The 4th one - this time in a new publication:) - The Daily Post (Cherrapunjee)

http://112.196.11.34/dailypost​/Details.aspx?id=956&boxid=299​34&uid&dat=2011-07-24

A Walk in the Clouds

Cherrapunjee, a small town in the abode of the clouds, Meghalaya, known locally as Sohra, is famous for holding the position for the highest rainfall in the world. Actually, the position toggles between Cherrapunjee and a place in its vicinity, Mausynram. The place is a treasure of natural beauty, ranging from lush waterfalls to picturesque valleys. Contrary to popular perception, it does not rains perennially here and consequently not always wet and damp. It is ironically also known as a Wet Desert, because despite the abundant rain, there is no lush vegetation, mostly due to presence of lime in the soil. One can see hills with no vegetation except a layer of grass and some bushes. And yet, it is a destination that leaves unforgettable impressions in a visitor’s mind.

The best way to travel to Cherrapunjee is via road from the capital Shillong, which is about sixty kilometres away. Before planning such a trip, one should make sure of the weather forecast (at least as much as it is possible), because if it gets rainy/foggy there, one would really miss out on a lot. And, no matter what the forecast says, always remember to carry and umbrella or raincoat, because the weather in these parts is extremely unpredictable. It is not uncommon to have five minutes of overcast sky, ten minutes of hail, and fifteen minutes of heavy showers followed by clear blue sunny skies. 

I was fortunate to travel on a sunny day which remained sunny throughout, almost. The road from Shillong to Cherrapunjee, is, in itself, a treat for the eyes. After crossing the city outskirts, one comes across almost empty countryside with miles and miles of green interspersed with a few houses here and there. And the road is good (most of the time) - a smooth ride. Halfway through, the countryside is replaced by gorges and cliffs - a single road meandering across kilometers and kilometers of immediate nothingness on the left, and a single wall on the right. The view is breathtaking. On the left, just across the deep gorge is another mountain of almost the same height, which has a road which leads to the border town of Dawki. On the right, it’s not a cliff exactly, more like vertical hills with vegetation. A clear blue sky with tiny patches of white promised a great day of sightseeing. 

Ramakrishna Mission:

Our first destination in Cherrapunjee was not, as expected anything natural. It was the Ramakrishna Mission. Established in the earlier part of the century, this institution is a part of much larger organization which has centres all over the country and the world. Apart from the shrine dedicated to Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa, it has a school complete with boarding facilities, workshops for weaving, and other handicrafts. Built in the background of beautiful untouched mountains, with the nearest city being at least an hour away, the whole atmosphere within the portals of the place is one of discipline and peace. 

Nohkalikai Falls:

The next destination in Sohra was Nohkalikai falls. There’s a rather morbid folk tale associated with this majestic waterfalls – there are several versions actually; here’s one: 

"Once upon a time a widow and her daughter lived in a small hut on the mountain. Then one day, a man came into the life of the widow and she decided to re-marry. As in all such cases, the step-father disliked the daughter intensely and the mother was always worried about the safety of her daughter and so never left her side. One day, due to some urgent reason, the mother had to go to the village nearby. As her husband was not there at home that time, she decided it was safe to leave her daughter there and went away. After some hours, when she came back, she found that her husband had returned and was cooking. He seemed very happy. On looking around, she found her daughter missing and upon enquiring, he told that she had left to roam around in the forest and would return later. Dreading the worst, she decided to go searching for her daughter, when he said that she could search after eating the meal. She reluctantly agreed. He served the meal; rice, meat etc. Here the story gets a little hazy; one version says that the husband, ecstatic in the success of evil maneuver, tells her the truth that he killed the daughter
and had cooked her up and had served her as lunch to the very person who had born her. Another version says that the widow found the fingers and toes of the child in the 'kwai' (local betel leaf) box and deduced the rest. The story goes that the mother was so shattered, she could not want her own life to continue. So, she jumped off the cliff, and the falls formed after in the very place she ended her existence.”

Hence the name of the falls, as ‘Noh’ in Khasi, means dive or jump and ‘Ka Likai’ was the name of the widow, so Nohkalikai means the dive/jump point of Likai. 

Anyway, the Nohkalikai falls emerges from a cliff which is a body of rock connecting two parallel mountains; very much like the road on which we traveled. Here the two mountains are separated by a smaller distance, facing each other. So, one can’t actually go to the place where the waterfalls drops, one can only view it from strategically placed viewpoints much further away. Because of the distance and height, from the viewpoints, the falls looks much smaller than the massive body of water it actually is. However, the intensity of the sound of rushing water, even at such a distance never lets anyone forget the royal splendour of the haunting falls. 

Localites say that the Nohkalikai commands patience from the people who come to see it. The reason being an almost perpetual envelop of fog hovering over the valley where the waterfalls is located. That day too, everything was sunny when we reached Cherrapunjee, however as we neared the viewpoints, by some extraordinary coincidence, the weather partially became foggy. Amazingly, on the road we were on, on one side was bright sunshine, on the other (the side where the waterfalls was), sparse clouds seemed to float around, creating a semi-opaque environment. By the time we reached the viewpoint, the fog had completely enveloped the mountain and the valley below, which meant that all we got to see when we overlooked the viewpoint, was a white screen - sometimes thinning with the wind...sometimes thickening. 

After a patient wait of fifteen-twenty minutes when the clouds played havoc with our eyes, a sudden wind blew in the right direction, and the fog lightened for a few minutes, revealing a little green with even smaller patches of brown, giving some indication of what lay beneath. And then, magically, the fog cleared.

The first thing that strikes you is the colour of the pool where the water flows into; it is a magnificent emerald green. Amidst all that white, to see such a brilliant shade of green in a pool of water is anything but expected. The mountains behind, the valley below, the green carpet of trees – everything seems to be placed by design to protect this precious fluid gem, where the water thunders down and then flows farther and farther away. 

Nohsngithiang Waterfalls, View of Bangladesh Plains

The next place was a viewpoint which is spread over a large area on top of a mountain, where also lie the ruins of a previously built restaurant. From here, one can also see the Nohsngithiang Waterfalls on the left, which are actually a number of falls dropping from the same height and the same plateau. It is actually a set of four five individual falls which emerge at irregular distances, from the almost-vertical slopes of a mountain, across the gorge. At the distance, the falls looks more like white threads of varying width entwined among the greenery around. The volume of water in these falls depends completely on the rainfall that Cherrapunjee gets that season. So, while it is usual to find the slopes gushing with the powerful bodies of water descending to the depths of the gorges, it is not uncommon to find the same almost dry, with a lighter shade of brown indicating where the waterfalls existed. The picture I saw was luckily moderate; none of the falls were dry, neither were they really flowing with high volume. It is a saddening sight, makes one realize that the beauty of Cherrapunjee, as had been in the past, is vanishing. 

From the same area,, the plains of Bangladesh are visible in the horizon. It seems like the range of mountains drastically ends, diminishing into total plains - one can even make out the rivers and flooded fields of the extensive plains. The total effect of the nature’s contrary creations; plains and heights- side by side looks really unreal.

Mawshmai Caves:

Another famous spot is the Mawshmai caves, which lies in the midst of a forest, on the surface of a rocky hill. A portion of this forest has been fenced in, full of old trees and bushes, creating a logical entry point where nominal entry fees are charged. Long flights of steps have to be climbed to reach the actual entrance of the caves. Special due to the natural lime formations of stalagmites and stalactites, the Mawshmai caves have an element of mystery and danger. Inside, though lights are placed at regular intervals to alleviate the overwhelming darkness, one feels eerie, with the knifelike structures trickling with drops of water, creating invisible puddles below and leaving the walls damp and clammy. The local guide takes one through one of the paths in the caves, crawling above and below tiny nooks and crevices, so small that it is almost unbelievable that one can wedge themselves through, to emerge at another end. 

Locals claim that within the labyrinth of these caves, exists a route that actually leads to Bangladesh. Previously used by traffickers to smuggle goods across the border, this secret path is now supposedly blocked. Outside the park, several small restaurants are present, all selling local food of momos, Jadoh, fish as well as simple North Indian fare of daal, sabzi plain rice etc. Unless one has packed food with them, it is best to partake lunch in these places. 

Thankarang Park:

A better and slightly nearer view of the Bangladesh plains can be obtained at the Thangkarang park, which was my last stop. It is designed on the top of yet another mountain. Besides the well maintained gardens, the highlight of the park is its panoramic view of Bangladesh as well as yet another waterfall which falls further down the road we came through -Kynrem Falls. The falls is such that it pours just next to the road (the road leads to Shella - a small town/village situated in the valley among the mountains). Since it’s much farther down the road, people usually don’t go all the way. 

The return journey back to Shillong gave us a live example as to the origin of the name ‘Meghalaya’ for the state. As we and the evening progressed on the road above the gorge, we could see puffs of clouds (not to be mistaken with thick fog) rising up from below, to the surface of the mountain tops, to finally merge into the heavenly skies. The valley or gorges below seemed to actually be their abode; it was an unearthly sight - cottony masses gradually rising as if they belonged there, on the terra firma.

That vision was the curtain for the trip, a fitting closing act for the unforgettable town of waterfalls and mountains, Sohra.

The third! A Simple Life in Panetu

http://epaper.hindustantimes.com/PUBLICATIONS/HT/HC/2011/05/15/ArticleHtmls/A-Simple-Life-15052011586003.shtml?Mode=1

The Second one...Summit of the Gods

http://epaper.hindustantimes.com/PUBLICATIONS/HT/HC/2010/12/12/ArticleHtmls/SUMMIT-OF-THE-GODS-12122010585001.shtml?Mode=1

Himachal Pradesh is the land of inaccessible religious shrines or temples; a fact confirmed when I
visited one of the highest temples in the interiors of the state, Dev Badeogi, trekking from a village
near Sunni, amidst the tall mountains of the beautiful northern state.

The old temple may not be famous, but it is one of the very few which enshrine Dronacharya, of
the Mahabharatha epic. It can be reached only by foot, trekking through several hamlets along the
mountain slopes. We were going to trek to it from a village called Panetu.

From Sunni, Panetu is ?? kilometers far, ?? metres higher, but it takes about ?? hours by car. Sunni
itself can be driven to from Shimla easily, amidst a picturesque road, which also boasts of two
temples; one consists of a lone tiny room, which is believed to contain a natural Shiva Lingam, and
the second is called “Athara Bate Bees” (Eighteen out of twenty) - a temple constructed in the
memory of a tragic bus accident which left eighteen out of twenty passengers dead
A little before Sunni, amongst the many mountain peaks, I was pointed to a tiny speck in one of
the summits, barely visible in the distance. This speck was the destination we were headed for; I
could imagine people even living in that height; let alone pray.

After a place called Tattpani, a little further form Sunni, we crossed a signboard indicating another
road which led to a shrine called “Shiva gufa” or Lord Shiva’s caves. I couldn’t go there this time,
and so was left wondering about the history of the shrine amongst the foothills.
We reached Panetu, where we rested the night in one of the accompanying friend’s relative’s
house.
The next morning, we were ready to conquer the heights. There is no “road” leading to the peak or
the temple, except a trodden path etched out by the frequent use of villagers. The morning sun rays
were intense, even as we started to walk towards our faraway destination. The path initially rises
gradually, but it soon transforms into a steep rocky narrow path, which requires careful treading, as
sometimes, the rocks are loose and there are chances of losing one’s foothold. Initially we crossed
a few houses, (since the paths naturally lead to houses), where the kindly residents looked at us
with curious glances, always offering water or refreshments and a place to rest. Due to our
unfamiliar faces, they all could clearly understand our aim and also could relate to our tired red
faces. From the few conversations had, the hike to the DB was not easy, not even for the locals. It
proved even more difficult for us as we were unused to such climbs,
We stopped frequently, resting below whatever little shade that could be found below overhanging
boulders or overgrown shrubbery, there being no tall trees on the mountain. Each step soon
became an effort, and although we seemed no closer to the temple, it did become tangible after a
while – no longer just a flag. The structure was soon visible, on exactly the tip of the summit, yet
far far away. We reached the top of one mountain, with a majestic panorama around us, only to
see that was far more to climb.
Fortunately from this point forward, the path is cemented, so atleast there was no need to be
cautious while plodding on. After about 2 hours of trekking, sunburnt by the seemingly
concentrated sunrays, we reached the foothills of the mandir. We had arrived but not yet reached -

the final path were about 30 steep steps to the actual temple. The gods demanded absolute
devotion, nothing less and so it is exactly at the summit - not near, not in the vicinity but the
zenith.
At the foothill, where we stopped to freshen up before paying our homage, there is a small village -
colourful houses with brightly painted roofs, stray cows strolling around, a few children playing on
a small green field, by which was a small pond. It looked an idyllic sight. A tap’s cool water
refreshed our tired and sore feet, as our uncontrollable thirst. The final steps were taken barefoot; I
felt a sense of exhilaration as I stepped on the threshold of the elusive temple that had demands so
much from its devotees.
The temple is not the traditional concept of a Hindu shrine – there are not many idols, no loud
clanging of bells, no thronging of crowds, no buying and selling of “Prasad”, no small shops
selling small picture frames of gods. There is none of it; it is an ancient and small wooden
structure, recently been reinforced with concrete and tiles. Around this covered section is an open
balcony on all four sides, fenced with railing for protection from a fall below. The covered
enclosure had a low door, painted and engraved which remains closed for the better part of the
year. It opens only on occasions such as “Sankranti” - it is here that the actual shrine exists.
Having visited the place on the day of Diwali, we were lucky to have a glimpse inside. The shrine
is actually not an idol, but a set of stones, believed to be holy and found in a holy place. I am not
quite so sure about the history behind it.
There were hardly ten-fifteen people present, all tired from the physical exertion of the climb,
waiting for the priests. Soon, the priests of the temple came, opened the “dwars”, burned incense,
and a small yagya with ghee and a little wood, a little distance outside the opened doors. It was
difficult for them to get the holy fire burning, given the extremely windy scene. The devotees
offered their prayers - some brought rice grains, some money and some just agarbatti. What struck
me the most was the silence around - everyone almost whispered, not wanting to break the
tranquility or disturb the symphony of the winds.
The view from the top, all around the balcony is incredible. Sunni can be seen far far below, Sutlej
a sinewy vein moving across the valley, the adjacent and faraway mountains merging with the
skies at a distance. The source of our journey was obscured by so many intermediate hills. I felt
incredible peace - this is how religion should be, personal and away from mobs, with the absence
of sounds encouraging one to look within. The proximity of nature liberates one - harmony with
self is inevitable; to come so far with so less support, can only bring one nearer to a higher power,
be it within ourselves or external. My thoughts revolved around this as we scrambled down,
exhaustion creeping into my exhausted body.
As we completed the seemingly endless descent to Panetu, despite being exhausted beyond
imagination, I felt exhilarated. Not religious by nature, I could not place the reason for such
feelings, but I could not deny them either. After the physically demanding journey upwards, on
standing in the temple on top of the world, I had felt an unknown inexplicable power - of faith
couple with untainted nature. That experience cannot be described; is has become a cherished part
of my memories.

My First Article in Print:) -Rohtang

http://epaper.hindustantimes.com/PUBLICATIONS/HT/HC/2010/09/12/ArticleHtmls/BETWEEN-HEAVEN-AND-EARTH-12092010585002.shtml?Mode=1

Having had the good fortune of being born and brought up in one of the most beautiful and picturesque
hill stations in the world (Shillong), other hill stations have never appealed to me. Whenever I had the
occasion to travel to such places, I found myself disappointed, unable to find anything extraordinary or
different from my home town. Nor surprisingly, it is always the sea which attracts my restless soul –
the waves, the beaches and the evening breezes always reviving my spirits. However, Rohtang was the
single exception to this generalization, which I realized when I visited the place with my parents and
brother during a trip to Himachal Pradesh.
The Rohtang trip began with a bright and sunny summer morning in Manali, which we left soon, to
reach calmer, greener surroundings. Far away, the mountain peaks seemed to entice us - the silvery
white strands of snow contrasting with the barren brown of the multitudinous rocky summits, vying
with each other for attention.
As we left the flat roads and ascended along a meandering road, the magnificent scenery opened itself
to our eager eyes. All around, the greenery could not be lusher, the air could not be fresher and we
could not be happier. The road was built in gentle steps instead of steep gradients, due to which the
uphill ride on the mountain(s) did not feel precarious. Majestic pine and fir trees added to the beauty;
standing tall, proud of the splendor they represented. Manali now was a small settlement in the valley
below, surrounded by the protecting peaks.
As we climbed higher, the foliage thinned, the lushness depleted; barren minor cliffs became more
prominent. The clouds played hide and seek with the sun as well as the mountains, sometimes
shadowing the sunshine while sometimes concealing the peaks. Even more often, the clouds drifted
below, hiding the green valleys, making us feel like we were flying over earth. It was only the
momentary glimpses of the green earth between the clouds which suspended our illusions.
The slight chill in the air increased as we went higher. Initially, we had crossed several roadside shops
which hired out fur overcoats and boots to tourists travelling to Rohtang but we had stoutly refused,
deeming the single layer of warm clothing we had on to be sufficient. How wrong we were soon
proved!
The road below was a thin strand entwining the mountain sides between green carpets, stretching a
long way down. Our driver announced a break in the journey - a place called Marhi.
Marhi is the last point up to which travel is allowed post the Indian summer. It is a tiny settlement,
mostly small restaurants which sold the usual chips, biscuits and beverages and meals. There was a
small Buddhist temple on a hill; it seemed so appropriate to the surroundings – a tiny place to place
your faith in, perhaps here prayers were actually heard and answered.
A hot cup of tea later, we were refreshed and back on the roads. It being the best season to visit
Rohtang and Leh, the narrow road was full. At one point, we had to stop because of a block ahead due
to road restoration. We stepped out to stretch our legs. The view was exquisite - a small winding road,
with a deep but gradually sloped descent on our left and a rocky incline on our right. The green slopes
were sprinkled with tiny colourful flowers growing in patches - vivid hues divert attention from the
invariable green, blue, white and brown...
After a while or so, the block was resolved and we resumed our passage. Marhi had now become
another speck, far below in the panorama. The pines had almost vanished, replaced by a layer of only
grass interspersed by barren rocky terrain. A little farther from the road, grazing yaks could be seen,
calm and imposing in their grandeur. Soon, we could see several tents nearby to the road, more yaks,

some mules and definitely more people. This was the final tourist point – one could take horse/mule
rides, drive snowmobiles on a small snow slope or do amateur skiing here. At our driver’s suggestion,
we drove on. The sky was overcast - it started drizzling a little. After a few minutes, we had to stop
because the road had been dug for repair, making it into a muddy swamp. We had reached the end of
our journey…
The moment we opened the doors and stepped into the grassy slopes, the biting cold hit us like a wall.
The winds blew powerfully yet lovingly, its howling sounds devouring every other sound. We could
barely hold on to our jackets and shawls but I hardly noticed - awed by the landscape around me. The
icy summits which had grown since morning, the absence of human touches, the overcast sky and the
wild gusts of winds which threatened to pull us away from the ground – they all made the experience
surreal. What I loved the most was the absence of sounds, other than of the gale which virtually muted
everything else.
Another incredible scene was that of a flock of sheep nonchalantly grazing nearby, apparently unfazed
by the winds – they seemed so oblivious to their surroundings. Further down, the slope finally reached
the edge, ending into an abyss of nothingness - a straight fall into the rocky plains below. Across this
chasm were more mountains, with vegetation decreasing with distance, up to a point when the
remaining visible slopes did not have green at all, just abundant brown.
Masked by the darkening clouds, the higher peaks were not part of this perfect painting. Luckily, the
clouds shifted sporadically, revealing the white and brown summits – close yet not close enough. White
veins slashed across of the surfaces of all these mountains; flowing water frozen till the next summer.
A thin thread of a different colour winded its way across the slopes of the first mountain across; the
continuity of the road which eventually led to the actual pass and Leh.
Near us, a lone person with a flask in his hand offered us tea which we gratefully accepted. Sipping
steaming tea on a chilly mountain slope, warming our freezing hands with the hot glass, all the while
gazing at the almost unreal scenery – I felt on top of the world.
Due to the slight showers, the temperature had decreased even further. Cold and shivering, yet
unwilling to leave these violent yet serene cosmic elements, we lingered on, braving the weather.
Finally, we reluctantly returned to the car, glad of the comparative warmth inside.
We drove back and stopped at the crowded tourist point. Declining the mule rides, we walked across to
the place where there was a path of mud-stained snow - the first snow I had seen and touched. I did not
find anything remarkable in that place; perhaps I would have enjoyed if I had tried offered snowmobile
and ski rides. Nearby, there stood a miniature version of a Buddhist stupa, where there were hundreds
of ribbons/threads tied on strings across – it somehow looked so neglected.
The descent to Manali took a longer time, the weather having turned morose with fog reducing
visibility. We too were somewhat silent; I guess the solemn Himalayan peaks had cast their spell.
The trip had come to an end, but the memories would be cherished forever – the images of Rohtang and
the emotions they invoked in me at that time, remind me that there is, indeed, heaven on earth…

If Only...

His image will trouble me for days to come; a senior citizen, well above the age of sixty, selling children’s toys - rather whistles, blowing one continuously, without rest, wandering in the busy streets of Connaught place on a sultry April evening. I cannot forget his face, the high-powered spectacles accentuating the despair in his eyes, as he moved from street to street, persistently playing the whistles, as much as his laboured breathing would allow.

His attire seemed to me of the kind that employees in government service have worn for ages - khaki trousers, a checked formal shirt, plain black shoes; maybe testaments of a retired job.

His right knee seemed to have a problem – he sort of limped pronouncedly each step he took. From the moment I saw him, while waiting for a friend at the exit of the metro station, my heart went out to him. I could not (and still cannot) fathom the reason why, a citizen at that age, needed to work at all, (let alone so hard) that too selling trivialities on the streets, drifting from person to person, in the hope of success.

Pausing in front of parents with children, trying to woo their attention with the incessant shrill sounds emanating from the efforts of his wearied lungs - I wonder if he sold any that evening. He was in my sight for barely a minute, as he crossed the road, limping as he was, yet proudly continuing to advertise his ware. However, the sight affected me profoundly to subdue my spirits that evening.

As my friend arrived and we walked along the Connaught place verandah, my mind whirled with helplessness and pity; consciously my eyes searched for the old man. Soon we crossed him again; he was kneeling against a pillar, still playing the whistle, probably resting his exhausted body.

I am not the kind of person who can easily be charitable to strangers; maybe others in my place and state of mind would have definitely approached the tired elderly figure and alleviated his misery in some way – by offering him money or buying his whistles or something else. I did not. I have never done it, I do not know how to - maybe I am very self-conscious. Now I console myself, that had I been alone, I would have approached him. The consolation gives some respite, yet the fact remains that I did not do anything at all. Regret and a tinge of guilt prick me sometimes.

Maybe there was a valid reason he was doing what he was doing, maybe it was for that single evening, maybe he was working instead of his son for that day, maybe… maybe… at this point of time, I can only assume, and console myself.

Unfortunately, the fact remains – people of that age still do need to work in India. This particular instance hit me more, maybe because of the environment where it occurred - a busy crowded cosmopolitan street in the country’s capital. He did not come across as one who had been doing this for a long time; his look spoke more of a quiet desk job at an office, if not at a big post, at least at a post good enough to justify his formal attire. He looked like someone who had spent long years in quiet government service, to retire, if not very comfortably, but enough to go by. And yet there he was – working listlessly, nowhere near the vicinity of comfortable.

Questions hit me - what desperation could lead to such a tiring situation at such an age?

Isn’t there a family who should be looking after him; a son, daughter, niece or nephew?

What desperate situation has he come across?

Why is the system oblivious of his state?

The entire evening, these questions and those few glimpses of him hovered in my head; I could not enjoy the evening guiltlessly.

As we sat to have dinner at this Chinese restaurant, I could not help but feel the elevated air of indulgences; around me, prosperity thrived. A group of colleagues had come in to celebrate a birthday, a family and acquaintances had this big celebration, drinks were flowing, and people were relaxed, some after a hard day of work in front of a computer maybe, some elsewhere. However, would it even compare with the depth of labour that the elderly man was going through every evening, for a long time perhaps?

Life seemed unfair, unjustified in the discrimination there was amongst the populace. Where two to three thousand rupees was just another dinner at a restaurant, it could easily be a week’s earnings for a vendor on the street, a month’s salary for a factory worker, a year’s fees for a child going to school; so much more than a starter, the main course and dessert.

We rarely think of that when we furnish our credit card to settle the bill. When I say we, I mean the new generation of corporate professionals, engineers, managers, amongst others.

I know that most of us do not always splurge so much on expensive restaurants but our standard of living itself has transformed so much, that we tend to spend more. From school times, when the pocket money of fifty rupees per month was enough for chocolates and ice-creams, to college times, when the monthly thousand was sufficient for the spicy roadside chaat and the canteen paranthas (all the more relished because of their being the substitute for the tasteless hostel food) – our tastes have so changed.

The salaries which initially seemed exorbitant and much more than what we could possibly spend in a month, we now consider as paltry; the expenses touching the roof, and the savings touching the floor. This is the power of changing lifestyles; the pair of shoes that I wore for the better part of four Allahabad winters was not Reebok or Adidas (I do not ever remember if there was a brand attached to it), it felt just fine to my hurrying feet. Now, buying shoes implies rounds of all the shopping malls, entering every footwear shop, and trials of endless variations of the same shoes, just with supposed better quality, a big brand name and at least an extra fifteen hundred rupees price. Ironically, now there are lesser opportunities to run, let alone hurry (what with a car), but of course, the shoes have to be branded. My parents flinched when I told them the ticket prices of that movie we watched at PVR the other weekend; after having saved and managed for so many years to provide us the best, spending a thousand rupees on just a movie show was unimaginable to them. We do not think twice. Probably, that attitude is a natural consequence of a comparatively higher salary.

Guilt lingers in my mind, my inaction has troubled my conscience; but that single old man is not the only image

pricking my mind..

The world is unequal; where India is supposed to be a fast growing economy, ragged children beg on traffic signals, whether contrived by heinous individuals selling poverty, or actual despair, is a question, but the result is still the same. Children are begging. Emaciated rickshaw pullers are still cycling in the sweltering temperatures for a daily meal, people are still living without roofs over their heads, people still die of heat stroke or cold, children still work in factories, (it is better than starving to death); it is a tough existence. Yet, for the upcoming Commonwealth games, millions are being spent on ‘modernizing the capital’. The metro rail, no doubt a boon, but how does that assist the thousands not getting a single meal a day? The IPL, no doubt earning billions for the few multimillionaires in India, but how does that help the ten-year old child serving tea at the roadside dhaba? Spending crores on stadiums and other facilities for an international event is justified, but only after the basic human issues like hunger, poverty, illiteracy have been resolved, if not totally, at least to an extent.

Due to the Commonwealth games, the entire city seems to be in a permanent sort of construction frenzy; all around Delhi, the beatification is happening at an unbelievable speed. Handcrafted signposts along entire streets, landscaped gardens, proper direction boards everywhere – they are good developments, but what about the kids who stay in the tents nearby these under-construction streets (offspring of the workers)? Don’t they deserve a better childhood, learning in school and three healthy meals a day? Don’t the workers have a right to decent quarters to stay? Aren’t these issues more relevant than beautifying the streets, or constructing a stadium?

I am not very much into politics, but I do know it is a corrupt system out there. I cannot even begin to imagine the numbers, when I think about the corruption and the profits that so many people have made, courtesy the Commonwealth Games. From a general perspective, we are all part of a corrupt system; rules are for everyone else. You are caught talking on the phone, while driving - you rather pay a bribe to the traffic police officer rather than get a proper legal ticket. You are waiting in a line outside a crowded temple, which opens for only fifteen minutes each morning, noon and evening, you prefer to pay a bribe to go by the backdoor and throng among similar sinners, for a darshan. You board a train without a reservation, then pay the train official extra money (translate to bribe) for a berth (no receipt received mind you). Your pension is not being processed in time, you pay a bribe to the proper government officer and all your papers (which previously seemed to have been incomplete), now magically become complete and the pension is finally received.

Then we complain that this system is corrupt - it is all an endless vicious cycle. No doubt, the government is to blame for this endless give and take, but we too have fostered it by agreeing to abide by the illegal system. Unfortunately, corruption is so deeply ingrained in all the services that a common man’s life becomes a struggle, if one refuses to bribe. In the everyday stream of life, we do not think twice before paying a traffic official a few hundred rupees to avoid a larger penalty or impoundment. Government incomes being so famously low, one might not even consider the act as illegal; some might even liken it to forced charity.

Except, actions do have consequences - every action does. Who knows? Because of that single apparently innocent crime, something wrong is happening to someone who does not deserve it - someone who worked (and still has to work) hard for his daily living - an honest living, still cannot seem to make ends meet. His current life is a hollow existence, limping across streets, even though the worn out body can hardly support it, attempting to sell tiny toys to children (rather their parents).

To this day, I ponder about the old man and the whistles, I wonder if his wandering hopelessly and desperately paid off at all…

I hope to God it did - knowing it for a certainty would help rid me of that subconscious feeling of culpability.

But, I will never know. Perhaps, that is the price I pay for my passiveness.

Encore..

This was 3 years back:
My Post:
http://recentmoments.blogspot.com/#113758596244985893
A friend of mine's post which i accidentally discovered: http://aodz.blogspot.com/2006/01/corporate-circus.html

Last week:
My Post:
http://myriadmoments.blogspot.com/
and also refer to title description of this blog
Another friend of mine's post:
http://inktoast.blogspot.com/2009/05/inktoast-toasted-ink-and-namelessness.html?
......
I have mixed feelings.... A Monday morning got insensibly cheered up as well as irritated, due to the same event...
Knowingly or unknowingly, words were borrowed...is it something to be flattered about, or really annoyed about?
Maybe if i was a celebrated author or someone incredibly talented, it would be justified for me to be condescending and arrogant...
However, I'm neither, and I cannot help but feel a mixture of pleasure, pride, and maybe a tinge of justified annoyance..:)
So Cheers and Happy Blogging Vix and Abhijit..
:)

April 3rd 2011: Browsing through a dear friend's hitherto unknown blog.. and another surprise:)

My post on July 11th 2006:
http://recentmoments.blogspot.com/2006/07/depressing-nostalgia.html

Her post on June 12th 2007:
http://essencedevie.blogspot.com/2007/06/nostalgia.html#links

This time for sure it feels good:))
Cheers Anin!

..A Lost Soul..

It is an uncomfortable stillness that is surrounding me right now, a day into the bench period (my hectic busy project just ended yesterday); I am feeling a little lost. The last time I was like this, I was in Bangalore - restless, awaiting my transfer...before that, a whole bunch of us were in the same situation, so it hadn’t really mattered. Discussions, time pass, pulling legs, lunches, treats, talk talk talk, driving lessons - all had made up for the free time.

I miss a certain friend....we spent many a day just talking; sometimes books - a favourite author of ours, a new movie, comparisons between a Rajnikanth and Amitabh… Our discussions would be so involving to us, that sometimes even our manager would be curious and ask as to what it was that we were both so concerned about. Now, when I turn to my side, to the next cubicle, he is not there - to listen to all my meandering thoughts, to answer my endless questions, to respond to my teasing. He hasn’t been in my adjoining cubicle for quite some time now, since our project ended and he went onsite to USA, and then I shifted to Gurgaon; but now his absence is no longer temporary, there is no impractical, even somewhat forlorn hope that we might again be working together...he is gone forever. He has left us, and this unbelievable shock has left us all in a state of seemingly ceaseless sorrow. I believe he is looking down upon me, and smiling, wanting to give his comments on my current situation; now that he is at a place where he can observe all that goes on down here.
The finality of death is so difficult to accept; it brings with it the yearning for the people who will no longer be with us, laugh with us, it is something that has not even the distant possibility of reversibility, - once you lose someone to death, you cannot ever regain his/her presence. Death leaves behind so many memories, so many words unspoken, so many things inexperienced, so many thoughts unshared…He was a good person; an exceptional human being - everyone loved him, and everyone still does. Another common friend (colleague) still cannot accept his loss; sometimes, he forwards previous mails sent by our dear friend... his words, his mirth, his comments seem to revive this person, lessen the grief, the inescapable loss of a dear one. There are others who chose to mourn and pay tribute to him in their personal ways; some visiting his home in Ooty, some opening his photos, some reading his mails to them over and over and over again, some remembering him in the back of their consciousness whenever some common thing they shared come in front of their eyes, some look at the gifts they got from him, and see his smiling face in front of their teary eyes. He will never come back, but he has left such a powerful impact on our lives that we have all created a memorial for him in our hearts..I have lost a friend, so close being so far, so near to my heart, so understanding… its hard for me to accept his absence; there have been so many things he has helped me with....from the minute technical problems to the major confusions in my professional life...he has been a guide..My first impression of him three years ago was that of a super technical fellow who worked a lot, hard working, serious, silent - that perception changed along our journey together in the same project, when we started interacting due to my endless doubts. He transformed from the silent diligent colleague to a talkative funny smart worker friend, who knew how to finish his work smartly, how to delegate responsibilities, how to pretend that he had a lot of workload, when actually the only time he worked was after the entire team had left.
It might seem that I am demeaning him, his work, but it is not so. Our conversations were always honest and I don’t intend to change that now, no matter how inconsiderate I might seem; and we both had frank open opinions about each other which we always made sure the other knew. I was the one always chatting, mailing, music, writing, even in the middle of a full day of work, while he was the one fooling around, teasing, this and that, chatting (offline), then sitting at his desk, working with some word/pdf/excel documents; the seniors members seemed to notice only that part of his day, (i.e. the work at his system) perhaps, because he always managed to finish his work in time, even if sometimes somewhat imperfectly..He had a fetish for organizing; he could not do something before properly planning and organizing; his To Do lists which I sometimes helped create and execute, his excel sheets with all his personal and financial data... I used to tell him, if that got into wrong hands, he would be in a fix. He would smile and wave his hands in a gesture of nonchalance, indicating his carefree attitude. His plan for the Andamans trip, his trip to USA; last moment and yet everything done perfectly.
All that organizing and he used to call ME a smart worker... managing work, fun, chat, everything at the same time…

On of the most patient people I've known, I miss waiting for him as he was always the last to finish lunch, chewing slowly, every grain of rice a singular delicacy, not wasting much; he use to tell me that some great personality had said, food should be chewed to the extent that you don’t eat it , you drink it. He has told me so many quotes, thoughts of so many great personalities….he was really influenced by the great writers; the author Krishnamoorthy, whose views so matched Ayn Rand's, was his favourite thinker.
So many debates, so many incidents we shared, so many stories we told each other…. he read to me even his father’s notes about writing. His father had written some notes on the skill of prose. He wanted me to understand that, and perhaps use them to improve my blogs. He admired my amateur literary works, but he was frank when it came to negative comments; if he didn’t like it he said it. He was always an encouragement to me…in his absence, his memories continue to do the same…He made me relax when I was tense, always showing me what was the worst that could happen (which usually wasn’t much)…
Sometimes modest (professionally), sometimes proud, always cheerful, always calm; I have never seen him tense in all the time I have known him. He lived life to the fullest, pursued all his interests, without any regrets. He and I used to discuss this all the time; where did our interest lie; was it this software industry where we would be spending our entire professional career? Neither of us wanted to, neither of us were interested enough. He too wasn’t really technically inclined - still we survived and persisted, knowing that a cushier job didn’t exist. He too knew that to leave all this, risk the financial security that this career carries (of course now that is no longer true) was tough….I agreed..However, both of us had come to the conclusion that this job was a means to an end. An end we had to decide, a passion we had to discover, no matter how long it took. In the meanwhile, this job is there - a comfort, a way to justify the education of engineering, a way to allow extortionate spending on electronics, clothes, dinners, gifts, trips….., but all the while, the restlessness should not cease, we should continuously be searching, pondering, discovering ourselves in the process. I hope I continue doing that.I have seen him restless many a time, sometimes for days at stretch, because of the monotony around him. He would be disinterested in the work, somewhat dull, as if some deep battles were going on within the mazes of his mind. We’d have a hearty discussion on the state of our lives, the careers, the endless tedium of routine, the same people, the same team and then sometimes, we’d frame some things to do to change things. I usually didn’t go through with them, but we certainly felt better after pinpointing some actions to do.

Once the project closed, we both had the anticipation of new beginnings, and yet we were sad. Good changes always bring unwanted adjustments along with them. Projects changed, locations changed…he went onsite; the day he was leaving, he gave me a gift; we were not to meet again (at least in the near future), since I was getting transferred before he retuned. There was a melancholy in that parting; the moments we spent, sitting next to each other in adjoining cubicles, not having to move anywhere to speak out your feelings to someone who understood and empathized… they had come to an end….

He left, and after some months I got transferred; we still kept in touch, like we had when I was onsite in Beijing(for 10 days) - mails, chat. He occasionally told me, he missed the fact that when he wanted to share something with me, I wasn’t sitting in the next cubicle. I missed that too, but I never told him the same…now I never can. When I got to know about the tragedy, I was sitting in office, lots of work pending for the day; I was shell shocked and didn’t know what to do. I sat there, staring at the mails, silent - I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, I didn’t know who to contact, I just had to get out of there. My throat got dry, I was mentally frozen; another friend who knew the person called me up; she was upset, and somehow that broke my unnatural state. I spoke to her, but words were limited…a current colleague passed by my desk, with a common joke; I somehow managed to tell him to please not start any joke; a dear friend had passed away….Another five minutes, I just sat there, robotically trying to get some work done. I asked a friend to drop me home. As I left, I told that previously passer-by colleague that I was leaving, to please tell the others; I broke down…From that instant, and for the next couple of hours or so, the tears just wouldn’t stop. His face kept flashing in front of my eyes, his smile, his voice; the harsh realization that I was never to see or hear him again was unbearable. I could not stand the loss - I had so much to say, discuss with him, so many things I needed to tell him; they would remain unsaid forever… For me the grief was overwhelming. I felt guilty smiling or laughing; that would mean I wasn’t mourning him. I felt that I couldn’t forget the tragedy, because that would mean I was forgetting him. However, now I know that the tragedy isn’t the only way of remembering him. There are better memories of him to cherish - of happy times, of funny jokes, of silly teasing, of serious thoughts. At that time, everything felt unreal. Time heals everything it is said; time is healing the wound, but he remains in my consciousness. I want him to always exist there, to give direction to my thoughts, to give clarity to my dilemmas. I wish I could be sure of a heaven, then I’d be happy that there was a second chance of meeting him again.
At this point of time, the only gladness I can feel thinking about him is that he lived a full, though unfinished life; he never left any of his desires for the future. If he wanted to do anything, he did it, be it learning karate, tabla, driving or anything else; I am happy for his soul. He has left all of us, to a distant world, where I hope he is enjoying as much as he did here; he is in a better place, then why do we mourn him? Because his absence has left a void in all of our hearts. The circumstances of his death will always distress me; I hope he did not feel much pain. It aches to imagine his cheery self in agony…I hope it was all over before he knew it..

Death brings one so much closer to life. His leaving us, made me realise how every moment is a gift - you never know when the next moment is the last. I still regret that the last time he pinged me, I was busy in office and couldn’t chat; I wish I had taken out the time. Now, as I am left with nothing more to say, the thoughts just swirling around the same face, the same smile, I pray for his family; I hope they have the strength to accept the stark reality. I can almost feel that Senthil is looking up from above, reading this, smiling and saying…. “Chalo yaar”..

So Many Words Left Unsaid..

This post is dedicated to my friend, philosopher, guide, Senthil Kumar Mahalingam, who had been an avid reader of my lengthy blogs, who read each line patiently, noticing minute details, commenting on each and every post he read.

This piece took a long time to be penned down, and as usual, he kept asking me if I had finished writing it; even though I had shifted cities, we kept in touch regularly. So finally, I sent him however much I had written, incomplete and full of type errors. He cleaned it all up for me, and sent it back to me, along with comments because as he said “I cannot wait until you post it”.

A few days later, he passed away in a tragic accident.

He sent me back the post on a Tuesday if I remember correctly, after which he pinged me on Gtalk, but the busy bee I was those days, I told him we’d talk later; he agreed.
A day later I replied to his mail but I didn’t get a reply, which was odd but I really didn’t get much time to think about that. Come Monday, I shot off another mail, asking if he was very busy these days. No reply and yet I thought, maybe he had gone home. Wednesday, I received the news that the previous Friday, he had met with an accident and died on the way to hospital, but nobody had come to know until Tuesday; I couldn’t believe it, I still thought it was a very distasteful joke he was playing.

It wasn’t.

The news has sunk in finally, but the mind refuses to accept the finality of death; I didn’t realize how much he mattered to me, my musings, until I lost him, his thoughts, his suggestions, his advice.

The post below is only slightly changed from the cleaned version he had sent back; it is incomplete, as was his life, and so I have left it. An unfinished existence, who will always remain in my consciousness, whenever I write something, whenever I need guidance at work, whenever I like some book, music, Senthil.....you have left imprints in my life, mind and heart…………..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Its 10:20 am on a Monday morning and here I am sitting at my office desk, sipping bad machine coffee, earphones of my I-Pod locked into my ears, listening to a random list of endless songs. Having finished checking the weekend mail and playing my share of minesweeper…I am wondering what next to do…

My team members haven’t come yet, all mostly coming between 10 to 11am. After 3 weeks of joining here in Gurgaon, today, I am experiencing the familiar feeling of being relatively free.... yet.

I look around me and think how sometimes, things change so soon, while sometimes, things remain the same for years together…

I had been working in Bangalore for the past 3 years, same company as now and in the same project for the past two years; rather two and a half years. The project had gotten stagnant, with no scope for growth, no onsite assignments, no much challenges; it was a relatively easy-going project, with twenty members, all doing work which, we sometimes felt, even a school going kid could do, given a few days of training. Of course, that’s mostly true for a lot of work done in the IT industry, but lets not go there…

Maybe I am being a little harsh now, maybe time has distorted my perception but yes, this much I can say, there was a lot of scope for self learning, which I didn’t utilize. There was ample time, ample opportunities, but rather than advance myself technologically, I took to writing; lengthy winded blogs…about things which had left an impression on my mind… but which to an impartial/neutral observer would not seem to be very important….small temporary sand sculptures, to be washed away by time…

Nevertheless, for me, they were significant enough…

The project had become a sort of comfort zone, with people I had become comfortable with, easy work, easily acquired leaves, holidays with family, trips with friends. I had my fair share of fun while in the team. You see, the advantage of being in a large team is, less responsibility, less accountability, and best part of all, there’s no such work that can be done by one person. I, being a fresher when I joined the project, took full advantage of the circumstances; I have traveled to more places in the last 2 years than most of my colleagues in different demanding projects. Some of these trips were publicized, some hidden, (I lied through my teeth); people who knew about my absences, and the reasons thereof (who didn’t belong to my team) kept wondering, with what I assume a feeling of general envy, as to how I managed to get away with it all..

Luck, coupled with manipulation and scheming, thinking about every distant possibility (no matter how improbable), every question that could be asked, every untruth that could be revealed...

It was after I returned from one such trip, this time publicized, to Allahabad, to attend a friend’s wedding, and also to visit my alma mater, that I was intimated by a friend in the team that something big had happened in the last few days; some shocking news. The same friend had been supposed to travel to client side that same weekend (when I was on leave). The very fact that he hadn’t, put some seeds of doubt in my mind… but I wasn’t sure. Wild assumptions ran in my mind… but I knew for sure only when I ran into a colleague in the lift as I entered office, who said, ’ Hi… can you believe what did ? it is too bad!’.

I asked what happened,

‘Hey you don’t know? closed the project until further notice..!’

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

It was difficult to believe and digest….

When I reached my seat where the whole team sat, the environment was somewhat unnatural….it wasn’t silent and nobody was sitting in trauma or shock; everyone was in fact discussing the recent development. However, I felt an underlying feeling of insecurity.

What next? Why? Besides me, there were other people who were used to this project, and the mere knowledge that the project no longer existed was unnerving…

I was unsure whether I was happy are not; During the later stages of the project, I had grown to realize that if I had to move ahead, I had to either shift from the project, and since that was virtually impossible while the project continued, or change companies..

So maybe a natural death of the project was a boon in disguise, an involuntary change in environment..

I am not naturally inclined to be ambitious, especially in the field I am in, merely because I am not interested enough. I am not interested in coding, getting lost in the intricacies of C++ or Java. I never was; that’s why I was glad I got into testing. it has a lot opportunities and if one is really career oriented, s/he can go places…provided one takes the initiative. I did not do that either.

My plans were half formed; sometimes I was sure I would do MBA, but never prepared thoroughly, and hence did not get through. Maybe I did not want it really. It was just another means to same end - a career with lots of money, but again, in a field, I couldn’t be all that interested in. I sometimes wonder, where is it that my potential lies - few people have told me it is my writing…I don’t know.. I write when I have the inclination. If someone told me, ‘Give me an article of 1000 words about this issue’ (where the issue could be about current affairs, politics - something important in the context of publishability (if that’s a word), I would be lost. I would not know where to start; so what do I do?

But yes I do think, that out of everything I am capable of, writing is the one thing which I think I like best doing. And yet I don’t where to go from there…

Anyway that wasn’t what I was going to talk about…

I was talking about change….after three years in a city that had become my third home; familiar, friendly, despite all the cons - the traffic, the autowallas, and the expenses, to a different place. There, the pros like friends, the weather, the safety, made my stay there, my first flight into independence, a memorable period …

In Gurgaon, the life is different; initially I hated it; but as it is natural, I am getting used to it. The one thing you cannot avoid is the dust. It is everywhere… despite the trees, the place is like a greenish brownish desert…the weather is extreme, the place known to be unsafe, especially for girls; one learns to adjust accordingly…

8PM on a Wednesday. Gosh! I never imagined that I would sit eleven hours at office… and still waiting… now also, I am so annoyed. I am waiting for another person to give me the code, which I have to test, and finally then I get to leave. The waiting is worse than actually working.

Aaarghhhh!!

Life in Gurgaon Aricent… its different. I miss my old office, my old team members, my cafeteria, the fresh tea/coffee every morning at 11 AM or so (depending upon my arrival in office) and every evening at 4 (almost exactly)…never missed a day. The comforts of familiarity, even the cafeteria people, the juice shop person, the tea/coffee person, the dosa counter people – they all seemed to know me (not by name, but by face). I didn’t even get time to say a word to them; the people who made my work hours easier, my hunger and thirst easily conquered. They probably never missed me in that midst of the crowds of employees … and if they did they probably assumed I’ve moved to greener pastures in a different company.

Here, people seem strangers - no one seems to be a known face to me, the offices lack soul. In all probability, its my personal biased illogical opinion, but even so, the simplicity of the offices (the square-like large stoned buildings, each not more than three floors) – a far call from the modernistic glass structures that are the norm for all IT companies in Bangalore, seem rather cold to me. Added to that the scattered nature of the different buildings of the company… there doesn’t seem to be any charm. I guess I can safely say that I am being extremely prejudicial, now that I am using words like ‘charm’ to describe work places.

There (Bangalore) I lived far from office, and yet I had gotten used to the hour long commutes (one hour on the lower side), that too sometimes changing three buses, standing at the bus stops, waiting. Then in the buses – if I was lucky I would get a seat immediately; sometimes later, rarely I didn’t get one at all. Then, the whole roads were mine to observe - the kids going to school, the kids playing at the schools near the roadside, the ladies carrying baskets of flowers (sometimes some of them sewed them into garlands while sitting in the buses), the daily laborers, with their tools, on their way to another hard day at work, the IT professionals like me, laptops in shoulder bags, burdened by the weight, moving uncomfortably, struggling to release the load, people with folders in their hands, the first page displaying their names, qualifications – resumes; they looked to be going for interviews. All of these people, I observed them… not gaining anything, not interacting with them… yet seeing something in each. I guess now that I try to put it into words, I find it inexplicable, why I liked to see everyone around me. But I loved to watch the crowd; each person with a different aim, a different story, a different expression on his/her face, a different place to go to….

The variety of lives, not all happy, not all sad, not all rich, not all poor, yet all in the same vehicle… moving to their destinations….

Anyway, here in Gurgaon, office is very near and I travel mostly with a friend, or office cab, and the commute time is negligible. I see people, but in autos which seat two people in front, four plus four people in middle (facing each other) and three people at back, facing outside in the open back of the vehicle, looking at the traffic behind. One cannot observe much, but yes I do save time in transit. Here transportation is a pain; there is almost non-existent public transport - no autos where you and you only are the passenger. Like described above, you shared an auto with thirteen others. Public buses... I have seen a few but I’m not sure how regular they are. So you mostly depend on private transport or office cabs…

The dependence irritates me, as I’m not fond of depending on others. But I strive.. I am thankful that at last a few friends are there who drop me and pick me etc.…

The life here is different…

When I came to Bangalore three years back, there was a huge group of classmates there. But then as it happens with time, only the people who mattered stayed in touch, and in a year or so, we had a substantial group. The amazing part was - some people were batch mates, some were roomies of batch mates, one, a cousin of a batch mate, some friends of batch mates… whatever. We had a nice time - the group remained… people came and went. There were many trips, many treats, many unbelievably mad times….

But good times, like bad, never last…

Gradually, changes started happening. Come 2008 and changes became drastic.... a friend got married, one friend got a long term onsite assignment at United States of America, another got a long term assignment in Singapore, another got transferred to Mumbai... all between Feb and June.

Some other personal changes were also happening in my side and I decided that Bangalore had had its share of me. It was time for change…..

And indeed I think I chose the right time; by June end, Bangalore had become desolate for me - my closest friends had left. A few remained, coaxing me not to move… but I knew it was time. They bemoaned each time I mentioned my transfer. But what had to be done had to be done.
I had always loved the city, but the people had made it special… without them, I would rather be somewhere else where I had people I cared about..

8:45PM: Now he tells me that the build is not possible today, and I can leave. Arghhhhh
A quote from my favourite comic strip Calvin & Hobbes explains how I feel right now, “Life's disappointments are harder to take when you don't know any swear words”. I wish I could scream in anger… Haha that would vent it out…I think I am writing all sorts of nonsense….so I’ll stop.

10:24 AM on a Monday morning - a Monday morning after a week at home; home as in Shillong, and I am feeling miserable, missing the last week.
With the advent of low cost flights, the transition from heaven at home to hell at office, doesn’t take too long. When I was in college, from the point I left home, somewhere about one to one thirty in the afternoon, till the time I reached Allahabad, there was a gap of about forty eight hours. This included the overnight stay in Guwahati and the train journey to Allahabad, which never got delayed when going, but invariably always got delayed when coming back home. Additionally, there were friends who also traveled together, so we got used to the impending change by the time we arrived in college. Also, that was college and usually the start of a session; so one generally looked forward to the semester…

But here, in work life, well what is there to really look forward to? Previously in Bangalore, I had gotten used to my team, and although that time too I was miserable, it was not so bad once I got back. Now, well, I was still in the process of getting used to this office in Gurgaon, and this trip has become a severe setback.

Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to share..

The trip back home, after a year; last year too I went during Dussehra. Although after that, I did meet my parents several times, but not at home. Those trips I mentioned earlier – there.

Going home is always a different feeling – the place you grew up in, the streets you walked through to go to school, to just get to a taxi (Shillong being a hilly place, several areas are such where public transport is not available and one has to walk to reach a place where the same is available), the shops with their owners growing older day, the ‘Chanachur’ (local equivalent of Bhelpuri) vendor, who has been selling the same spicy mixture at the same locality for as long as I can remember, my home, the feeling of sitting with a hot water bag beneath my cold feet, TV remote in hand, or a novel, my parents always around, sometimes arguing (mostly), complaining about each other to myself or my brother..:), and then, finally the Durga Pujas - the four days of festivities that bring together, not only families, but communities, localities, colonies…

There is the general perception, that Durga Pujas are celebrated only in West Bengal, mainly Kolkata; Bengalis come only from Kolkata. Most people don’t know that there are a large population of Bengalis living in other parts of the East, mostly Shillong, Assam, Tripura, and other states of the North East. There too, the Durga Pujas are celebrated with as much fervour, as in West Bengal, maybe not in as grand a scale, but in proportion to (and considering) the populace of Bengalis in that place, excellently.

Born and brought up in Shillong, I have almost always celebrated the Pujas there, and the times I was someplace else, I missed Shillong terribly during those four days…

Durga Pujas, to a non-Bengali (and many Bengalis too), is a religious event - the worship of the Durga Goddess. But to us in Shillong, it is more of a social festival, a culmination of many days of organization, arrangements, and events; the Pujas might happen for five days, counting “Shashti” (literally means ‘Sixth Day’ but actually is the day before the actual start of festivities) and “Dashami” (literally means ‘Tenth Day’ but actually is the day after the actual Pujas), but the work behind it starts from months before – meetings, planning, collection of funds, sponsors, and hundred other assorted jobs. It’s not an easy job, but people in our colony have been doing it for seventy three years - people changed, the crowd changed, the sponsors might have changed, but the Goddess remained, every year at the same place, the mini field of the Laitumkhrah Bengali Girls High School, Upper New Colony. The school has always been the venue, with some of its classrooms used as storerooms, a hall used as space for Prasad bitoron (distribution and/or serving of the lunch Prasad for all who wished to eat).

I am not a religious person by nature - I guess I am agnostic; but I look forward to the Pujas as much as all others, because that is a time to spend with family, sitting in our colony’s pandal, looking around at the kids playing with their small guns, running around, screaming in general, the dhaak (large percussion instrument) playing on and off, shouting to each other during the playing, feeling an unnatural silence, when the musicians stopped playing, the competitions like Quiz, Musical Chairs going on, the aura of light in the pedestal where the idols were placed in their magnificence. Durga, the conquered Asura, Lakshmi and Saraswati at her sides, followed by Ganesh and Kartik at their respective sides; Durga Puja is not only about Durga Goddess, it is a Pujas of other Gods too -wealth, knowledge, success, and war…

There are so many aspects in the worship of Durga during these four days; I would not be able to say much given that I am not into idol worship as such. But for most people, especially ladies, every ritual has a meaning, a significance, which has to be performed in a particular way and no other way. All I can say is that, standing in front of the beautiful idol(s), Durga, with the most divinely benevolent, at the same time, fierce expression on her face as she destroys the Asura, the dhaak playing continuously, loud yet inevitably suiting the place, the incense creating a sweet sense of beauty; I can only be awed. This is how it can only be… all of this…or none of it; one cannot worship the Goddess with lesser. Many people spend all day in the pedestal, arranging things - the incense, the prasad, the lamps, the flowers, the fruits, while some sit below, just looking at the Gods; as if just looking at Durga’s idol would suffice for their devotion. I don’t pay that much attention; but that first glance at Durga, on Shasti, or Saptami, all decorated, all powerful, magnificent in her opulence, her 10 hands holding weapons as well as other things (which I do not recall, rather I do not know), I feel …at peace.. as if in her aura, there is strength, I am unable to describe the feeling….I think it is contentment, mingled with awe.

In our colony, nowadays, the celebrations start from quite before the actual Pujas, a lot of cultural competitions – Yes, Bengalis and culture are inseparable. Singing competitions; it doesn’t stop just at that.. Nazrul geeti, Rabindra Sangeet, lok geeti (Kazi Nazrul Islam’s songs, Rabindranath Tagore’s music, folk songs) — competitions for different categories for different age groups, dance completions (these also have categories but I can’t recall), Elocution, (Bengali, English) again with categories for different age groups, - these all are conducted before, (I guess in the school itself) in progression before the Pujas.

Then comes Shashti, the day Durga arrives in her vehicle, (hypothetically); our house is located at such a distance and position from the pandal that, if one stands outside when the dhaakiyas (musicians who play the dhaak) start playing their drums, heralding the welcome of Durga this year, one can see her face while she is being carried to the pandal. We used to do that when we were kids; Come evening; we couldn’t wait to put on our new or almost new apparel (depending on the number of new garments one had been gifted from relatives) and stroll to the pandal to offer our first prayers to Durga, to see the Shasti puja, the finished pandal, the decorations and the cultural functions.

The pujas in our colony have been the same for as long back as I remember; the structure, the arrangements etc. As one enters the gate of the school, and walks down the steps of the school, one can start seeing acquaintances… people of the colony, down there. The first glimpse of the pandal - the mostly maroon cloth, with decorations in white, some steps then a landing where some stalls are being arranged for tea, coffee, snacks, etc. Further down is the actual pandal; the moment one enters, one can see the idols far ahead at the other end. The space between is occupied by chairs and the stage at the other (near) end of the pandal; i.e. imagine if you can a rectangle with the shorter ends containing the gods at one side and the stage at the other…people switching from one to the other side…according to the activities taking place..”

This was Senthil’s comment:
“Few comments - I cannot wait till you post it.

You are almost killing IT professional's dignity. Is it not a dignified job for some dignified people like me? :-)
Try to squeeze out every juice IT job has to offer... before OBAMA's foreign policy come into action or 2nd great economic depression. Save and make good money for the rainy days ahead.

[I look around me and think how sometimes, things change so soon, while sometimes, things remain the same for years together…]
Just a closer of a project has changed much... Imagine someone offering us pink slips.... [my friend was offered recently]. We might get lost in the intricacies of "CHANGE++"... advanced version of change !

[Traveled to most places....some hidden, (I lied through my teeth);]
Hmm... I knew it. You lied in ESS as well

[But for most people, especially ladies, every ritual has a meaning, a significance, which has to be performed in a particular way and no other way. All I can say is that, standing in front of the beautiful idol(s), Durga, with the most divinely benevolent, at the same time, fierce expression on her face as she destroys the asura, the Dhaak playing continuously, loud yet inevitably suiting the place, the incense creating a sweet sense of beauty; I can only be awed. This is how it can only be… all of this.. or none of it.. One cannot worship the Goddess with lesser.. Many people spend all day in the pedestal, arranging things… the incense, the prasad, the lamps, the flowers, the fruits, while some sit below; just looking, at the Gods; as if just looking at Durga’s idol would suffice for their devotion. I don’t pay that much attention; but that first glance at Durga, on Shasti, or Saptami, all decorated, all powerful, magnificent in her opulence, her 10 hands holding weans as well as other things (which I do not recall. Rater I do not know)… I feel …at peace... as if in her aura, there is strength, I am unable to describe the feeling….I think it is contentment, mingled with awe….]

Above is very nice paragraph..."