Goodnight, brother

Today, it was different. A tiny firefly had come to greet me goodnight. Of all the places, it chose to sit on the table clock, unperturbed by the ‘tick-tack-tick-tack’ noise it was making. It took me back to my childhood memories, when we used to run behind them hoping to catch them all in vain and even earlier when we used to get scared by their tiny little blinking ‘torches’.
It was a long, long time ago when me and my brother used to share a room as little kids. We used to stay in Mathura (UP) where fireflies were not a rare sight. My brother, who was five years elder, used to frighten me by singing ‘kahin deep jale kahin dil…’ from the movie Bees Saal Baad in a shrill, scary voice whenever he saw fireflies in our room. I used to duck under the quilt, trying my best not to hear what he sang or to see the glowing flies.
A little later, the firefly moved from the table clock and settled itself on a photograph right next to the clock. We were still kids then – I wearing a huge Ray Ban glass on my nose and my brother wearing another equally big glass on his slightly bigger nose sitting hand in hand in front of the majestic Taj Mahal, the symbol of eternal love.
But when we grew a little older, fight and screams were the order of any normal day. It was as if his day wasn’t over without irritating me and mine wasn’t over without bearing with him. But now that we’ve both grown up and live miles apart, the fights are the only thing that reminds me of the khatta-meetha bond that we shared and makes me smile.
He’s a married man now, recently blessed with an angel girl, and I have my job to worry about. I could barely see the clock strike 12 as the fly started to fly again. Maybe it was trying to find its way back home, I thought as I opened the window. I searched for my mobile in the moonlight and typed ‘remember those firefly nights... goodnight, brother’.

Confessions of a shopaholic

“It’s like you were challenging the poor guy,” my friend told me just after I snubbed the coffee mugs the shopkeeper was showing to me and walked away. “He is just selling ceramic, it’s not gold. You are not making investments,” he said, as I gleefully moved on to the next shop selling similar stuff.
I was on a happy trip to Dilli Haat and was in a perfectly happy, happy mood. But the word ‘challenging’ lingered for the rest of the day. This friend, a male, accompanies me to almost all splurging trips and perhaps has, by now, mastered my tricks of shopping. Whenever I ask him which colour or design to pick, he smirks, and says, “Will you pick what I ask you to?”
He knows, and I won’t.
But if men don’t know, or don’t want to know, what goes behind choosing a particular colour, they better stop “helping” us. Or, better, we women should go to those selected shops where the keepers are from the fair sex. That way, at least, both will be relieved of the tension of the battles to be fought every other hour, every other day. What actually is the science behind how women shop and how men shop?
They claim women spend unnecessarily lengthy time to choose and finalise or drop the whole idea of buying something, while they are those smart things who take decisions instantly. While we claim that most shopping decisions taken by men are lousy, colour combinations rubbish and they often go for ‘not-the-best-of-best’ offers.
Frankly, my shopping, more often than not, involves a serious series of calculated, methodical and economical steps to choosing, selecting, pondering, cross-questioning and then finally loosening the purse strings. But I never thought that my serious series of calculated steps could actually challenge shopkeepers. It must have – because after I asked the shopkeeper to pack four different colours of the same form of coffee mug with different prints, he looked flummoxed.
If challenging is the word – then be it! At least I will have a peaceful sleep if I match the colours right. Did I finally pick the right mugs, sis?

Real life

This time, let’s not talk about movies, or lipsticks, branded watches, or about how ‘Reid & Taylor’ suit lengths are better than, say, ‘Raymond’s’.
Let’s get into the real business. The business called life. We work for money. The money earns us a place that we can call our own, our home. It earns us clothes to hide our frames and it earns us food. The energy, generated from the food, gets us back to work. And the cycle continues. But what happens when one of these meets with an accident? The job is gone, your home tumbles down, your clothes get worn out, your food gets burnt and you faint.
You must be thinking where I’m driving you to? But wait. It’s not that easy, is it? Getting a decent job, looking for a ‘home-sweet-home’, buying the best clothes, cooking the right meal, or being called the star worker at your office is easier said than done.
Year after year, you think it’s going to be easy, but it isn’t. Your job still pays you the same, house rents are skyrocketing, clothes are getting costlier, prices of food items are inflating, and the basic medicines to treat you back to your good health are turning into precious commodities that may someday find place on the BSE and NSE.
Which one of those essentials had an accident, you think? But it’s too late now. You try to lower your living standards, move into a smaller home, you start loving that fat-free ‘roti’, you would have bought some medicines, but you decide to stay put and wait for a miracle recovery from a disease and get back to work the next day only to hear: “Your work is not improving. You don’t have that zest in you anymore.”
You are still wondering which one of those met with an accident? You say: “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” But at the back of your mind you are still thinking why you are not what you were and walk out of your boss’ room, only to be found in the same cubicle a few days later with the ‘problem’ intact. Whoa, what life!

Mark of respect

It was Independence Day, but not for me. I went to work. I wore my tri-coloured dupatta – which only gets out of my almirah on two occasions in a year — to go with my white kurta. I did not do it for the happiness I felt for going to work on the day. It was more of a safe bet. It was because I feel people generally don’t give funny comments on wearing a tri-coloured piece on Independence and Republic days. So what fuels this wave of patriotism on just these two days and that too during the better half of the day? Is it the freedom from the British Raj or the freedom from office and the boss? Is it just another day out with parents for children or do they really mean what they perform on those stages? Feeling proud about being an Indian has been ingrained in us right from our childhood, but what has not reached most people is how to respect the flag. People wake up on these days filled with zest, reach the nearby flag hoisting grounds well in time, participate in plays and celebrations, sing a patriotic song or two, sit together, chat, eat and return home.
But what follows is a very sorry sight. People, especially children, who enthusiastically wave flags at the ceremony, get tired after a while and throw them away on the streets. Flags are then left only to get trampled and driven upon. Freedom from waving, is it? On second thoughts, why blame the children – how many of us know what to do with the flag after we’re over with our patriotism? There is no doubt that the percentage of the 'unaware' far exceeds the percentage of the people who 'know' how a flag should be disposed of. According to Prevention of Insults to National Honour Act, 1971, when the flag is in a damaged condition it should be destroyed as a whole in private, preferably by burning or by burying it with due respect. This information may or may not reach everyone who threw a flag somewhere this time. However, the sad part is, this time I still got a weird remark for wearing a tri-coloured dupatta. Sigh!

An artist survives

There is art behind everything that we do, be it filling up a canvas with brush strokes, choosing clothes during sale season, talking to your boss or making food. I remember as a child I used to love colours and my teachers knew it. So even when other kids in my kindergarten class used to write with pencils, I got the privilege to write with coloured pencils and crayons. I remember how I used to write 1, 2 and 3 with red, blue and green and used to crayon the tree red. But now, times are different. Even though I pursued a short-lived a career of a part-time art teacher for little kids before my 12th board exams, I haven’t painted in a long time. But when I say there is art behind everything, I’m right. Like yesterday, when I decided that I would make rotis, as I was beginning to forget what they tasted like with my mother away for a long holiday. I took out all of my mother’s weapons and started on my mission. The flour, the water, my palms and then again the flour and then again the water… I felt like, “Damn! I’m never gonna make the right dough.” From two cups of flour I reached four and yet it was not looking like it should.
And then I made that frantic call. “Maa, how do you do it everyday, non-stop?” I shrieked. She smiled and said, “Since I never taught you how to cook, I thought just like the curries you might have inherited how to make rotis, too, from me.” “Maa, there is art behind making fingerlicking curries and I know that… But how do I deal with this mess?” She said, “There is art behind this too, you only need to practice.” That’s it? That was the valuable piece of advice? I was doomed. I began again and managed to make wild shapes and when that was baked, it turned into papads. I failed. But the fighter in me urged me to give it a try one more time this morning, and the mission was accomplished. My mother was right after all. The advice was indeed valuable and I’m happy the artist inside me is still alive.

An artist survives

There is art behind everything that we do, be it filling up a canvas with brush strokes, choosing clothes during sale season, talking to your boss or making food. I remember as a child I used to love colours and my teachers knew it. So even when other kids in my kindergarten class used to write with pencils, I got the privilege to write with coloured pencils and crayons. I remember how I used to write 1, 2 and 3 with red, blue and green and used to crayon the tree red. But now, times are different. Even though I pursued a short-lived a career of a part-time art teacher for little kids before my 12th board exams, I haven’t painted in a long time. But when I say there is art behind everything, I’m right. Like yesterday, when I decided that I would make rotis, as I was beginning to forget what they tasted like with my mother away for a long holiday. I took out all of my mother’s weapons and started on my mission. The flour, the water, my palms and then again the flour and then again the water… I felt like, “Damn! I’m never gonna make the right dough.” From two cups of flour I reached four and yet it was not looking like it should.
And then I made that frantic call. “Maa, how do you do it everyday, non-stop?” I shrieked. She smiled and said, “Since I never taught you how to cook, I thought just like the curries you might have inherited how to make rotis, too, from me.” “Maa, there is art behind making fingerlicking curries and I know that… But how do I deal with this mess?” She said, “There is art behind this too, you only need to practice.” That’s it? That was the valuable piece of advice? I was doomed. I began again and managed to make wild shapes and when that was baked, it turned into papads. I failed. But the fighter in me urged me to give it a try one more time this morning, and the mission was accomplished. My mother was right after all. The advice was indeed valuable and I’m happy the artist inside me is still alive.

God tweets

I got a call from my friend yesterday. He claimed God was tweeting away on Twitter. “Yes, I’m telling you the truth. See for yourself,” he said, and before I could ask any more, he hung up. I tried calling again and again, trying to get hold of God’s Twitter ID , but I guess he must have got busy informing other people about his presence on the social networking site. I thought he must have gone crazy, but I myself was going nuts searching for God, god, gawd and all other spellings I could think people can use at Twitter’s find-people option. Letter to God, The real God, God Online … and I gawked.
One search actually threw up God’s account with heaven mentioned as his location. And I got busy deciphering the lord’s latest tweet: “Great resources for parents who want to learn about cyberbullying, sexting, & internet safety…”
Can this really be God, I thought, even as I felt I was actually acting stupid. Afterall, God can’t be wasting his time on the internet, however much the cyber thugs call for it. He already has so much on his plate. Or, has the age actually become so digital that he, too, couldn’t keep from transforming?
No, no, stop. I thought to myself, this must be some crazy guy in the garb of God. And another message from the friend said: “Hey… he just tweeted ‘That’s my UNEP logo, as part of my initiative as global ambassador for the UN Environmental Project’.”
“Seriously? UN has got in touch with God for environment protection?” I messaged back.
Another message: “Hi! He tweets again. He says, ‘My kids r happy that I’m finally on Twitter. They hv been tryin 2 get me 2 join Twitter or Facebook for ages. Im still gettin the hang of it (sic)’. He has also put up his personal pictures.”
“But, the profile I’m following is stuck with a cyberbulling tweet,” I replied briskly, wanting to check on his profile as soon as possible, “What is his Twitter ID??” “Abe yaar! His ID is sachin_rt,” he shot back. And I sat there smiling.

Ties strong enough

Everything has become global today. Everything within reach. Everything possible. But crossing a country’s border is still not easy. And if the border happens to be between India and Pakistan, it should be best left untrodden. But then, there was one border that I wanted to cross.
“You don’t have ties strong enough,” I was told, “Your visa can’t be processed this time.” My dream to visit the US was shattered.
“Sorry, why? I do not understand. I just want to visit my brother. I have my job back here in India and most important, I have my parents to take care of,” I tried to explain, but the interviewer was unmoved. He handed out a tiny booklet and asked me to try again.
I was not sad because about Rs 6,000 was wasted in the process or even because I would not be able to visit my brother, but because the US thinks ‘I do not have ties strong enough’ with the country I am born in. An internet search threw up thousands of cases where the authorities found the candidates unfit even for a vacation in the US.
If the US keeps on denying visas at this rate, it would disappoint applicants, but in the process it will cause more damage to itself. More than ever before, people around the world are now considering visiting foreign locales. With such stringent rules, the US is missing out on a vast revenue source, and has also gone down significantly in terms of attracting tourists. Southeast Asian countries have already got the message, and have made the best of the situation by offering various tourism options.
Whatever the parameters on which they check a person’s eligibility to visit their country, they must be revamped. Categorising each candidate broadly doesn’t and cannot help anymore with the world changing at such a tremendous pace. Those who have crooked intentions will always find a way to dodge these checks.

Loyalty swings

I do not follow cricket, but I like it when India wins international matches. I love to see the trophy, despite the fact that I will never be able to lay my hands on it. This time, however, I have a feeling that our cricketers won’t be able to perform in the T20 World Cup to be held in West Indies.
The news that swashbuckling batsman Virender Sehwag has been ruled out of the World Cup forced me to feel that way. Yes, it is a big blow to India’s chances at the tournament. Just to garner some quick bucks, cricketers, including foreign ones, are burning themselves out, unmindful of the fact that the World Cup is just a few months away.
Sehwag has been ruled out due to a shoulder injury and has been advised rest for 3-4 weeks. It has been announced that Murali Vijay of Chennai Super Kings will be Sehwag’s replacement, who represents Delhi Daredevils. In the absence of Sehwag, Delhi Daredevils skipper Gautam Gambhir will take over as vice-captain.
A few other key players in the Indian line-up too are nursing IPL-induced injuries. Doesn’t this make you feel that India’s prospect in the coming World Cup will take a hit? It makes one ask: Country comes first or money is more important? Well, it’s time the country’s cricket managers did a serious rethink.
This IPL, too, is actually an alien concept for me. I’m always confused why people are crazy after the series – more so because I never seem to settle taking side of any particular team. I feel confused because I am a Delhiite—so should I cheer for Delhi Daredevils? I am a Bengali—I should be a good girl and cheer for Kolkata Knight Riders. The dilemma doesn’t end here. I work for Financial Chronicle—so I should cheer for the Deccan Chargers. But then they say everything is fair in love and war… I guess considering the fact that I have a crush on MS Dhoni—I must cheer for Chennai Superkings!

Sex and the city

The experience of transformation into motherhood is a privilege. But the male brigade, which includes the male-run firms, have tried everything possible to turn the affair into one that women now fear to tread. I say fear not because of the sweet pain of labour, but because of the bitter pain of getting discriminated against and/or losing one's hard-earned position in offices.
Can it be mere coincidence that over 5,600 female employees of Novartis have filed suites against the firm charging it of discrimination in pay and promotions – especially towards pregnant women? A clutch of other big firms mired in such controversies include Goldman Sachs, Bank of America, Citigroup and Wal-Mart. There definitely are millions of other cases – filed in courts or not – in other countries as well. In Goldman Sachs’ last round of annual promotions, only 19 per cent of the 272 newly named MDs were women. The Wal-Mart suit, on behalf of about two million employees, is America’s largest sex discrimination case yet. This grossly implicates how bad the situation is for women.
In India, the situation is no better. There is always so much brouhaha when a woman takes charge of a big firm. But how many are there actually – women in leadership positions.
Negligible, minuscule. Why? Most women across the world have experienced what is popularly known as the 'glass ceiling' phenomenon, believed to be an unofficial, invisible barrier that prevents women from advancing in businesses. Why don't men realise that women are – and can be – as capable as men? Men don’t seem to understand that although a woman may be weaker in muscular strength, their mental wavelengths have no barriers. Raising a child in one's womb is definitely an arduous task. The men – in home and offices – can make it a lot easier. Only companies that recognise and act on the fact that the world does come in two sexes can be called truly competitive and modern. But only if they try.

Bumper to bumper

Have you noticed big city cars closely? Almost all of them are scratched or bumped into. When I was new to Delhi, I was amazed to see swanky cars with their ‘wounds’ and used to wonder at the carelessness of the drivers. The bewilderment was resolved when I started driving myself.
Bumper-to-bumper drive is what is the cause of each vehicle’s misery. Bikers too always look for the little gaps in between two stationed cars in traffic jams to zoom past and hence the scratches. The famous parking woes in big cities too lend a bump or two to each car.
Hence, it seems impossible that a new car will remain dent-free once it starts its run on big city roads. Quite strangely, Mercedes and BMWs seldom have scratches on their bodies. Reasons can be many, but I feel people try and drive a few cars away from such cars, for they epitomise power and wealth, and running into them could be ‘memorable’.
But the question is when will we witness a cultural change in how we drive? On roads, even the most polite turns into a bully. On every scratch their vehicles suffer, people halt their cars right in the middle and tantalisingly come close to engaging in a bull fight. Honking is an acquired deficiency that most of us are proud of.
Traffic rules are there but then who follows them? I have seen many times cops flouting driving rules with impunity. I have seen as many as four cops on bike –all without helmets – zoom past me. I would have understood had they been on a mission, but no. They stopped at a chai shop to sip hot tea and gossip.
The need of the hour is not only stricter traffic rules, but also inculcating driving ethics. And about scratches on our cars, well I guess a big red ‘L’ sign – even if you aren’t a learner anymore – might solve some problem, as rash drivers will stay away. Just may be!

Eureka, eureka!

As a child, I used to think Kumbh is a place where people are lost and found. But this conception changed when I decided, much against my parents’ will, to visit the congregation at Haridwar, and meet the mysterious nagas. There were zillions of questions on my mind, the most burning being - why do nagas stay naked?
Since I was travelling with fellow journalists, I felt secure. My quest for knowledge began early morning just before the nagas were to take out a procession before the holy dip. After my first-ever shahi snan, I set out to explore. Soon, I came across an ash-smeared naga with long, braided, unwashed hair. I said, “May I…” Surprisingly, before I could continue, he handed out his visiting card and said, “Come child, come get your questions answered like these souls who have come to meet us from across the seven seas.”
It was still February and I was cold even after the layers of clothing I draped myself into. I hesitated, but asked, “Don’t you feel cold?”
“It’s all in our minds. If you think you are cold, no volcano can make you warm enough. But if you try, Earth has a solution to everything,” he said, while setting alight a bunch of dry wood for me. I found that the nagas were much more attached with Earth than we could ever imagine. Their food, energy and even clothes – all that is needed to lead life is provided for by Earth.
While he was speaking, I mustered enough courage to ask ‘THE’ question.
“It’s our way to show people that if you can keep your desires under control nothing in the world is impossible,” he said. But even while they claimed to be naked, I found a certain nagas peculiarly stylish in the way they smear their bodies with ash. Stripes, polkas, and other designs – I found that the nagas definitely knew how to strike a balance between staying green and stylish. I picked up my camera and he posed for me with a burning chillam.

Changing colours

Colours, a channel launched in July 2008 came as a whiff of fresh air as it telecast serials with hard-hitting story lines. The channel shot to fame quickly and its serials topped the charts. Serials like Balika Vadhu, Jai Shri Krishna and Bigg Boss soon became hot topics of discussion as they were entirely different from the usual Saas-Bahu serials.
It won’t be an exaggeration to say that the channel ended the run of many Saas-Bahu serials and sent rival channel directors, producers and script writers on a wild scramble for new and fresh ideas. What’s more, Ekta Kapoor who shot to fame through her K serials has moved away from producing K serials today. Sensing that people have had enough of her K serials, she has started producing serials without the K tag. But that doesn’t seem to have helped her regain the prime position in the minds of television viewers.
This was the time when the Indian television was going through a silent transformation. Rival channels, however, didn’t take much time to get on their heels. They launched serials in keeping with the demands of the public.
Soon channels were flooded with interesting programmes such as Jhansi Ki Rani, Agle Janam Mohe Bitiya Hi Kijo and reality shows. It was boom time again and viewers were spoilt for choice.
Sadly, sob stories are making a comeback in serials. Script writers are again trying to churn out mundane scripts, which highlight a poor woman’s struggle against the odds. TRP ratings seem to demand stories about battered women. Wafer-thin scripts are determining the success of television programmes now.
It’s sad that the Renaissance in Indian television was short-lived. We may need many more new channel launches to knock the current players out of their slumber.

Life in a metro

I knew a Metro ride in Delhi was no more fun. But I did not expect it to be a shocking experience. Last Saturday, my father and I were on our way home from a popular shopping destination, Karol Bagh.
Stating that people were packed in the Metro compartment like sardines would be an understatement. Before we could decide whether to take an auto instead, I was pushed into the Metro by the crowd. When I realised that my father had not boarded the train, I tried in vain to get out of it. Finally, I used my fists and managed to sneak out.
Now that I was out, I was shocked to see that people were still trying to get in.
The train was getting delayed as people were not allowing its doors to close in an effort to get into the compartment. Finally, when the doors closed, someone asked the Metro driver to reopen the doors as his belongings got stuck inside the train due to the commotion. It was more surprising as immediately after the train left the platform, another one that was relatively empty came in. We boarded this one, but I was still thinking about the previous train.
I had seen a couple with a small child get into the previous Metro. I was worried about how the child would manage in this kind of commotion, more importantly, if he would be able to breathe inside the packed compartment.
Delhi Metro is no doubt a gift to the city, but it is merely a little drop in a huge desert. I was wondering whether the couple would have stayed back if the public address system had announced the impending arrival of the next train. I have never travelled by Mumbai locals, but I have heard that it is pretty much like a war zone. Delhi Metro, too, is turning out to be very similar. This is just the beginning. You could expect more chaos when all its lines become fully functional.

Ride back home

I live 26 kilometres away from my workplace. This isn’t too big a distance for those who own cars. But, for those who take an auto, it is Rs 500 a day to and fro.
It started out to be just another ride back home after work. I hired an auto, and its driver said, “I will charge you a bit more since I will have to drive through huge traffic.” I agreed.
Halfway through, he started chatting. He said, “I’m sorry about Delhi’s state. Although I’ve been here for only a month-and-a-half, I feel this city is going nowh ere.”
I was taken aback, not because the city is a great place to live in, but because I was curious to know which other city, according to him, was better than the Capital. He continued, “Despite new roads and flyovers, there are traffic jams everywhere. Look at the buses. They are packed to capacity, just tailormade for pickpocketing and molestation.” This time, I sp oke, “Where do you come from?” “Mumbai,” he said. “And there is no standing system in buses in Mumbai,” he added.
“I really wanted to see Delhi, but I'm sorry about it’s state. Women in Delhi are not safe,” he went on. In Mumbai, it is a common norm to give martial arts training to women and they are better prepared to tackle such issues, he felt.
And, then came the shocker, “I’m not an auto driver by profession. I teach dance-drama and fine arts at a place. My friends told me that driving autos in Delhi is very profitable.” I wanted to know his name, but I had reached my destination. “Ma’am, please give me Rs 10 mo re than the metre reading,” he said.
I gave the money without asking any more questions. At least, there was a ‘please’ in his request. A true blue Delhi autowallah would have charged me the earth and still would have been disgustingly rude, I thought.

I want my 'INDEPENDENCE'

The Constitution of India came into force & India declared itself a Republic on January 26, 1950

As a child I always had a difficult time remembering dates of Republic Day, Independence Day, and the like. But now, I can't forget. I can't forget January 26, 2009. Fifty-nine years have not changed the way Indians celebrate Republic Day. But, for me Republic Day is different. It has a different meaning, a totally different meaning, for me now.

It was the day my 'forced-resignation letter' was being keyed in at office!

YES! I got it a day after the tri-colour fever gripped the nation. F*** FREEDOM, I thought! Just when I was finally settled.

Today, as I sat down to blog, the picture of the little money plant sapling I placed on my office desk, came to my mind. It was a joy, I must admit, coming to office and looking at the plant grow every day. The day I left office, I took it along. Can't bear to leave it to die there, there where only sweet-poison can grow to its full glory.

As days passed, each little leaf began to turn yellow. As if, it got a 'pink-slip' too! I tried a lot. A lot, indeed -- but I was not quick enough. It died very soon, long before I got another 'job'. I began to grow remorseful. I was the reason for its death. Since, if I had been 'good-enough' at work, I wouldn't have been asked to 'leave' and it could have stayed there too, alive. Only if I knew how much good makes it 'good-enough'.

This is when I knew I had to do something. Something fast! Something, anything!

"Why do you want to join us if you haven't been thrown out yet?"

"You say your designing is fab. Then why didn't they like your job?"

"They are still working. I see their paper still. Why did you get it then?"

"Can you show me the salary slip for this month?"

YES SURE... as if I was the reason MetroNow downed shutters!!

That was it. I cut the crap and sat home. Learned making round-rotis, instead! But how long, I thought to myself. This was when I started reading 'How the Mighty Fall' by Jim Collins. "Whether you prevail or fail depends more on what you do to yourself than what the world does to you," the author said.

My life has been a shuttle-cork -- from, Delhi to Orissa, from Orissa to Delhi, from Delhi to Patna, from Patna to Delhi, MidDay to MetroNow, MetroNow to an online company. Three years into journalism, I've been torn to pieces, but still haven't found my place yet. I have had enough and I want to stop. I want my 'INDEPENDENCE'. No more 'REPUBLIC' days for me -- please god, please!

I learned to let-go, live and love again!

Lying on a small dusty single-bed with my mother on July 29, 2005, I was trying to fight myself. My decision to join an institute situated at a far-off nondescript eastern state, was not entirely my choice. The fact that I got selected at India's best mass communication institute, IIMC, among thousands of students gave little solace. At this point of time, Dhenkanal seemed to me the best place where I can disconnect with the outer world, link with nature and in the process with myself too!

The sweet hostel warden said to me, "Are you Amrita? Some of the rooms have already been occupied. You can choose from the rest." She opened rooms after rooms, until one with a window looking out towards a tree and the hills behind caught my attention. My mother, who decided to stay back the night with me, started arranging my clothes and my bed. I kept lying there thinking why one has to go through heartbreaks. Soon, the warden came back with my 'roomie' and introduced her with me. "Hi! This is Deepshikha. I'm from Shimla. What's your name?"

Here, I decided to disconnect my thoughts and move with the flow. "Hi! Amrita here. I come from Delhi." On July 30, I forced my father, mother and my brother, who had all come to see me off, to leave the town and move ahead with their plan to visit our relatives residing in Kolkata. The very next day my new life as a journalist began. After the first session with the associate professor Mrinal Chatterjee (MC), I began to understand the ABC of being a "journalist".

In one of the sessions MC said, "You can call it 'Indian Institute of Mrinal Chatterjee' if you want, since I'm the boss here. I will be your friend, guardian, teacher, guide and even tourist guide!" The class broke into a laughter. I can safely call him the best tutor I've come across in my entire life. He had this certain charm about him, that made each student respect him a lot. The fact that he made us work like labourers on the institute lawns, did not make him even a bit less-liked.

For me it was a second life altogether. Schedules, daily news, presentations, discussions, tabloids, assignments! I busied myself. Made some great bonds and friends. Met differently-abled children up close and personal and learned how to look at life from them. Visited the 'underbelly' of the state -- beaches, temples, rivers, hills, forests, lagoons and what not!

The place taught me a million things. I understood that sometimes it becomes inescapably necessary to just let-go. What actually matters is today and the day which you haven't seen yet. What matters is what you have learned from life, and not what you endured to get that education. Today, after four years, I'm happy I took the decision to go to Dhenkanal. I'm happy I learned to let-go, live and love again!

Kaudiyala: Paradise of Love!

Yes, it is truly a place where you and your lover will become one!

Although it’s just a village, it’s fresh and the scenery is breathtaking. Situated on the banks of the river Ganga, it is also a famous spot for rafting and other adventure water sports. So if you and your partner are daring enough, rafting can truly be an experience!

As you leave Rishikesh, and drive a little upwards you’ll come across a place called Byasi – Kaudiyala is a little further, at an altitude of 386 m. This heavenly abode is an absolutely quiet and ideal place, to let you unwind and enjoy nature’s beauty. Surrounded by dense forests, Kaudilya also gives oppurtunity to view wildlife in their natural habitat. Under GMVN and Uttaranchal undertaking, various river rafting courses are conducted here and you might also try to book their river-side camps and enjoy bonfire at night. But before taking your car keys and rushing to this place make sure you book – GMVN (Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam) Tourist Bungalow, which is a government run rest house for tourists. Since this place is always filled with guests securing a booking can give you some tough time. If the government part has begun to dampen your spirits – hold it!This resort is very unique and is beautifully located among huge mountains with the Ganga flowing just below the resort. You can walk for a few minutes and reach the beautiful beaches near the Ganga where, possibly, you would not find anyone else...

Just lie next to the river or take a dip, rest on sand or arrange an alcove party. It’s just too good! The food at the resort is yummy, fresh and hot. With river gushing in background, you can imagine how your stay will be an ultimate experience. Just sit in their gardens or in your room’s veranda and watch the river gushing right below you... It’s just awesome, believe me!

Where… Kaudiyala | Go there by... Take a train till Haridwar or hire a cab from home | Keep chasing... NH-58 | Stay at… GMVN Tourist Bungalow | Call for booking… 01378-262911 | ebook your room… GMVNL Website | Don’t forget to visit… Vashist Gufa, Ganga Beaches | Remember… The rooms don’t have TVs, N Veg is not available | Take along… warm clothes, medicines, umbrella, beach-party items, food, and booze!!

Underneath your clothes...

You're a song written by the hands of god
Don't get me wrong cause
This might sound to you a bit odd
But you own the place
Where all my thoughts go hiding
And right under your clothes
Is where I find them...

Underneath Your Clothes
There's an endless story...

No, I'm not a fan of the sexy Spanish 'hip' shaking singer! I was just trying to co-relate her song with something and found it to be quite similar. Just notice the fourth and the fifth line of the song... and you'll know what I mean...

The other day I walked into a store for a few new 'under'clothes. There were thousands of little petite darling choices. I was flattered, but soon my thoughts shifted towards the MRP tag... and DAMN I had to take out my credit card!!

I remember my mother buying them for, as far as I remember, 40-50 bucks. But now it's just getting impossible by the day. I fail to understand how exactly do they price such a thing? Elastic, a lil' cloth, maybe some lace here, a bow there and there you go!

Since lingerie companies know people can't do without such stuff and most won't even argue when in such stores. They put a price tag at their own free will. I have seen miserable souls stove the money into the seller's hands and shoot out of the store in a huff... Yes, we can bargain while buying medicines nowadays... but for this I guess it'll take a lot more time...

Since you know such a great deal about what lies underneath clothes would you care to say... err sing... Shakira?

Brakes at NH-24; roads jammed since 4am

It's not holiday stupid, it's 'JAM'iday... As far as your eyes go...
It's 9.45 am on my watch right now and the scenery in front of my flat refuses to change. It's been like this since early 4 am today. The situation was so amusing it forced me to blog about it. I saw people getting thrashed, not less than three cars getting, trucks overpowering small-car owners... My Lord! What a day!! I started for office hoping some poor auto or rickshaw wala will help me but NO! They refused straight-away.... Uniformed children who got up early in the morning for school are playing in the gardens... must be very exciting for them... they look happy :-) Most office goers are loitering around hoping the NH-24 to clear-up!! I'm hoping so too. But what has caused it is strange. If there has been any accident too bad. Hope for the best.