft concept, but concrete definition of acts that are desirable and criminalization of acts which are undesirable. Violation of law should be undesirable and the question of loyalty should be left between spouses.

A darkroom under finger tip

2011-04-16T15:59:00.002+03:00

I took this photograph from behind the glass window while I was having my breakfast. A mark of drop in the photo reminds me of the glass screen. I found the morning mist and a man swimming in the sea very fascinating. It was mostly grey in the original colours. I liked the grey too, but a few days back, while playing with the colours, I found it could be given blue hue which looks more mystifying. I have set it as a background on my computer. Photographers in the past century used to carry filters in their pocket to give a unique colour touch to the photos, but you can do so much with a mouse today that was not possible in the darkroom in the bygone years. I just edit the photos in Picasa, I am not comfortable with Photoshop, and the steps to edit photos in Picasa is like counting one, two, three. But, in any case, you must have aesthetic sensibility (I like this phrase) to know what is looking good.

The Moth - A short story by H. G. Wells

2011-04-13T15:39:00.000+03:00

The Moth by HG Wells is a fascinating short story. The rivalry between scholars reminded me some of the rivalry that I had seen the University faculty. The author had depicted beautifully how jealousy leads to destruction of peace. The notable thing is that he has not given physical characteristic of either of the two main characters, yet they seem so real and live. How powerful human imagination is! It’s true that rush to get into physical description is the proof of artistic handicap to draw a believable character.

A nation in the making

2011-04-11T17:24:00.003+03:00

I had written a blog post after India Pakistan cricket match which I ended by pointing out that this is the time period when India was shaping as a nation. I had hinted at two major indicator, one was drive against corruption and the second one was tolerance of Hindus and Muslims to accept critical opinion. I was not aware of the momentum gathering against the proposed Lokpal bill that time, but I was pleased to see the support Anna Hazare received from across the nation. The media was very vocal in support of Anna Hazare and finally their non-violent protest succeeded in forcing the government to accept their demands for more a more effective Lokpal bill.

It takes nations centuries before the masses become educated and really start participating in the democracy. I am hopeful India will be a different nation 50 years from now. I cannot say there will not be any poverty, but certainly there will be more wide spread development and integrity in the system. I have also written before that integrity at personal, social and national level can change everything. The people of Indian sub-continent, including India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, believe in the mantra of ‘whatever works’ and social values take precedence over personal values. If a corrupt person can live with dignity in the society, it makes corruption acceptable; and a family may decide not to report the case of molestation to the police because it has social stigma associated with it. So, what will people think about it, becomes more important that what I believe in. But, I am sure education will change things. 50 years might seem like too long a time period, but it is a very small time period when we talk about development of nations and its institutions.

Previous posts on corruption

Corruption

Salary in Politics

10,000 Hour Rule

2011-03-21T15:47:00.000+03:00

Malcolm Gladwell in his book Outliers: The Story of Success gives a 10,000-Hour Rule, which means that if you intend to become highly accomplished in something, you have to work at it for 10,000 hours. I did my calculations. If I give five hours every week to writing, I will become an expert writer in the next 40 years. I have given 20,000 hours to marketing and I am not sure what have I accomplished. Ray Bradbury is reported to have said that you need to have written one million words before you can call yourself a writer. I think the word count standard for writing is much better than for hours. Some authors can write a novel in a week, while others take years to do so.

One line thoughts

2011-03-15T11:34:00.003+03:00

These are some of the one line thoughts that I could not elaborate upon, either because I felt they were complete, or because I was lazy.

When everything is alright, something is wrong.

In the ocean of knowledge, you should swim like a fish, taking only as much oxygen as required.

An intellectual is a person who is known more for his thoughts than for his actions.

It is destiny of man to fight against his destiny.

If everything is alright, something is wrong.

Be aware of your demons, and you will be alright.

The horror of shame, loss and pain is more in anticipation and reminiscence, than in the actual moment.

The biggest blessing is the ability to forget.

Previously as one line thoughts

A Happy Ending from Anton Chekov

2011-03-13T15:31:00.001+03:00

I like most of the stories received from Every Writer's Resource, but I delight in reading some of them more than others. A Happy Ending from Anton Chekov is also one of those memorable stories. This story is mostly in dialogues between two people. There is hardly much description of setting, nor does author step in to explain things. The character of Stytchkin reminds me of shrewd businessmen who talk humbly and close a deal through their sly dialogues. The Railway guard is visited by a matchmaker and he sees an opportunity in the middle of the conversation and immediately grabs it. He talks very humbly and when he knows that he has succeeded, he starts talking about strictness, discipline and norms.

The link for the story is here

Bloggers under radar

2011-03-10T09:25:00.000+03:00

Government of India plans to bring bloggers under scanner by introducing a bill which will club bloggers as intermediaries. Presently telecom networks, web-hosting and internet service providers, search engines, online payment and auction sites as well as cyber cafes are identified as intermediaries. It will mean that bloggers will be responsible for any reader’s comment on their blog. Many bloggers will decry this as a curb on the freedom of expressions. However, if you can control which comment is posted on your blog, you should also take responsibility for publishing the comment. A blogger cannot claim immunity if its blog comments which are abusive, racial or inciting hatred. I think there is a strong need to monitor the reader’s comment because most readers’ comments on Hindu-Muslim issues on Times of India are too hateful. I don’t know how much vulgarity goes in blogs.

Link for TOI news story

Death for Muslim fanatics and life sentence of Hindu fanatics

2011-03-09T16:42:00.001+03:00

Eleven people were sentenced to death and 20 to life imprisonment for the February 27, 2002 Godhra train carnage by a special trial court in Ahmedabad on March 31st. If hate crimes have to be punished severely, why should Dara Singh who led the crowd that burnt Australian missionary Graham Staines and his two minor sons alive in January 1999 should get only life imprisonment? These victims were asleep when they were burnt alive so that there was no possibility of provocation even, which could have been the case in Godra.

Malegaon blasts, in which scores of Muslims were killed, investigations have led to confessions of prime accused. Let’s see what kind of punishment these killers get. Time will tell whether Indian judiciary has truly stayed unbiased in cases of hate crimes.

Saher camera stolen

2011-03-09T11:52:00.000+03:00

Saher cameras, which were installed in Saudi Arabia some months ago to check traffic violations, have been under threat ever since they went public because they force people to be conscious of the speed limit, and with so many limitations in Saudi Arabia, speed limit are further annoying to most drivers. Most of the people I knew had paid fines. One of my colleagues was unhappy because he did not have traffic violation in 17 years of his driving history, but he fell in trap of the lowered speed limit immediately after entering in the ring road of Makkah city. Another, who too fell prey to the same camera, said that to trap pilgrims to Makkah is a sin. I too paid fines, but I was happy, because I hoped that the traffic will be more disciplined now. I am especially delighted to see people driving within speed limits on Jeddah-Makkah highway. And, I believe the percentage of improvement in traffic discipline can be directly related to the percentage of drivers fined for traffic violations, once bitten twice shy. However, still a lot more education needs to be done. Some drivers tend to play with the Saher cameras, they lower the speed while passing in front of them, and accelerate immediately after. Some weeks ago Arab News reported that angry drivers attack Saher-camera vehicles and people joke that there should be new cameras to safeguard Saher cameras. Today, Arab News published a story about theft of a Saher camera. If Saher camera had souls, they would have committed mass suicide because of the hate and anger directed towards them.

Intruder (Flash Fiction)

2011-03-07T17:03:00.000+03:00

I did not write flash fiction for many days, but when I saw a prompt yesterday, I wrote down a story within a few minutes. The prompt was to write a story that has words curtain, vine and drink. I am copying the story below.

===

On her second wedding anniversary, Martha entered gloomily in her lounge. She had dreamt of spending this evening with her husband, David, but he sent a message that his flight has been delayed and he cannot arrive before morning. She relapsed in the sofa and did not know whether she should be cross at the airline or David. She sighed and picked up Agatha Christie’s novel Murder is easy. Suddenly she started by the rustle in the curtain of lounge. She was sure that it was not her cat Prim who would never stay awake late in the night. She evaluated many possibilities in a flash: who could it be, a murderer, or a spy; should I attack him directly or call the police; what if he shows himself up with a gun in his hand; what if I dial the number to police and he attacks? Finally, she decided that the intruder must be crippled before he shows up with a gun. She looked around for David’s baseball bat which lay behind the English ivy vine in the lounge. She picked it and paced silently towards the curtain. She remembered baseball game highlights in TV and tried to concentrate how she could hit the intruder with maximum force. She stood close to the curtain, patient, resolute and brave, and pulled her arms at full length and smashed the bat on the person behind the curtain, and cried, ‘Here you go,’ and gave one more blow in a frenzy. The intruder yelped and crumpled on the ground, with a pile of roses. It was David who was groaning with pain. Martha felt devastated, she held David’s head and said, ‘I am so sorry, honey. You had planned to surprise me?’ He nodded, and said, ‘Give me some water to drink.’

Sense of humour

2011-02-28T17:12:00.002+03:00

My daughter plays outside my house with her friends, and sometimes they barge inside home and do silly things such as wash hands or eat chocolates, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh, giggle ceaselessly. They do not need a reason to giggle. They do not evaluated whether the situation is really funny or not. They do not know what sense of humour is. They just laugh.

And, when we grow up we laugh either to deride someone or to take pride that I appreciate witty expressions, a subtle assertion to say I understand what you do not. The laughter is wrapped with reason, buried in sensibility, and seldom given the air it needs. And, you see someone else laughing, you scoff, 'That's silly' or 'what is so funny in it?'

In youth, I have laughed for hours at things which would frighten me today or would be termed as silly. It was because I did not question, why am I laughing.

An apt reply

2011-02-28T15:59:00.003+03:00

Since I started writing flash fiction, I wrote two stories in which one of the main characters was a truck driver. A few days ago, a friend of mine said to me, “How come you write stories of truck drivers, I never saw you sitting with one?” I do not know why, but I think they have interesting lives. Another friend of mine had said to me several years ago, ‘Life is interesting either among very poor people or among very rich people.’ I think it is true to some extent, which is why we see most stories revolving around poor or rich people. Middle-class people only consume these stories for their entertainment. In India, if you sit down and listen to the conversation of the poor class, at any shoe maker’s shop, a paan shop, or motor cycle mechanic’s shop, you will hear very interesting anecdotes: whose daughter ran away with whom, who was hauled by the police, who beat up his wife, and so on.

Today in the morning, I sat down to attempt the flash fiction challenge of writing a story that has words ‘fire, scale and sky’ and I remembered a true story of a petrol tanker driver who raced a burning truck outside the city and saved the petrol station from deadly blast. He was also given some prize for bravery. The word fire reminded me this story, and I wrote it in the form of fiction by adding the character of the petrol station owner, and I made him look evil, because virtue will be invisible without evil.

===

Rajesh arrived at Vohra Petrol Station and parked his petrol tanker alongside the wall. He looked around for Mukul, the petrol pump supervisor, and but did not find him. He jumped out of the truck and went humming towards the office of the owner, Kanjee Seth. Nobody was inside the office, so he sat down on the plush sofa and picked up the morning newspaper to read. As he was busy going through the photographs in the newspaper, Kanjee Seth entered and said in his deep voice, “Has your photo appeared in this newspaper?”

Rajesh smiled and put down the paper. “No, sir, I was checking if there is any newly released movie.”

Kanjee Seth maintained his scornful expression and said, “Go. Sit outside in your truck. What if somebody steals petrol from it?”

Rajesh’s smile vanished. He came out of the office and saw Mukul coming.

“What did the fat man say to you?” asked Mukul, as he gauged that Seth has said something unpleasant to Rajesh.

Rajesh ignored his question and said, “Leave it, let’s have a cup of tea.”

As they were sipping tea at a nearby stall, Mukul said, “Don’t accept his nonsense meekly. You should give him an apt reply. You are transporting petrol him since he was a boy and could not hold his lose knickers.”

Rajesh walked towards the truck and saw that the petrol tanker had got fire. “Oh, my God,” he exclaimed and frantically ran towards it.

“Seth, come fast, the petrol truck got fire,” shouted Mukul. Kanjee Seth rushed out and was aghast to see the fire. He clasped his head in dismay and cried, “Somebody call the fire brigade.”

Rajesh hastily he got inside the truck and sat behind the wheel and started it. “Are you crazy? You will die. Get out of it,” shouted Kanjee Seth running towards him.

“Let me go, otherwise we will all die,” replied Rajesh as he reversed the truck in a rush, honking like crazy, even shouting loudly to give way, and raced expeditiously through the pell-mell traffic. It was a ghastly sight for everybody to see truck on fire racing through the city, like a monster. There was confusion all over, vehicles moved to one side of the road to see a truck coming, and Rajesh raced, ignoring the heat in his cabin. The smoke made his eyes red and he coughed, but never lost focus from the road ahead. His heart pounded like an express train, because he feared there could be an explosion any moment, and he desperately wanted to reach in the outskirts of the city. Soon he left the busy city roads behind. There were no houses or shops in this area. He drove the truck in an empty field, and before it came to a full stop, he jumped out of it and ran away from it. When he had reached near the trees at the end of the road, he fell down and looked towards the truck on fire. He continued to lie down, gasping, and trying to control his coughing. Within minutes there was a huge blast and the entire truck was engulfed in gigantic flames. The sky above was black with the smoke.

Within few minutes the police had arrived, and Kanjee Seth came along. He patted on Rajesh’s back and said, “How come you became a truck driver? You should have been an ambulance driver?” He then said to the police inspector, “Sir, you should get him a bravery award on 26th January. Had he not brought the truck outside the city, risking his life, God knows what destruction the tanker explosions would have caused in that area.”

Frankenstein

2011-02-25T09:00:00.002+03:00

I have not written a review of any book, nor do I intend to write one now. A review is a critical analysis of the work, and I believe too much analysis should not be done for a work of art. It leaves a bad after taste, the same way as analysis of ingredients of a delicious food will remove focus from the taste.

But I do intend to write down my feeling and thoughts after having read a book. This one is for Frankenstein by Marry Shelly. She wrote it when she was nineteen. She noted about the theme of the novel: ‘It would be supremely frightful...to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world.’

Frankenstein is an ambitious scientist who tries to create a human being which turns up a monster and wrecks the happiness of his creator. I think the original idea of the authoress had been the Satan, who rebelled against his creator. But Satan doesn’t wreck the happiness of his creator, although he does lead human beings to wretchedness. Satan’s creator will not have to go North Pole to brand him.

Mary Shelly has created shock and horror in the novel for few murders which looks as disastrous as the Atom bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Probably, our sense of shock has changed in the recent times and a monster who murders few people does not shock us anymore. The entire novel is in first-person-narration, but the narrators keep passing the microphone to one another. They are all miserable, pitiable, wretched and gloomy. Mark Twain in his story Luck mocks the persistence portrayal of gloominess to describe the feeling of a teacher who mistakenly teaches a nincompoop through hard work and the student turns out to be a star by sheer luck. He says, ‘I felt as guilty and miserable as the creator of Frankenstein.’ It seems as if Mark Twain made a mistake because Frankenstein is the creator, not the monster, but he is referring to the work of art, not the monster. Leaving aside the humour of Mark Twain, the novel has a thrilling narrative and the overtone of gloom and guilt doesn’t compel you to put the it off. But, now I realise that it doesn’t stir emotions either, probably because the entire novel has the one or another tragedy. So subconsciously you are saying, ‘Ok, tell me something new.’ I read two other novels recently that did move me, Madam Bovary and The Scarlett Letter. The authoress did not bother to include details such as the process of creation of the monster. It looks like Tom’s creation of a magic drug by mixing several ingredients that will blow once ready, bluup. But, the novel is worth the time and deserves to be one of the top novels of the twentieth century.

I liked one insight in the story that Satan is eloquent. However, in this story, most narrators are eloquent. I also liked the last advice of Frankenstein: ‘Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries.’ The story The Other Side of the Hedge by E.M. Forster also touches on the same theme of purposeless pursuit of human beings. I had written a post on the story, which is on this link.

Stories of atmosphere

2011-02-24T12:49:00.002+03:00

Robert Saunders Dowst in his book The Technique of Fiction Writing classifies short stories into three categories: 1) Story of character, 2) Story of plot and 3) Story of atmosphere. This book is one of the free treasures on the Internet. I haven’t read it completely, but I believe that anybody who is seriously interested in literature and craft of fiction will benefit from the book.

Stories of character are very easy to understand as they focus on one or more characters and their traits. I believe stories of plot are probably the stories like those of Arthur Conan Doyle. I did not fully understand what type of stories will be under the categorisation of stories of atmosphere. But I think the following stories can be categorised so. They do not have much emphasis on character building or plot, but they paint an abstract image which can be interpreted in many ways. These stories can be read on this link

The Serpent’s Story by Leonid Andreyev
The Other Side of the Hedge by E.M. Forster
The Dumb Man by Sherwood Anderson
MS Found In a Bottle by Edgar Allan Poe
Nyarlathotep by H.P. Lovecraft
The White Ship by Howard Phillips Lovecraft
SMALL-BOAT SAILING by Jack London
A STORY OF RAVENNA By Boccaccio
THE HAUNTED MIND by Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE MARK ON THE WALL by Virginia Woolf
Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe
THE GREAT CARBUNCLE by Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE STAR by H. G. Wells

River

2011-02-22T12:11:00.000+03:00

Chirping of birds and murmur of a river waked me up, and I found myself in a hut, unknown and unseen. The morning air had spread heaven like fragrance of fresh air. I limped and saw a mirror, the only possession in the hut. In it reflected a face, beautiful and wicked. “Who am I?” buzzed the question in my head. I held my head and stood in silence.

Tic taac, tic, taac...came sound from outside. Plip plop, plip plot, my heart throbbed.

An afghan man, with a face like Genghis Khan, and innocence of a baby, was cutting fire woods. His axe was so strong, like his arms, and his eyes reflective, like the river. “Hey, who are you?” asked I. Though, I wanted him to answer, “Who am I?”

He made loud, muffled and gurgling noises, his echo to say that he could not speak. He indicated towards the river, to say it carried me here.

The river, and the hills, and bushes and birds, but no man’s voice was to be heard. I sat down and puffed air, he came near, tapped my shoulder and pointed his finger to the sky to say, “Don’t despair.”

Something roared in the sky, a helicopter was in sight. The man stood there, wondering at it, and I rushed to hide behind a hillock, not knowing why. The helicopter was gone, and silence returned, only to be broken by footsteps of men. Three armed men, in army uniform, stood around me, smiling. One of them spoke like a bullet, “Brigadier General Jorg, we are RC-North. We’ve come to rescue you.” I went to thank the Genghis Khan, and held his hands in mine. He blinked and smiled, and waved his hand to say good bye.

*This flash fiction was written in response to a challenge: “Write a story that has a line: When you will wake up, you won’t remember anything.” I understood it to be a situation, not a line to be included in the story and ended up in the story above. First, I thought of setting to be in Kenya, and used Google Genie to know that people in Kenya speak Swahili, and also identified a river which will be part of the story, its name was Athi. And, I used Google translator to translate some dialogues. After that, I thought Afghanistan will be better and search for the river names, and the officer designations and names on Wikipedia. This is how I learnt about RC North and Brigadier General Jorg. I also searched how their uniform looks like. I hope US intelligence services will not come after me because I tried to search information related to US operation in Afghanistan. But come to think of it, how much information is freely available to the world now.

Aarushi murder case- Indian media’s fascination with the elite’s innocence

2011-02-22T11:19:00.005+03:00

Tehelka published a 22 pages report on the Aarushi murder case, and it was apparent that the journalist was desperately trying to reject the proofs in CBI investigation and build sympathy for the accused father. This story is liked by 17,000 people on the Facebook, showing how blindly people trust a journalist's report. I was convinced with the guilt of parents when I read a Times of India story some days ago, but I trust the Tehelka team investigative spirit and believed that they will bring up some revelations. But it turned out to be collection of a passionate lawyer’s arguments.

If you ignore all the evidence that suggest guilt of the accused father, here is how the crime scene will turn out to be.

Parents are asleep in their bedroom. The servant has laid food for himself, but did not have time to eat it yet. Somebody enters in the house, apparently with the help of the servant. Few minutes ago, mother visited the room of murdered Aurushi to put the Internet router on , and accidently forgets the keys in the lock. This key is used by the murderer(s) to enter the room. He or they (let's say they) enter the room and hit the girl with some hard object (as the report says that a head injury caused the blood flow to stop, otherwise a incision injury would have caused blood to spurt in the entire room), after that they cause a incision injury on the neck of the girl, with precision of a doctor, to ensure that she is dead, and then they cover her with a sheet, and arrange the room, and leave the room, and place the keys of the room inside the hall. After that the intruder, hits the servants with a hard object (apparently a golf club) and drags him to the roof, murders him there with an incision in the neck, locks the door of the roof, cleans the blood stains from the stair case. He comes back to drink in the house where he murdered two people. He clears data from the girl's mobile phone. He collects the weapons, servant's mobile phone, and the sheet in which he dragged the servant's body and disappears. He doesn't forget to lock the house door before leaving. He is not seen by the security personnel, when he comes in or goes out. He is also smart enough to delete the phone records of the girl. There were two murders, but no struggle or quarell or shouting to wake up the parents who slept in their AC room.

The parents wake up next morning when a maid rings the doorbell. They open the door, and are surprised why the servant did not open the door. The father is upset to see the scotch bottle on the table and goes in his daughter's room to inquire, and finds her dead body. They start crying and tell the maid,'Look what Hemraj has done.'

This entire story looks like a spy story; the only missing angle is that the unknown murderer did not leave clues that implicate the parents.

In this story, the murderer looks like a stupid and lucky person. He got easy entry in the house where he harboured ill will for two people. He did not plan the murders because it is much easy to kill people on road in dirty Delhi, than in their houses, and that too when there are other people in the house and there is security guard in the neighbourhood; but, despite this lack of planning, he found the key of the girl in the roof door which her mother 'accidently' left in the door, he found one object to hit and another to cause deep wounds handy in the house, he found the key of the roof so that he could deposit a dead body there, and he took the weapons with him, but was not noticed by the security person while going. He was also so stupid that he did not run away after depositing the body of one victim, he came back to the crime scene to drink as the bottle of scotch found in the hall had blood stains of both victims. He was stupid because he left the key of the girl's room in the hall after locking the room, but he did not forget to take the key of the roof and the weapons with him, and the sheet in which he dragged Hemraj's body to the roof. But, this stupid murderer did not forget to remove the data from the mobile phone of the murdered girl and take away Hemraj's mobile phone with him. How patient, lucky, educated and stupid he was! Such character will not fit in even in a spy story.

According to Indian Express report, experts who conducted the postmortem have stated that the cuts to the neck of both victims were caused by a small sharp instrument with surgical precision and by a surgically trained person. This could only be the parents. And, CBI established that the dimensions of the striking surface of golf club No. 5 was identical to the dimensions of the injury found on both victims.

When I was eight or ten years old, I used to read the books on crime investigation which my father brought as he was a police officer. I once asked him, 'How you reach to the murderer after he has committed the crime?' He gave the answer in one line, 'After the crime, whatever he will do, he will make a mistake and leave a proof against him.' It is obvious because no man can be in his normal sense after committing the crime of murder, and never so smart to have murdered two people, arranged the crime scene, and left the vicinity without waking up anyone.

It looks like that the accused parents tried to play too smart, and use their knowledge to remove the proofs, such as arranging the girl's room, hiding two golf sticks, cleaning two golf sticks, hiding the keys of the roof door, not identifying the dead body of the servant whom they saw on daily basis, and not making any noise until they were waked up by the maid in the morning. But, certain media groups are trying to build public opinion in support of the parents, because they believe that only ignorant fathers in Haryana or Pakistan are capable of honour killing, and a reputed doctor is not roused by any violent emotion when he spots his teenaged daughter and a middle-aged manservant in a compromising situation.

====

I sat down to respond to a comment and it turned out to be longer than the post. So I am posting as part of the post script.

I believe that media should not pass judgements against or in favour of any party when the case is under investigation or being debated in the courts. But, our media doesn't care what happens to the parents of thousands of poor girls who are raped and murdered every day, but in this case they are too concerned because there are marches for justice of the victim. Why don’t our people march for justice when our IAS officers are burnt alive in broad day light because they unearth petrol adulteration mafia.

All the argument this journalist has presented are defensive, nothing is powerful in enough to acquit the accused father of guilt. Some arguments are so silly such as the father wore the same dress in the morning that he had in the night, so why there was no blood on his dress? Well, does this prove that he did not change the dress in the night? He says, Rajesh Talwar went to ask his wife if Hemraj wore a bracelet this is why he could not identify the body. However, if a person lives in your house, he goes missing, you find a dead body in the roof of the house, the first guess you will make is that it could be the missing person. And, you don't need a proof of bracelet to identify a person you see every day. The journalist argues that why CBI is not doing Touch DNA. Do we believe that our courts, police and CBI are so stupid that they will not do a test which can reveal further findings on the murder? Touch DNA on what, the body has been cremated and the murderer did not leave any weapons behind. The journalist says Talwar wanted the investigation to continue. Of course, he would want the investigation to continue because when investigation ends prosecution starts, and he has to face charges of murder and removal of evidence of crime. He argues that Rajesh Talwar helps prisoners to cure their dental problems. But he is doing so in when he is jail. He says the policeman were talking where they are going to dump Dr. Talwar’s body after killing him. It could an easy trick by the policemen to terrorise Dr. Talwar and prompt him to confess the crime. All these are arguments and counter arguments, which lawyers do on day to day basis. But nothing is a solid proof.

The starting point of any crime investigation is motive behind the murder. In case of the parents, it can be sudden provocation because of finding the girl and servant in a compromising position. This provocation could lead to a father to hit the man and girl so hard that they die. The situation, if it happened, might have been extremely shocking and provocative given the age difference of the couple and status of the man. The missing golf clubs of Dr. Talwar, and their recovery in a clean state, as compared to other clubs, hint that he might have used this weapon in rage. There are some embarrassing proofs, which I do not want to talk about for the sake of dignity of the deceased. But, if we assume the murderer is a third person, what is his motive behind two murderers. These were spontaneous murder, not planned ones, because a murderer who plans will not be stupid enough to enter in a house and murder two people, and leave the key, and dump one body on the roof, all the while when he runs a risk that the parents of the girl can wake up anytime and he can be caught red handed. He will try to flee the crime scene soon as soon as possible. Nobody teaches us this, fight or flight is in our instinct when we are in danger. It is extremely difficult to accept that a murder will lock the room where he has murdered, and leave the key behind. It is so easy to pocket the keys. And, interestingly the same murderer did not forget to take the keys of the roof door with him where he had deposited his second victim's body. The watchman might be lazy to miss the intruder once, but will he be so lazy to ignore him while coming and going. In a secured area, anybody can easily spot a person who is not regularly seen. The watchman would certainly observe a new person, if he had seen him.

Anyway, it is a long debate. I read the news story so many times but did not write a blog post on it, because I do not want to get into passing judgements. But the biased article of Tehelka journalist prompted me to write it, especially because he took 22 pages to sell his case. I just hope that our journalism leaves the court cases with the court and doesn’t go about announcing people as angels or demons. There is an angel and demon in everybody.

Genie (Flash Fiction)

2011-02-20T12:51:00.000+03:00

Waves of the sea destroyed the mermaid the little girl had created from sand, and she sat beside it brooding over the vanished mermaid, her palms pressing her plump cheeks, and eyes almost wet. She picked up the crown of shells with which she intended to decorate the head of mermaid. She stood up, brushed sand from her skirt and walked towards the shore where her grandpa lived. On the way she saw a green bottle which was tightly sealed, thinking it to be a caged genie. She brought it home and put it besides her bed. Once or twice she tried to open it, but a rush of wind outside the cottage frightened her. She prayed, 'Oh, genie in the bottle. Show me your magic while you stay inside, and send me back my mommy.'

*This flash fiction was based on the prompt to write a story that had words shell, crown and bottle. I had an image in my mind, but did not submit the entry for I had other commitments. However, I did put down the image in words to post on the blog, and relieve my head with its burden.

Lack of sleep can prove a killer: Study

2011-02-20T08:58:00.001+03:00

I am copying below a report from Times of India today which says that sleeping less than 7 hours a day can be disasterous for health:

MUMBAI: Late to bed and early to rise could well be the New Age recipe for heart disease. It is no longer only what you eat and drink that determines your ill-health.

Sleep deprivation is also emerging as a key reason for heart ailments. Recent research from London shows a person who sleeps less than six hours a night has a 48% higher risk of developing or dying from heart disease. This could hold true for Mumbaikars too, say doctors.

Cardiologist Brian Pinto recalled the death of a friend's 43-year-old son who collapsed on the road while jogging at 5.45am. "Youngsters are cutting down on sleep to accommodate more work hours and exercise. But without seven hours of sleep, this could spell disaster," said Pinto.

Cardiologist A B Mehta said, "More than 60% of patients who land up in a hospital's emergency room with a heart attack are first-timers who have never suspected they had heart disease. In many cases, excessive exercising and sleeplessness are common features.''

The University of Warwick studied 4.7 lakh people across eight countries, including the US, the UK and Japan, to establish this equation. "If you sleep less than six hours a night and have disturbed sleep you stand a 48% greater chance of developing or dying from heart disease and a 15% greater chance of developing or dying of a stroke,'' the university team said. It added, ''Late to bed and early to rise is a ticking time bomb for health.''

In 2000, Hinduja Hospital's Dr Zarir Udwadia studied the a disorder called obstructive sleep apnea and found 8% of 700 people who underwent a check-up at their hospital suffered from sleep apnea. "There is a strong risk factor between obstructive sleep apnea and hypertension. If a patient's blood pressure is not controlled by medicines, then we recommend that he undergo a sleep pattern test as sleep apnea is most likely the cause,'' he said.

Endocrinologist Shashank Joshi said, ''Sleeping less than five hours leads to diabesity (diabetes and obesity) in Mumbai." He also adds that sleep of beyond 10 hours is harmful.

Mr. and Mrs. Dove by Katherine Mansfield

2011-02-19T17:25:00.000+03:00

Charles Dickens can wonderfully draw minor characters with such sharpness that they become memorable. This story by Katherine Mansfield also has excellent definition of the characters. Even the minor character in the story, the mother of the protagonist, has interesting details. One could say that even the dogs in the story have character too, as you can feel from the following sentences:

'Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny’s porcelain eyes gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world were one unpleasant smell.'

This story also shows Katherine Mansfield's fantastic sense of humour. The link for the story is here.

Pursuit of excellent and its purpose

2011-02-19T12:27:00.001+03:00

I like a story when I have read it more than once, and I still want to read it again. The story 'The other side of the hedge' by E. M. Forester had an interesting theme: the never ending struggle of humanity and the tranquillity when life ends. It is worth reflecting whether progress and desire to excel is really desirable, or it is just a vain pursuit. I see that around the world, we progress to solve problems, and end up creating more problems, and then try to fix these newly arised problems. Globalization was aimed at solving problem or labour and raw material distribution, and now it has created another problem become some economies are growing at the expense of others. The same way most social problems are result of self-centred pursuit of happiness through success.

The link for the story

Veer Raghuveer

2011-02-18T18:10:00.000+03:00

I was travelling in a taxi on the Delhi- Hissar road, when I learnt about the story of Veery Raghuveer. It was midnight and I was vigilant and paid attention to all the chatter of the driver so that he doesn’t doze. Suddenly, he pulled brakes and the car dragged but stopped with a jolt, just before two trucks that had met accident. The two trucks had collided head on, and it seemed the accident took place just minutes ago we reached on the spot. Immediately after many other cars came on both sides, and people worked together to bring out the injured drivers and clear the path for the traffic to move on. When we left the place, the driver said, “Veer Raghuveer saved us.”

“Who is Veer Raghuveer,” I asked.

“The Pahalwan Dhaba where we stopped last to take dinner, there is a shrine of Veer Raghuveer. I donated five rupees there. I do this every time when I come on this highway.

“Raghuveer was a truck driver who used to trip from Delhi Hissar. Nobody knew much about him until he fell in love with Puja and married her, because she was very popular at Pahalwan Dhaba. He married her and did not pay any dowry; instead he took all the money Puja had earned. He built a house near the dhaba and they lived in it. He was a well behaved man, except that he used to drink every day and curse Puja for two hours, so loudly that if you stood on the road, you could hear his voice from his home. A man becomes short tempered when he works so hard. One day they both were going to Kanpur, and Puja said something to Raghuveer and he lost his cool. He said to her, ‘Get out of my truck, right now.’ In the lonely, cold night, with no man or owl in sight, he forced her out of his truck. Nobody heard from her ever again.

“Raghuveer after all loved her; he looked like a ghost after that incidence. After one week, he met an accident. You know where, exactly at the same spot where he had deserted his wife. People rushed him to the hospital and saved his life, but he lost one leg. He could not drive a truck now, and Pahalwan gave him a job of a cashier. His life had changed. He would never smile, nor talk to anybody. If you give him money, he will give you exchange, without saying a word. He let drivers stay for free in his house, and gave most of his income to hungry people. One day he was looking at Puja’s photo, and a strong wind snatched the photo from his hand, and dropped it on the highway. He rushed after it, and could not wait for the photo to be crushed beneath muddy tires, so he lunged forward to grab it, and was crushed beneath a racing truck. This time his life could not be saved. You will not believe, the same night there were 3 more accidents on this road, and total four drivers died. So all the drivers suggested that we should make a shrine of Veer Raghuveer because after all he died repenting his crime. From that day onwards, no driver passes in front of the shrine without honking, to salute him. And, if we stop at the Pahalwan Dhaba, we do leave some money there for our safety.

I listened to him patiently, and said, “But, if Raghuveer could save lives, why couldn’t he save his own life?”

“Sir, who can work against the will of God,” replied he.

Goldfish

2011-02-17T12:24:00.001+03:00

This flash fiction challenge on writing.com required to write a story using the words small, happy and monster.

----

Raghu was not happy when his elder brother Madhav came first in the school race, and he was last. “What is your secret?” he asked Madhav seven times while on the way back home. Madhav laughed and replied, “The only secret is hard work. I wake up early in the morning and run.”

But Raghu was not satisfied. “Tell me please. I will not tell anyone,” he said winking as they entered home.

“Ok, listen. But don’t tell anyone,” said Madhav.

“I promise. A solid promise,” he said and pressed his lips to appear sincere and touched his chest to add effect.

“It was a golden fish, which I caught in the pond near railway station. It was salty, but it did a miracle.”

“Ok,” said Raghu and dashed away.

“But you have to eat it all in one bite,” Madhav cried behind him.

Next morning Raghu picked up his fishing rod, and went to the pond. He enjoyed the morning breeze and the serenity around the pond. A fog crocked and welcomed him. He fixed the fishing road, and closed his eyes and prayed, “God. Send a little goldfish for me too.”

He waited patiently and hummed. Suddenly, the rod shook and Raghu was filled with delightful anticipation. He fastened the reel speedily, but what came out was a doll. It hanged upside down. Its face was covered with red tresses, and its hands hanged around Raghu’s neck, dripping water over his shirt. Raghu disliked it and wanted to throw it off, when the doll’s small eyes opened, and it stared angrily at him. Then, its mouth opened and a crab walked out of it and sat on its lips. Raghu was horrified. The same moment, the doll wiggled, its tresses showered more water and its hands touched Raghu’s neck. Shocked and terrified, he fell on his back. He wanted to cry but couldn’t. However, he gathered courage to run, but fell down immediately after, and lied on his chest, gasping, and did not look back. Something touched his feet, and he hid his face in the grass and cried, “Oh red-haired monster, forgive me. I don’t want goldfish. And, I will never be lazy again. Please. Please.”

He expected somebody will grab his collar and hang him up in the air or drag him by his feet, but nothing such happened. A dove cooed. He stood up and dashed without looking back.

The crab moved and paused on the nose of the doll, wondering at the morning. A tortoise came out of the doll and walked peacefully towards the pond.

Reaching home, Raghu went straight to his room and wrote a note for Madhav: “Bhaiya, wake me up tomorrow early in the morning. I will go running with you.”

Mutiny

2011-02-16T10:14:00.002+03:00

The challenge for this flash fiction entry was: Write a story that includes the line: "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

---

When I reached Falmouth Town, I was the only person to get off on the station. It wasn’t very late in the night, but the area was completely deserted, like a graveyard. I could hear my footsteps in the surrounding silence. I went to the parking lot to wait for a taxi. Darkness covered all trees around, and a few lampposts struggled against the night.

Instinctively, I felt that someone stood behind me. When I turned, I saw a handsome young man wearing khaki trousers and white shirt. His face was innocent and his eyes resolute. Glancing up, he offered a small smile. ‘How are you doing?’ I asked, but he did not respond.

I found his behaviour very strange and tried to ignore it by thinking that he might be arrogant or sad. I waited for the taxi even more eagerly.

After a brief silence, he asked, ‘Where are you from?’

‘India,’ I replied.

‘Which city in India?’

‘Jaipur.’

‘Ahh. The Pink City of Rajputana, Sir Ram Singh Bahadur,' he mumbled and did not say a word more.

'Have you been to India?' I asked after waiting patiently for him to say more.

He remained silent and looked at me steadily with a scornful smile, and said 'That was long time ago. In the revolt of 1857, I was with Major William Hodson when we forced Emperor Bahadur Shah to surrender. I shot down Bahardur Shah’s sons Mirza Mughal and Mirza Khizr Sultan and his grandson Mirza Abu Bakr.

I stared at him to find any glimpse of madness or influence of alcohol, but he remained composed, unconcerned with my reaction. I tried to look in his eyes, but he had fixed them on his boots.

I pretend being calm, and tried to smile but could only utter a nervous laughter. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?" said I.

'No,' saying so he smiled like a friend saying good bye and walked away.

Dawn

2011-02-15T08:54:00.003+03:00

This was submission for the Daily Flash Fiction challenge. The challenge was to write a story using words heart, love and cupid.

---

Amrindar shrugged his shoulders to the tune of Punjabi songs and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, gazing at the lonely Delhi-Patiala highway, as his truck rushed through the silence of the foggy midnight. The music mixed with cupid’s insinuations gave him exceptional delight in this drive.

Kranti sat next to him, holding her baby, with a wooden face and wet eyes, but she looked contented, whenever she gazed at the baby. Time and again, she would readjust her shawl to ensure that the baby stays warm.

“We will be at Bunty’s restaurant in one hour. You must be hungry,” said Amrindar to Kranti without looking at her. She did not reply, nor did the expression on her face change.

“Madam, forget him now. Thank God that you are alive, the beast would have killed you if you had stayed any longer with him. He cannot love anything except alcohol, neither his wife, nor his son.”

Kranti’s heart was filled with disgust for her husband, although she hated these words uttered by another man and felt an inexplicable sympathy for her husband. How she wished he would change his habits. She did not mind him staying idle, but she could not tolerate everyday beating. When he threw the baby on the ground, she could not stand him any longer.

She gazed at the child. He had small eyes and a sharp nose like his father. It amused Kranti. ‘How can I forget him with these eyes in front of me,’ she said to herself. ‘If I go back to him after one year, will he be apologetic about his behaviour or condemn me violently? Will he have married another woman? What stories will I tell to this child?’ she persisted in her gloomy thoughts and wondered at the breaking dawn.

A sand castle

2011-02-15T08:51:00.001+03:00

This was submission for the Daily Flash Fiction challenge. The challenge was to write a story using words train, ocean and smile.

-----

Konkankanya Express came to a halt at Margao railway station, causing cacophony of passengers and hawkers. An elderly man came out of the train. His face had the glow of opulence but his eyes were heavy with sadness. Outside the railway station, he noticed a uniformed man with a placard that read: Alex De Souza, Colva Beach Resort.

‘Drop me to Holy Trinity Church. I will walk to the resort after finishing my engagement,’ he ordered the driver in a suppressed tone.

The cool morning breeze and coconut trees welcome him, making him smile faintly. Margao hadn’t changed much in forty years, except that there were too many people and cars. He had gone to US for education in his teenage and never cared to return, until his losses in business forced him to return and sell his ancestral house.

At the Church, he got down and paced on a lonely lane which was shaded with trees. The humming sound of the ocean air was stirred by song of a bulbul. When he stood in front of his ancestral house, he was overcome with self-pity and wanted to leave, but the trees inside the garden and the lonely verandas invited him in. He walked through the weeds, gazing at the dust filled veranda, and kites on the coconut trees, and a boomerang that he had thrown as a child. ‘Why do you climb on the trees for kites, buy new ones,’ his father’s voice echoed in his head. There was no sound now, but he had peace in the heart. He sat in the wooden staircase and murmured, ‘I cannot sell their dream.’

He stood up resolutely and walked towards the beach to make a sand castle, once again.

Flash Fiction Challenge on writing.com

2011-02-15T08:49:00.001+03:00

Since past few months I started recording number of words I wrote every day. The average word count have been around 9000 words per month. Recently I focussed on keeping a word count of fiction, because I believe fiction writing is real art. I read recently that one Pakistani writers commented to his friend who was a journalist and published a novel, 'You were telling lies through journalism, now tell truth through fiction.'

On writing.com, which is a community for writers, I saw a Daily Flash Fiction Challenge. They give a hint for a story and you have to submit a story within 24 hours. The story should have a setting, character (at least one), conflict and resolution. And, it should be within 300 words.

I have written two stories on it, with the motto 'Fail, fail, fail better.' I will be posting these stories in this blog as well.

Thin Shoes- A Short Story by T S Arthur

2011-02-10T12:32:00.002+03:00

Twenty years ago when I got admission in AMU in 11th standard, one evening I walked out with a thin t-shirt on and the winter had set in. One of my seniors addressed me by saying ‘Daak Saab.’ (Doctor, Sir, one of the Alig ways to give address to others). ‘It’s a bit cold today, you should wear something,’ he advised. 'Wear something' is euphemism in India for 'wear warm clothes.' I looked at my t-shirt, which only covered my shoulders, and beyond. I was satisfied that I did wear something. However, I accented to his advise and moved on. Elders feel a responsibility to tell the young about any potential danger, even if it is exposure to a bad weather, but the young consider it intrusion. Such intrusion is especially not welcome if it interferes with fashion. The story I ready today by T S Arthur also has an interesting tale of an advice by an uncle which contradicts the girls preference for fashionable shoes. It is wonderfully written. This story reminded me a marriage party which I attended some years ago in India . The winter was at its peak in December, but most girls did not wear a shawl or sweater, because it will cover their beautiful dresses and jewellery.

Here is the link to the story.

Rain, fun and solutions

2011-01-31T09:28:00.003+03:00

When Jeddah got flooded, I had lots of stories to write about, but interestingly the most critical moments in one’s life seldom get on the paper. I briefly wrote about how children are apt to make the most of any moment, which I am copying below.

One thing we must learn from children is to make a play of everything, even a misery. The rain had caused havoc in Jeddah, yet, while going to my brother's house wiht a colleague, I saw scenes when children and teenagers were making the most out of it. At one point a group of boys stood with fish rods, and catching anything that they could hook, and when nothing came in the way, they would throw slippers and catch it with the fishing road. In another street, some boys brought a boat and made one of their friends sit in it, and dragged it on the road which had turned into a canal. When I reached home in a taxi, I found entire all streets around my compound heavily flooded. Most cars were flooded with muddy water. As I waded to my house, I thanked God for the minor accident a week ago because of which my car was away for repair. However, in this chaos, children inside the compound ran about in the water, enjoying their novel playground, shouting, splashing, and roaming around as if taking a review of the problem. I heard a boy claiming that he is the President, and he made all his friends Vice-Presidents, perhaps they were planning how to cope with the disaster. When given a choice, kids don’t hesitate in assuming the leadership positions; it is only the sophisticated adult mind which shies away from challenges. My daughter wanted to go out, but I refused for it was unsafe for her. But if you ask a kid not to do a thing, you must tell what she must do and be a part of it, because kids, unlike adults, cannot be happy with doing nothing.

In another interesting incident, one of my relative’s wife gave birth to a baby daughter when Jeddah was flooded. Her neighbour took her to a hospital, and they had to visit a hospital in the midway because the road to their regular hospital was jammed. The father of the baby had to swim to reach the hospital after an hour after birth of his daughter. When I, along with my family, visited the family after two days to congratulate on the birth of the baby girl, the father gave a theory that the sudden rush of water was unnatural and it could have been caused by any damage in a dam. It is true that the flood in Jeddah was very soon, workers in my compound said that the water level rose to more than 2 feet within 15 minutes and it was so sudden that they rushed to save their lives. The water around the city was all muddy, as if it is coming from the same source. I shared the dam damage theory with my wife but she rejected it saying that there is no dam in Jeddah. But Arab news today confirms that there is a dam, but the news says that there is no damage in the dam, but there is no guarantee that it will not happen in future. At the same time, my wife gave another theory ( I will not mention my theory of failed pumping stations in the drainage system, because it is too obvious) that the natural way for drainage in Saudi Arabia is to wadis, which are low lying areas amid mountains and hills and water accumulate there whenever it rains. If you take exit of Bani Malik from the Makkah-Madina highway the sign board says ‘Wadi Al Bani Malik’. This was the worst affected area during recent floods. So the theory is that the low lying areas which should have worked as reservoir for rain water were included in the township development assuming that it will not rain too much in Jeddah and the drainage system can cope with one or two days annual rain. But now there was double rain than the highest recorded in the history, there is no guarantee that in future it cannot double in future, because nature loves to surprise. Two years ago one of my relatives who has experience in environment science said that any township development must take clearance from environment ministry and it looks like the areas worst affected in the flood were developed without clearance of the environment ministry. So, there is some mismatch of the environmental realities and human planning.

After I had written the post, official news was published on 5 February that there was an dam burst on 26 January which caused floods in the Jeddah. Here is the link.

Beyond the Bayou - A Short Story by Kate Chopin

2011-01-26T11:35:00.001+03:00

Kate Chopin was also known as feminists authors of 20^th Century and she wonderfully gifted to describe the social milieu of France. I liked her story Beyond the Bayou in the first reading but enjoyed it even more in the subsequent readings. I did know that the second language used is French, which didn’t sound intrusive but gave effect of beautifully jaded pearls, but I could guess surmise the meaning of phrases, such as ‘Yonda, beyon’ da bayou’ (there beyond the bayou, because English also has word yonder) and ‘“Bon Dieu, ayez pitie La Folle! Bon Dieu, ayez pitie moi!”’ (Good God, have pity on me). The story shows a woman’s irrational fear for a water body, and Kate Chopin has used bayou as a symbol of self-imposed fears and limitations, beyond which life is beautiful. The pace of the story is wonderful and I enjoyed the little boy’s promise of bringing several squirrels after shooting because one squirrel will not be enough to eat, and the action described to take the boy beyond the bayou, for example ‘She clasped the child close against her breast, where he could feel her heart beat like a muffled hammer.’ The boy is hurt by a bullet and the writer describes the fright of the woman, a muffled hammer because she was very fat. After she has crossed the bayou, the news in the village is not that the child accidently shot himself, but that La Folle had crossed the bayou.

I read Kate Chopin’s story Desiree’s Baby some months ago and liked it as well.

Rereading

2011-01-23T16:53:00.001+03:00

I think it was with wakeful eyes, not in a dream, that I read the advice for beginning writers: Read, reread; Write, Rewrite. I tried to search it thoroughly in the Guardian’s top ten rules for writing fiction but could not find it. I searched again several times, because I don’t read in my dreams, and I noticed that Helen Dunmore did pack this advice in the list of her top nine rules. Philip Pullman had only one line to say: My main rule is to say no to things like this, which tempt me away from my proper work.

After I finished reading Madam Bovary recently and I could not avoid being gloomy for one hour, and after that I tried rereading it. What felt like planned construction in the beginning felt very natural progression in the reread. I asked Ginnie Google what it has to say about rereading. One of the search results was an article in which the author quoted Nobakov as thus:

Vladimir Nabokov, in the opening chapter of his Lectures on Literature, explains the distinction between reading and rereading in his own sweetly pedantic way:

Curiously enough, one cannot read a book: one can only reread it. ... And I shall tell you why. When we read a book for the first time the very process of laboriously moving our eyes from left to right, line after line, page after page, this complicated physical work upon the book, the very process of learning in terms of space and time what the book is about, this stands between us and artistic appreciation. In reading a book, we must have time to acquaint ourselves with it. . . . However, let us not confuse the physical eye, that monstrous masterpiece of evolution, with the mind, an even more monstrous achievement. . . . The mind, the brain, the top of the tingling spine, is, or should be, the only instrument used upon a book."

I searched the article by Nabokov and found it on this link. This article has very good point of views on reading and readers by Nabokov.

A purple car

2011-01-18T17:08:00.003+03:00

I walked out of my office to find something to eat on a nearby grocery store, and saw a car with purple front. It was all dirty, except for a circle in the front windscreen which was created by the untidy wiper. The car was all white in the back, and one could get confused if he did not trust his memory that it is the same car which is painted purple from the front. The colour contrast, with nothing to join the two, gave the effect of two cars. Behind the wheel sat the driver, a young man wearing black tight t-shirt, black muffler, dark brown sunglasses which matched well on his face, and a mien of Hitler about to make a decision to attack allied forces. Light music escaped from the car and gave a confused effect after having mixed with the rattling of the car. The boy drove the car peacefully, as if he was not in a hurry to reach anywhere. I waited outside a grocery store for the owner of the store to return after prayers, as several other people did and looked at the empty. The purple car passed again. I could not wait for the store owner to come and walked towards another store, the car passed. As I went inside and came out, I saw the purple car pass twice. The boy was enjoying the afternoon ride in the car, going about streets right and left, not even caring to go on a main street as his enjoyment will be interrupted by speedy drivers. I am sure if pleasure could be quantified in a meter, his would be the same as of a man who drivers a convertible.

Fascination, passion and committment

2011-01-18T14:46:00.000+03:00

The difference between fascination and passion is the same of infatuation and love. Fascinate fades, but passion persists. The later connects with some deeper in your constitution, and, thus, tends to hang on. I got fascinated with the Toastmaster concept some months ago, and now I secretly wish that their meetings get cancelled, as they have been in the past few months. Last time, I did prepare for my part and reached at meeting in time, but no one else showed up. Commitment is the most difficult thing to find, I told my colleague who leads the group. Whenever I get an opportunity to be didactic, I say, ‘Without commitment, no success.’ And, I also add to this thought, ‘Without sacrifice, No commitment.’ The problem is that in this age of convenience, we want all success without commitment and sacrifice.

The Californian’s Tale by Mark Twain

2011-01-18T12:30:00.001+03:00

Since I started posting the links of the classic short stories I liked, I have read many stories by famous writers and most of them were adorable. But, this one, The Californian’s Tale by Mark Twain, is very special. It has the brevity a short story should have, and this doesn’t compromise on the tension and effect.

This story also made me reflect that the character of the narrator doesn’t have to stand out in a story or novel. I have found many amazing characters in David Copperfield but the character of the narrator hardly stands out, except that he is compassionate and tends to fall in love without delay. Some months ago, I participated in a discussion on the story The Fog Horn by Ray Bradbury and some people said that the character of the narrator is not clear, which is a weakness in the story. I said the character in this story is like a ghost, and if the ghost has an interesting story to tell, I do not care how does he look like, of how does she look like. Do you?

One word to remember

2011-01-06T10:12:00.000+03:00

I jotted down these thoughts long time ago but did not post them, partly because I thought them to be immature, and partly I hoped to find more one-words. I looked at them today again after a long time, and they still rings a bell, so I decided to post them.

One word to remember

While dealing with others- Respect

While dealing with one- Discipline

While thinking of the God- Thankfulness

While thinking of parents- Old age

While dealing with children- Childhood

While at work – Salary

While thinking about the future- Past

Isn’t it nice when things just work?

2010-12-23T13:18:00.002+03:00

I read this line on Russell Davies’ blog and many times I realise that things just work out, and it gives the feeling that great effort was put behind them. Here I attribute it to me, not to Russell Davies because I suppose he does put great efforts in planning campaigns.

I took the following photo of the cake without much thinking, just keeping a lower angle. I did not use any special lights, except bounce flash, and I think close-up setting. But I like the result. Although I refined it a little bit in editing. When I saw the photo first, I felt how clumsy I was that I did not even remove the chairs behind the table. Now, when the photo is cropped, the wood of chairs gives a different appearance, and do not look like chairs.

But I did put efforts in another photo. In fact, it is the perhaps the first one when I successfully used manual setting, until then I hated photographers who say auto settings photography is not photography. I think I used manual settings before, but the result was either shocking or good by chance. See, I ended where I started. It’s nice when things work, and they are good by chance.

Short Story: Theodule Sabot’s Confession by Guy de Maupassant

2010-12-21T15:22:00.001+03:00

I read the story Theodule Sabot’s Confession by Guy de Maupassant and enjoyed it a lot. I liked how the rumour travels in the village and it changes day after day. I could immediately relate it to the society in smaller towns and villages in India where information doesn’t travel through media but rumour overpowers facts. In fact, many times a rumour has caused riots, and certainly made it worse for the police to control rioting. This is why, in the age of SMS the government has to monitor rumour mongering through SMS as well.

However, the theme of this story is not a rumour, but it is about faith. I read one writer’s comment that there are always multiple themes in a literary work that to find one theme in it doesn’t do justice to the work. It was contrary to the advise in another book on writing novels in which the author argued that the theme, he called it ‘premise’ I think, should come first and everything else in the novel or short story should work to carry it forward. This idea seemed good in theory, and I tried to follow it when I tried to write a story on female foeticide in India, and failed miserably. The truth is, as another author said, I do not remember who, that most times the author is not aware of the theme and it should be left upon the reader and critic to devise themes from fiction.

This story also has what is called transcendental value, which is what makes a story last several generations. The story was originally written in French but any person can identify with it, and it can be applied to society, irrespective of the religion being practice in it. In modern age, people become too busy to tell jokes on the preachers and I cannot say whether it is a good development or a bad one. One thing is for sure, fewer jokes do not mean more respect, but more detachment. If you do not have time to criticize a preacher, you certainly would not have time to think what he has to say.

Link for the story is here.

Tricks used for Food Photography

2010-12-12T11:10:00.005+03:00

I downloaded Picasa for photo editing and I am amazed by the effect it can give to photos, the most fascinating one is to add sunlight when the photo was taken in a cloudy day.

I bought a new lens, Canon 500 mm f 2.8, and an external flash Speedlite 430, and loved the effect of both on the photographs. Photography is a combined effect of the camera, lens, lights and photographer, and there has to be a right combination of all for best effects. I also tried some photography of objects inside my home; although this lens is not a macro lens, but it is extremely good, and especially amazing for portraits. I am going to post some photos on flickr soon. At the same time, I also bought more classic novels from a book exhibition, and I do love reading David Copperfield, which is giant of a book to finish reading. No photograph can give you pleasure for half an hour, as a good novel can. Some people can read for long hours, but I can’t focus more than half an hour. And, you do not want a camera in the hand, when you want to lie down and relax after a tiring day, and never before sleep. However, both hobbies open up your faculties to observe sights and sounds because I believe the first step of photography is that a person starts appreciating visuals in full details of colours, shades and contrasts; and the first step of writing is that you start appreciating how a word or sentence sounds.

I read a couple of articles on food photography, and it was disgusting to know the tricks photographers use to make the food look appetising. Are you interested in knowing? Well, here you go: glycerine is used to make the food look moist, juicy and well cooked; cigarette smoke is used to give the effect of steam from coffee or freshly cooked food; brown boot polish to make grilled food look tastier, white glue to make the corn flakes stand crisp in what appears to be a bowl of milk, mashed potatoes to make an ice cream that would not melt under lights, and so on. Now I doubt that when I see milk flowing amazingly from a bottle, it can be glue or something mixed with it to make it form different shapes. Could they use detergent to increase froth? Well, if you are in a country that has advertising laws well enforced, at least you are assured that the product is real product and they can play with the supporting products, such as corn flakes have to be real as the consumer would buy, but there can be white glue instead of milk.

Anyway, apart from all those tricks, you can still appreciate a photograph. These days I have posted the following photograph as my desktop background and I like it even after a week, so I believe it is good.

What Five Dollars Paid by T. S. Arthur

2010-12-05T11:54:00.002+03:00

I receive stories by email, most of these stories are pleasurable to read. I want to start posting links of the stories that I liked the most. This story shows how money dispensed by one person goes on helping several other people in a chain; and on the contrary, money withheld by one person can make several others suffer.

What Five Dollars Paid by T. S. Arthur

If you want to subscribe to these short stories, you can visit this link

Wait

2010-11-29T10:35:00.004+03:00

Recently, I started taking photography seriously, although I bought my Canon DSLR a year ago. I do not yet take it so seriously to carry my camera everywhere, which is a habit looked down upon in Saudi Arabia, but I started believing that I can take good photos, sometimes. When I bought my camera, a friend, who recommended this camera to me, said that it will take me two or three years before I know my camera. I couldn’t understand what might be so complex with the camera that I can’t learn overnight, but it took me one year before I got comfortable with the use of manual focus, and used tripod, which was after my wife gifted it to me six years ago. I took some good photos, at least people say so, during my recent visits UK, India and Jizan. A week ago I set one of my pictures as desktop background in my laptop and liked it for several days before I started getting weary of it. It made me think that a good photo is the one that you do not get tired of after looking at it repeatedly. In fact, I believe ‘repeat exposure effect’ as a test to judge any creative art. (I is posted this blog post) I titled it ‘wait’ because a lady sits at the entrance of an inn or restaurant, and looks dejected. This photo does not have any famous landmark, but represents an ordinary situation, and I believe photography is not about beautiful landscapes, but seeing beauty and pain in ordinary situations. I hope I capture so more often in camera.

All pleasure is in ignorance

2010-11-28T17:20:00.000+03:00

Yesterday I saw a man wearing a waistket and remembered one that I used to wear when I was in mid-teens at Aligarh. It belonged to my brother; the coat would not fit me so I used the waistket. It would enhance the shoulders by giving a puff to the shirt, and I had a few trousers which I thought were tailored in a very trendy fashion. One trouser did not have any scope for a belt, no loops at all, and in the front around the waist it did not have a flap or hook, but just a big button. I had a shirt with cheques, it had pale plum colour and it matched the sky blue trouser very well. These clothes were not expensive, I did not even know many brands of men’s wear those days, but I did guide my tailor by taking him through some pictures of men’s wear, and I felt very good wearing them. I was ignorant how fashionable men’s wear can be, and felt great in my ignorance. This train of thought made me think that all pleasure is in ignorance. I thought further on it, is it really true? As far as I can think, it is. The moment we become aware, our pleasure is lost. We might be enjoying an evening in the family, but if we know the misfortune lying in wait in the future, the whole pleasure will be gone. We might feel proud of our little achievements, but the moment we know how tiny these achievement are before those of others, the good feel vanishes. Two weeks ago I was in Jizan and saw a lad sitting at the reception of a hotel, wearing a grey hat, which did not go with his personality at all, in fact looked very odd. But he was very much at ease, and perhaps thought that he looked elegant. If he would be aware of someone making a fun of his hat, his pleasure would be gone. However, I did not leave my thought there, I seldom do. Even though ignorance is bliss, we cannot afford to be ignorant because we need knowledge to be aware of the dangers lying in our path, ignorance can lead us to dangerous ditches. Thus, I can say, while trying to seek knowledge, we should also maintain a habit to ignore things and forget purposefully.

Corruption

2010-11-24T15:04:00.001+03:00

A year ago or so I was having a chat with a compatriot in New Delhi and shared the view that the corruption has become such an integral part of Indian society that even the prime minister Mr. Manmohan Singh cannot do anything about it, even though he has an image of a honest politician. Today I read an ironical statement in the a news story in the Outlook magazine that the current PM has the image of Mr. Clean and he has witnessed more scams in his tenure than any of the former prime ministers. But at the same time I have more hopes from India than ever was because now I have seen many ministers and even a Chief Minister being sacked after corruption allegations. I never witnessed such a thing while growing up as teenager. The typical routine would be as such: a scam would be unearthed by the media, the opposition will make lots of noise and demand resignation of the minister involved, the minister will say the charges are not proven yet and he will not resign at any cost, the public would not care because they know that everyone in the public office is corrupt, and the case would be forgotten after some months.

I believe only one value can make a complete difference in people, businesses and society, it is integrity. With integrity the rest of the things are taken care of. And, integrity begins with open assessment of oneself. You cannot expect others to be honest, while continuing to deny the truth. However, the trap with integrity is that it is rather vague, and people can have different definitions to it. But at the root of it is truthfulness. If people commit to speaking truth, it will naturally establish integrity. If there is legal punishment for telling lies in public affairs while holding a public office, I think corruption can definitely be thwarted. But we have become tolerant to lies, and no scam shocks us anymore.

One Word at a Time

2010-11-22T09:34:00.000+03:00

I recently read Stephen King’s book ‘On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft’ in which he narrated an incident when he was asked, ‘How do you write,’ and he responded, ‘One word at a time.’ It sounds wierd to hear it but it has a deeper logic of managing and progressing things. If you break the bigger task in small units and focus on each unit rather the entire task, it becomes far more agreable and less frightening. I tend to lose focus very frequently; when I read a book, I would often realise that I haven’t been reading but thinking about something else. Today I thought of focussing on one line at a time, and it makes things much easier. Even if trying to learn speed reading, focus on one line at a time helps build better eye movement rather than scanning the page. The same way if you have several emails to respond at a time, and you start tackling them one by one, they will soon be done with ease.

Hydrabad

2010-10-11T15:39:00.001+03:00

I read a blog post on traffic in Hydrabad, which reminded me the following incident. I was in Hydrabad two years ago, and it was a common sight to bikers coming in the reverse direction. My wife's cousin was stopped by a traffic police man for taking a U-turn where it was prohibited. 'The prohibition sigh is effaced, (nishaan ghisa hua hai) the boy protested. 'Sahib, sarkar hi ghisi hui hai, nishan ka kyaa, (The government is eroded, what about the sign)' the policeman responded. The boy did not have money to bribe him, so the policeman sat in his car's rear seats to accompany him to an ATM. In the way, he saw a vehicle of police officer coming, and he crouched behind the seat to avoid being spotted by the officer. When the car had passed, the boy said, ‘Get up, the danger is gone.’ The policeman did not want to face more problems and said, ‘Ok, ok, drop me here.’

I loved food in Hydrabad, especially the Hydrabadi Biryani and Pathhar ka gosh. One day after dinner I went out to get a paan, along with my brother in law. It was half past twelve in the midnight, and the paan shops were not allowed to open at this hour. Suddenly, people started running here and there, and the pan shop owner closed the shop in a hurry, begging all customers to leave. Disappointed, we started walking back, and a young boy came and said, ‘You need paan? He will come back (Tumko paan hona? Unhee abhiich aataa).’ We returned, to see the paan maker popping his head from below the kiosk and taking orders from his customers and passing them to his co-worker who sat behind him.

I loved the Golkunda fort, especially the wonderful acoustics as you could hear clapping done below a specially designed dome across one kilometre. And in one building, if you whisper in one corner of the hall, your friend could hear it clearly on the opposite corner. The Salarjung Museum also had a wonderful collection of a variety of items in one building.

If you go to a tea shop and order two cups of tea, they will bring one spare cup with each cup of tea, the spare cup hugging the cup filled with tea, waiting to be filled. It is a tradition in Hydrabad to share tea, two people must share one cup of tea. ‘What if two people order two cups of tea,’ I asked a friend. ‘The stall owner will spot immediately that you are not a Hydrabadi,’ he responded.

Hydrabad

2010-10-11T15:39:00.000+03:00

Children’s stories

2010-10-09T10:01:00.001+03:00

I have not read many stories for children, but so far whatever stories I have known to be popular as children’s stories are not suitable for the young in my opinion. There is hardly any story that doesn’t have witch in it, and most stories relate to a poor girl who will end up marrying a handsome prince. When we tell the stories of witches to the young, we impart unreal fear in their tender hearts, because none of these stories tell that the girl kicked the witch on her butt and threw her off the cliff. Such stories rely on a miracle and chance to save the day, e.g. a handsome prince will spot the lovely girl and marry her. They do not teach the value of hard work and struggle, or any other moral lesson, for that matter. The lesson for girls in the stories is that solution of all problems is a handsome and rich life partner. I read some of the stories of James Baldwin, and they were good for children. They seldom had a witch, cruel mother, or a prince in them. I’ve not read Jungle Book yet, but I think it should be a good book for children.

Children’s stories

2010-10-09T10:01:00.000+03:00

Education

2010-10-05T11:33:00.003+03:00

As my fascination for books increases, and I admire a gift of bookmarks no matter how easy it may seem for a magazine company, and I wonder why Amazon doesn’t send a bookmark with a book, I feel that the word education is often misinterpreted. As I grew up in India, most people would see education as a means to get a job. If a person studies hard and becomes a teacher, he seldom befriends books again, unless his job forces him to so. There are certainly some passionate professors in specialized fields, but most of the school teachers are happy to put books aside once they get a job. If a person gets a post graduate degree and doesn’t get a suitable job, his parents say, ‘We invested so much in his education, and the result is nothing.’ Some people who fail in school and give up the studies would cite examples of unemployed youths and say, ‘Look at so and so, he studied and did not get a job. What good is in studying?’ Most people don’t realise that learning is a lifetime process, and it certainly makes a person more capable and wise. But sadly Indian society, maybe it is the case with many other societies as well, is eager to respect an uneducated businessman or politician but seldom values a man of letters, especially if he is not popular or wealthy. In a similar discussion some weeks ago, my wife referred to the Indian society as anti-literature society. English speaking Indians do invest in buying books, but most other writers of local languages would not find readers. Urdu has survived on force of its own, but most Indian Muslims in north India are not willing to support the language by buying Urdu books. I’ve many friends who speak good Urdu but aren’t good in reading or writing it. The saving grace for them is that they learn Quran which has the similar script, and thus they are not completely ignorant of written Urdu.

When I was young, there were some libraries in my small town, and several shops to rent comic books and novels. There are no libraries or book shops now, save the book shops that sell academic books. TV crushed all interest children had in reading comic books and adults had in reading novels. One TV show can enslave the entire family, robbing them of opportunity to share, talk and reading something worthwhile.

Many people refer to mobile phone revolution as a sign of development in India. True, in the smallest villages, each household will have several members owning a mobile phone, and people do invest money on mobile phones, but no one wants to invest money on books. They would listen a song on mobile phone, rather than read a magazine.

The great jeddah airport

2010-09-09T02:58:00.003+03:00

Jeddah Airport is unique in many ways. It becomes especially disreputed during Hajj times when pilgrims are returning after Haj and many of them have to spend up to 12 hours on the airport due to delays in flights. The airport becomes their temporary home. Some years back they created a system of receiving pilgrims, which was pitiable and funny in a way. (I do not know whether this system is still working.) When a pilgrim would arrive, wearing customer white dress for pilgrimage to Makkah, the agents waiting at the arrival would snatch his passport from him. Due to language problems, he would know why the passport is being snatched and would resist the passport being snatched. The agents did not have a uniform either so that to assure the pilgrims that they are in good hands. (It do not exaggerate, they really snatch the passport, not borrow it. I fulfil a passport borrow request to my company’s HR department when I go on vacation.) After that they are made to wait for long hours because of some paper work. Some wait for 10 or 12 hours before they start their further journey by road to Makkah or Madina. If first impression counts, this is the first impression most of pilgrims get.

The immigration officers are not particular efficient, and definitely not welcoming. You can hear lots of stories when expatriate workers coming to Saudi Arabia are made to wait in long queues because only one or two officers are available for immigration check. Some workers are even abused when they don’t behave or appear confused, although confusion is hard to avoid on Jeddah airport.

I had most memorable experience on the Jeddah airport when I went to India a year ago. I reached there with my brother and his wife who had accompanied me to see me off to the airport. When we parked the car, we did not find any trolley to carry the suitcases. No trolleys at all. Somehow we managed to carry the suitcases to the building. I was thanking Allah that I had two adults with me, otherwise I could never have carried five pieces of luggage alone. Inside there were no trolleys either. People were running about to find trolleys, but no one could get one. I saw that a bunch of people were eagerly waiting outside a gate, and the rumour spread that trolleys are arriving from inside. When the trolleys came, people jumped on them as hungry people in a flood affected area would jump on food. I saw elderly people, Hajis with long white beards, holding the trolleys and fighting and shouting to claim ownership over them. They forgot all etiquette and lessons on patience, and declared violently that the trolley belonged to them because they put their hand first on it. The old men looked especially gallant in this fight and were not daunted by the youth. Anyway, I waited in the queue, with bags all around me and noticed that in half an hour the queue did not move an inch. Then I saw that the place where the queue was supposed to disappear in a gate, several people were entering besides the queue, with luggage on their shoulders. My brother came to me and said that if I waited in the queue, I was sure to miss the flight and that is the only way to get inside. We took baggage on our shoulders, strong were three of us, and entered inside the hall where we would stand in another queue for check in. There was a different kind of chaos inside. There were several queues and all merged up creating a delta of human beings. No person of average intelligence could tell which queue is going where. Some people formed another queue next to ours and claimed that theirs was the original queue which should reach first to the check in counter. The people who had reached to the check-in counter could not find a way to send back the trolleys. They would pick the trolley, raise it over head and pass it on to the passengers behind them. The passengers behind them would pass it those behind them and somehow the trolleys would reach at the end, like a child rescued from a flood. I think the trolleys would thank God for breathing in fresh air. But, was there any fresh air? No. The air-condition was not working properly and children cried due to discomfort of suffocation and heat. A couple stood next to us and their children cried ceaselessly and they did not know what to do. I advised the mother to take off the shirt of the boy, so that he will feel better in the undershirt. We tried all means to placate the children, water, biscuits, chocolates, but the children only ceased crying when they got tired of it. I requested a passenger who was ahead of me to give priority to the couple so that they could check-in faster, but showing a typical cynical Indian attitude, they only despised my guts and said I was being unfair. I said they were free to jump like a bird and go in the front of the row. Anyhow, when I checked-in, I felt as ecstatic as I had felt when I written the last example of my MBA. The flight was delayed for five hours, but at least I could sit now and drink water.

I saw some instances when the conveyor belt stops working. If the belt is not working, the check-in clerks must rest because there is no way to send the baggage inside. The passengers wait patiently and pray that the belt start working soon.

A couple of weeks ago when I travelled, I saw that there were no-smoking signs with warning of penalty upon smoking on the airport. I passed in front of a place and felt pungent smell. I saw that smoking room was full of smokers, giving impression of a den of drug addicts, and because they disliked smoke or wanted more air for their lungs, they had kept the gate of the room open. What was the point in having a smoking room if its gate was to be kept open for the smoke to spread more violently in the airport! The blame is not only on authorities but also on the people who are mainly Arabs and Asians, I am one of them too, who hate rules. Makkah is a no-smoking city, but in my last visit I saw that almost everybody was smoking in the food court. But, people hate rules instinctively and nobody follows rules out of choice. They have to be penalised, mercilessly, for violating rules. The law and rules have no meaning if they cannot be enforced.

The Saudia terminal has a funny way to operate. I do not know if they changed recently but they had an intelligent system of only one queue for all the flights. Thus, someone whose flight was after five hours stood in the same queue, as another who had his flight in one hour. It was such a absurd system and it could be fixed just by application of common sense, it did not require any infrastructure or investment. One of my colleague, who reminded me all these stories of Jeddah airport recently, said that once he stood in the great one queue at Saudia airport and had only one hour left for his flight departure. He went to a man who was dressed like the employees of Saudia airlines and said that his flight would depart in one hour, so he should be allowed to go ahead of the queue. The man said, ‘Wait.’ He went again and the man gave the same reply. When he reached the check-in counter, the counter was closed. He said, I want to complain. The man behind the counter said, Talk to our supervisor. He asked, ‘Who is your supervisor?’ He pointed towards the same person who was asking my friend to ‘wait.’ This was not enough, the supervisor remorselessly and shamelessly denied that he was ever approached. My friend said, Ok, Allah will sort out the affairs when people lie, and booked his flight with another airline.

Most of the times when I arrive at the airport someone from my friends or family members come to receive me. Some months ago I came at such an odd time that nobody could come to receive me, and I waited for a taxi. To my surprise, the rates of taxi had doubled since I had heard of them a few years ago. I wondered why should they double when the cars did not become expensive and petrol actually got cheaper, thanks to the generosity of King Abdullah. They asked SR. 120 riyal for any destination in the city. It is ok, but the strange thing is that there is no public transport from airport to the city. I can afford the money, but what about a labourer who earns SR. 350 in a month. Will he take a taxi and pay the amount asked from him? Even if he shares the taxi with someone, it will be horribly expensive for him. There are so many buses with the public transport authority; does it require many efforts to have a bus from the airport to the city centre?

However, it will be unfair to say that they have not put efforts to make things better in the past one year. They have erected another hall to increase the space inside the airport and the best visible effort is in terms of arrangement of parking which creates less clutter of vehicles when people come to pick up or drop the travellers.

I believe that the infrastructure planning can be best evaluated when it is done from the point of view of the weakest sections. The influential, rich and government position holders will never know what the rate of taxi is from the airport or how does it feel to wait for five hours in a queue because they either get the privilege of being the national or traveller of business/first class. They will have to step in the shoes of the ordinary man to know what difficulties they face. If we go by statistics, there may not be a need for a parking lot specified for wheel chair bound people, but development is about caring for the weakest sections, not about the powerful sections of the society.

Saffron Terrorism

2010-08-30T14:55:00.001+03:00

The use of the term Saffron Terrorism to indicate growing militancy among Hindutva forces has upset many BJP leaders. Narendra Modi is seeking the PM’s resignation on this blasphemy. How it hurts them when their religious symbols are coupled with terrorism to describe a phenomenon. And for years the media and politicians have been using the word Islamic terrorism or jehadi terrorism, but it doesn’t matter because Muslims are on the back foot. The term fatwa is being used for any hardliners ruling, even when it comes from a Hindu group. If some fatwa become debatable in the media, it doesn’t mean that all fatwa are unwelcome. I can safely say that less than 0.0001% of the fatwa become controversial, but media associates the term fatwa only with controversy.

Taxi drivers

2010-08-30T14:19:00.000+03:00

I have found taxi drivers to be fine conversationalists. It is the only entertainment in their lives as many customers may not like the radio they play, but would not mind nodding to their monologues, which are full of wisdom when assailed by slightly sombre speakers. I wrote a short story ‘The other side’ based on the experience of two taxi pathan taxi drivers. I mixed up their stories to make one; it is an easy thing to do for a fabulist, although I am trying to pretend to be one. I remember on fabulist that braggarts are not credited for having a talent to tell good stories. I can write a lot on amazing braggarts I’ve met in life but right now I want to focus on the taxi drivers. I met one in Dubai several years ago and he said, ‘Brother, if I don’t pray and fast, I am violating the rights of Allah. He is Generous, He will forgive me. But if I violate the rights of people, Allah will not forgive me until he makes me pay for the sins.’ Beautiful thought.

Today I gave my car for maintenance and waited in the sun for a taxi, none came. I move under a tree shade and waited, some came but did not see me. I wish I had pebbles to throw at them to get their attention, for they would not listen to my cry in air-conditioned taxis. A private taxi driver came, he honked, I waved, and he reversed his car from the highway. I sat and he asked if I was from India or Pakistan. I said India and he named 12 cities to make it easy for me to tell where I was from. I choose New Delhi to avoid the hassle of explaining where Rajasthan was. He looked like a Saudi but was a Yemeni. He challenged me, ‘How many cities can you name in Yemen?’ I said, ‘Sanaa and Aden.’ He named the rest and said, ‘Yemen, especially Aden, is full of Indians, my wife is from Hydrabad.’ I said, ‘Indians are everywhere.’He started sharing his pearls of wisdom, which I truly admired with my little understanding of Arabic. He said, ‘People get education but have no sense, they get money but have no manners. They travel around the world and see so many people don’t learn how Allah created so many different people; instead they become even more arrogant. A man feels proud and flies in the air, but everybody dies and he too will be buried beneath the earth. What’s the use of pride?’ He continued, ‘God gave white and black in our eyes. Close your eyes and you have white and black within you. It’s how you see, you can see something good in others or bad, it’s all in you. Why do people say I am white and you are black, when white and black are in their own eyes, and one cannot function without another?’ I was amazed with this thought.

This Yemeni taxi driver reminded me another whom I met several years ago. Arabs speak distorted Arabic while conversing with a non-Arab so that the listener can understand with ease. He said, ‘Before Gulf war, Yemenis did not need a resident permit to live in Saudi Arabia. But when Saddam Hussein attacked Kuwait, the entire world said ‘It’s a bad thing. But our President said, ‘It’s excellent. You see, how wise. And since then we were stripped off with our privilege to live in Saudi Arabia without any paper.’