Indian Fiction, movies, travel, art, poetry etc

Honorable Mention in Flash Friday contest # 4, Sonora Review

2011-12-08T22:09:00.000+05:30

Good season continues for the writer in me. Has brought in some cheer, and better hopes.
So it felt nice to see my name among the Honorable mentions in the Flash Fiction contest, conducted recently by Sonora Review. Here's the link. Loved doing this piece.

My latest column is up on This Literary Magazine's home page. Here's the link. More color, perhaps.

The Best Short Writing in the World 2011

2011-10-30T13:11:00.003+05:30

I am very excited to share that in the competition ‘The Best Short Writing in the World 2011’ conducted by the Fleeting magazine, my short fiction has won a special commendation. Here’s the link. The story follows later in this post.

Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS), has published my short fiction ‘The Dogs of Delhi’ in Vol. 10 No. 4 Oct 11. Here’s the link

Not the only peanut seller who hasn’t heard of Osama

He is a boy. But seasoned to work and behave like a man. He sells roasted peanuts by the sea.

The hands I see are big – bigger for a child his age. The clothes that have him covered hang loose on his slim body, uncomfortable. As if expecting him to grow suddenly, overnight, in a few hours. The smear – of dirt, grime, pollution – on his face seems like a beard trying to grow in hurry for his ten, or maybe twelve years.

I am not hungry. Perhaps, it’s just the mood... I want to tip the peanut seller. I ask him for another packet. He’s fast. And hurriedly turns an old newspaper into a small six inch cone, scoops handful of peanuts, and smiles before handing me the packet. Very formal. Very nice. I pay the boy, happy to see his eyes gleam at the sight of money, yet again.

‘Osama,’ one side of the curved newspaper I see almost screams at my face in a red newsprint. Until I turn and read its hidden brother-word on the other side, ‘dead’, also in red.

I smile at the ability of the news to find me again, something the television anchors have been blurting at supernatural speeds on all the channels this past week, something I want to distance from. What they eat, speaking at speeds at which they do, I wonder. The thought frustrates me enough to exhale loudly and I combine it with a yawn.

I look away, beyond my feet, where the sea has embedded the Casuarina trees infringed shoreline and formed a cove, the white sand of which it now playfully sweeps with froth, comforting it together with a very fine spray. The sun, for the month of June on a laidback Sunday like today is furious as hell, but where I sit, there is plenty of shade. I drink from the beer can I am loosely balancing on my fingers. The cold brew catches my throat and wakes up the food pipe momentarily.

The boy is back again.

‘Sahib, it would do you a world of good if you buy some more peanuts.’ I spot a sparkle in his eyes, and he looks a child some more.

‘Can I take a sip?’ he removes a small plastic glass from the oversized shirt pocket and extends towards me. The sparkle is gone now and there is hope that seeps through the forlorn eyes, something that turns him into an adult. But I am unmoved, saying to myself: he is just a child damn it!

‘I am not a child, sahib. I am fifteen.’ He is smiling.

‘How do you know I was thinking about your age?’ I am genuinely flabbergasted.

‘All you guys who come to the beach alone to drink beer, I know what goes on in your mind. I have been selling peanuts here for the past two years.’

I wave the boy away and he obliges without a protest.

The sky’s at last filling with clouds; they are flying in from the south, riding a wind I can feel on my face. Looks like the monsoon has finally arrived, the time I know when lovers fondling will turn incessant, peacocks will dance without fear right on the wet earth and not somewhere high up in the trees, the fishes will mate in shallower waters, and the snakes will emerge out looking for the frogs, who, beckoning their partners for sex which they must, would be croaking like idiots simply to be eaten.

The first spray feels fresh on the face and I watch it patter the giant sea soundlessly in front of me, as rainwater playfully permeates my clothes and mingles through my soul that’s empty and rootless. A made up darkness descends in minutes and both the sea and the sky seem nearer to one another. I open another beer can and look around for the boy feeling hungry.

He is quick to appear on my side and hands over another cone of peanuts and a sandwich.

‘A sandwich?’ It’s a nice little surprise.

‘Didn’t I tell you I have been here for the past two years?’ The boy, very much a boy once again, is smiling at his smartness.

I eat gratefully, while he finishes my can and takes a loud, carefree burp. We chat and he says he has never heard of Osama Bin Laden and has no idea what the word terrorist means. I try to tell him, explain the use of arms and that they kill innocent people. He stops me briefly and tells me he knows people who do similar jobs: the police and the army. When I ask him how, he tells me about his brother.

‘My brother died last year, he was four years elder. But I don’t mourn his death. He promised me not to. He knew he would be dead soon – killed by the police or the army, the terrorist in your language.’

I open another can and tell him that terrorist is not the police or the army, and that they are in fact the good guys who fight the terrorists, the bad ones. I explain, until a stage reaches that I am tired of all the explanation, labored in my breathing with the effort, and the peanut boy breaks into laughter at the sight of me.

Then he tells him how his brother died. ‘Sahib, he used to take women behind the barracks for the policemen late in the night for money and with that he bought food for the two of us, even sweetmeats. It was nice, though he told me it was dangerous. Then one day he was killed. I don’t know how, but the police brought him home dead. I know they killed him. Can I have some more beer?’

I give him a can and he walks away, looking happy, slightly drunk.

It’s a new day when I wake up and I am feeling better. The sky looks clear through the window of my flat. The air is cold, wet and feels nice on the skin. I decide to begin my day with the newspaper. The headline is usual for me, but the picture next to it isn’t.

I can’t cry when I see the picture of the peanut boy with a bullet in his head. His face still has the artificial charm the beer had brought him last evening, and he surely doesn’t know he is now being called a terrorist. I wish I had asked his name. I wish the world realizes one day who the real terrorist is. I wish they know as much as him.

A Waiting Wave

2011-08-15T12:01:00.014+05:30

My second title, 'A Waiting Wave' is now available. (Rs. 125. Kindle edition, 6.71 $)

Links.

Flipkart
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Indiaplaza
Stack you rack
Pustak
Facebook page

The publisher shares my enthusiasm. The book has been submitted to the judges for the fifth annual Man Asian Literary Prize.

For unbiased reviews, I am giving copies to fellow bloggers. Send me an e mail with a link to your blog if you are so inclined. Thank you.

‘A Waiting Wave’

“It is marvellous how Kulpreet has managed to write this deft and entertaining bit of breezy prose. His touch is surprisingly assured.”

Upamanyu Chatterjee, Author of the cult Indian classic ‘English August’

"Kulpreet Yadav's passionate story brings the Andamans to life in such vivid detail that it made me long to drop everything and go there at once."

Indra Sinha, shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, 2007 and regional winner, Commonwealth Writer’s Prize, 2008

Kulpreet Yadav is a promising young writer who shows much talent.”

Jug Suraiya, author and columnist, ‘The Times of India’

"Kulpreet Yadav knows how to make a sentence sound at once dignified and youthful, and most of all careful. These pages bulge provocatively with color and sensation. I’m reeled in by a humid, sweet-smelling aggrandizement of the human condition, and I like it."

Natasha Stagg, editor-at-large, Sonora Review, literary magazine, University of Arizona

“If you are a travel freak, this is a must have. Detailed information about the Stone Age tribes of the Andaman Islands, their culture and the ability to converse with their ancestors, it’s all there.”

Sharell Cook, India Travel Guide, About.com, ‘The New York Times’ company

Fast, action-packed and hugely engrossing, ‘A Waiting Wave’ sure is a thumping good read.

Shridhar Raghavan, "Scriptwriter of Khakee, Apaharan, Dum Maaro Dum and Bluffmaster"

“Kulpreet is gifted with an inventive and graphic imagination that will immerse the readers in this engrossing island saga.”

Sid Khullar, Food commentator and Editor, Chef-at-Large

“Kulpreet Yadav uses a language all his own, a syntax malleable enough to encompass the emotions and thoughts of his truly distinctive protagonist, Harrison Massey. An enjoyable read.”

Steven Miller, fiction editor, Leaning House Press

“The author uses myriad shades to display the essence of true emotions in this promising novel. From separation to self-discovery, the tale drips in the sweet flavour of wanting love between the characters.”

Faraaz Kazi, author of 'Truly Madly Deeply'

“Very riveting and refreshing account. Takes you to Andamans, even if you have never been there. Very enlightening and entertaining.”

Subhash Arora, President, Delhi Wine Club and Editor, DelWine

Celebrity of the Month on okiedoks.com - Author Kulpreet Yadav

2011-07-24T15:07:00.008+05:30

Well, I was busy re-locating from Port Blair to New Delhi last month when Okiedoks.com asked me if I would do an interview for them and I happily agreed. I found the questions very direct and rather difficult to answer. It's one thing to have various opinions about writing and life as an author, and quite the other having to say it. I did the balancing act. Overall a good experience I think, though I am yet to become a biggie in the writing world. Here's the link.

In the next few posts I would like to share information about my new title, 'A Waiting Wave', the reviews and the buzz it has generated, besides my experience of being at the launch of GRANTA 115 issue, the F Word.

Also, do remember to pick a copy of India Today TRAVEL PLUS in which I have bared a few secrets about Port Blair. By the way, Port Blair is also the setting for my new novel, 'A Waiting Wave'.

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Don't Worry, Be Happy

2011-05-17T22:04:00.000+05:30

Read my column in the THIS Literary magazine by clicking here or scroll down. Thanks!

First, the good news. My fiction title, A Waiting Wave will be out soon and it is slated for publication during June 2011 by Pustak Mahal, India, one of the largest publishers in the Indian subcontinent. My first novel, The Bet, was published in 2006.

The beauty of a slow world

As part of my novel writing, I have been living for the past year in a rather remote part of India called the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. This Indian Territory is comprised of a cluster of over five hundred islands stretching along a north-south axis from south of Myanmar all the way down to Indonesia. As someone who is used to living in larger Indian cities like New Delhi and Mumbai, this has been a rather different experience for me. The people here, I have noticed, live life at a slower pace: they walk slowly, talk lesser, eat sparingly and laugh at things I can’t quite find a humor in. Survival is not a challenge here, competition is absent and the crime rate very low. So I wonder: Can our world become a better place if we dismantle larger towns and disperse the people far and wide?

Happiness: Who has a larger pie of it, the rich or the poor?

Ever wondered who is happier: the poor or the rich? If you have visited India, or are planning to do so in the near future, you might have an opportunity to find out. Start by observing the street children when they are not seeking alms at the city’s countless traffic signals. Here’s what you are likely to observe: that they are always laughing, playing pranks with one another or talking with others, all smiles and cool. Quite on the contrary, the children in the cars, who are comfortably seated in air conditioned spaces where a favorite song is playing through the perfumed air seem invariably lost in thoughts. Their minds seem to run ahead of them, working out future plans considered very important and in which they have no choice.

I always find it strange that people who have lots still desire for more, and the ones who have nothing want nothing, save the next meal. The rich too have
their share of happiness, you may argue. Sure they do. And I too, like you, have seen them laugh at parties and receptions. But happiness can’t be time bound and premeditated: okay, I am going to have a party on Saturday afternoon and I will be very happy then. The poor never plan to be happy, they just remain happy, whereas the rich plan to be happy and they don’t remain happy. Happiness is instantaneous and therefore no amount of planning can do any
good.

Online Magazines vs. Print Magazines

Right now, I think print and online magazines are equally poised in popularly among readers. The fulcrum is in the middle. The rise of the online magazines and the decline (I am looking the other way if anyone chooses to swear at me) of the ones in print stand at equal levels of popularity and appeal. Am I suggesting that the online magazine will, in a not-so-distant-future overwhelm the print? Yes. So how does the print magazine survive, as no one wants to be wiped out forever? I think accepting e-mail submissions can be a good starting point. It’s eco-friendly, it's fast and it’s convenient, but we need to shed that we-want-only-hard-copy attitude. Second, it might be a good idea to make the magazines available online too, at a cost of course, while the print edition continues. This would ensure the guys on the web and those smitten still with the feel of paper in hands both get to read the magazine, and not just the latter. In short, the print magazines will have to transform slowly into an online format as the traditional paper format fades away.

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Simple Magic, Complex Lives

2011-04-30T19:52:00.002+05:30

This short fiction was published by the Istanbul Literary Review in their latest edition (Issue 19). Click here to read from the site, or scroll down. Thanks!

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I was at this conference. The lights had been dimmed; a man addicted to conferencing was putting across his strong views on a subject I wasn't least bit interested in, with ease. He wore a tragic looking white suit, proportioned inversely with a black shirt underneath. The red tie that intriguingly peeped from under the coat was clearly hesitant, as if, of its being of a color. I was focusing on the top of his head, not knowing anything better to do, which seemed to shine divine, having eradicated all the hairy vegetation from its surface. Earlier – that is before the conference had begun – the shine was even happier, reflecting playfully the many overhead lights. Now it seemed meditative, wobbling gently in agreement with whatever the man was trying to say.

     I was bored to the limits of boredom, alive only to the frolicking of strange thoughts in my mind. Minutes dragged around me like earthworms slowing down. The air-conditioned space I was locked in, along with about fifty others, tasted and smelt of words bouncing off the walls, rolling gently down here and there, before giving up to a just-arrived batch of fresh, boring words. I dozed off a few times, getting up with a start each time, only to find no one noticing, and the man still talking. Could I have got up and walked away? Hell, no way! The trouble was, the man speaking from the dais was my boss and he had asked me – ordered, actually – to observe the reaction of all the listeners and report to him at the very end. ‘Your presentation was great boss,' my response was already ready in my mind, but the boring lecture continued.

     It was only towards the end, perhaps, that I noticed an attractive woman seated diagonally across, listening intently, nodding now and then. I could see her from the side but it wasn't very clear due to the slight light. Even then, I couldn't help notice a virtuous nose rise gently, bisecting a pair of plump lips and an eye that surely hid a cluster of twinkling stars. I kicked myself for having missed noticing her before the conference, at the registration desk. Or maybe she came in late, I wondered, for I was convinced I wasn't used to making such blunders. In fact haven't made one such in thirty years, toddling years and kid-hood included.

     Finally it ended, clapping hands screaming a relief which made my job of convincing my boss easier. Minutes later, I was whispering in his ears. “Boss it was great… did you notice the thunder in the applause?” He smiled, his chest ballooning in labor as he took a long breath, and his shiny head now reflecting all of the overhead lights. He got back to his talking, explaining to the three foolish people who stood around him, the highlights of his presentation.

     I moved to the farthest corner of the tea room, taking shelter behind bodies of all others, and picked up a cup of tea. I couldn't curse for having taken a sip of the very hot liquid absentmindedly. I just couldn't, as I found myself peering into a familiar face. Hi, she said, as I gulped the liquid, fighting with my face to break into a smile. When she smiled, I knew I had succeeded. She offered a brief introduction which I listened intently and when done, I offered mine. I noticed her and it became like a man noticing an attractive female, the opposite gender. Her face was like a breathless surrender of a white dove to the summer heat – the eyes felt so intriguingly inquisitive that I worried it will rob all the charm around her that they could see; the nose stood like a winner after a lucrative prize; the cheeks flowed down in angles and curves never experienced or discovered by anyone before; and the lips sat like a fire under preservation. I stared, aware that I stared, and she talked, aware, I thought, that I stared.

     As time tamed the laws of attraction to normalcy – which must have been ten minutes or so later – she told me that my boss was one of the best speakers she has heard for a really long time. The attraction ebbed silently, enough that in a few minutes I didn't die of a heart attack as she went back to her seat in the conference room. The lights dimmed once again and another person now took over the dais and started an equally boring presentation. I hated him, only until I saw my friend nodding enthusiastically. I looked down at the carpet inspecting my shoes, looked up to inspect the ceiling, looked at the walls making faces at the speakers on the walls, looked around at the faces of the mesmerized people and looked at my female friend, before starting all over again. Minutes now crawled even more slowly, as if they had sex and got themselves pregnant during our tea break. The words moved around my head in circles singing lullabies as I fought very hard to keep myself awake. My boss was now seated in the row ahead of mine and I was sure, if I slept – which meant I might snore – I would lose my job. So, I fought valiantly, staring at the woman every few minutes for stimulation.

   There was sudden applause and I didn't miss the desperation in my energies as I joined others, clapping so hard that my palms ached. The clapping died after a few seconds, but somehow, I couldn't stop clapping. I clapped, and clapped, looking at my hands and looking at others, most of whom now stared at me. I noticed that my boss turned in his seat and glared at me, his eyebrows signaling a message. I was sure he wanted me to stop. But I couldn't; the attention I was now getting made something inside me joyful. I also noticed the attractive woman look at me with an anxious expression, and continued clapping, so much that my head throbbed, my eyes leaked and my lips trembled at the effort. I also felt sweat drops gingerly slither down my back. The echo of my claps crowded on me and the stares pushed me into an inky depth of nothingness. I closed my eyes. I wanted to shout, but couldn't. I heard someone whisper in my ears and I opened my eyes.

     The speaker had changed and the world around me was as boring as before the dream. I took a long breath and was relieved at the discovery. “Did I snore?” I asked the man seated beside me, who looked at me with disgust and nodded. I controlled the urge to hit him. “Was it loud enough for the man over there,” I pointed towards my boss, “to have heard?” The disgust on his face multiplied and the nod became livelier. This, I knew meant serious damage as I had slept in the last conference also, and in the one before that, and all the times before that. And now I was on the final leash of life. My boss had warned me that just one more time and my story was over. I mustered some courage and asked the man again, “did he look around?” In response the man just got up and shifted a few seats further from me. Bastard, I muttered under my breath.

     At the lunch time, I avoided my boss. I didn't have the courage to hear about my dismissal in front of everyone. So, I marked him from the corner of my eyes, and moved around as he moved speaking to people. The food was a good distraction and my taste buds allowed a temporary relief as I dunked in some real good butter chicken and butter nan , my all time favorite combination. It was while I was savoring the dessert that I met my woman friend once again. We were out in the open, the winter sun peacefully warming the best around us. Blue rock pigeons sat on the trees in the courtyard below chatting frankly in their chirpy-echoes-in-a-well-type-sounds.

     “Hi again!” she smiled and I smiled back, nodding like the frank flapping of a fabric drying in a gale. She looked sweeter than the sweet in her hands and for a moment I felt stupid eating something less sweet. “You look worried.”

     Did I? I tried to fake a smile and declared, “I guess I am fine.”

     “The second presentation was also interesting, so educating, so…”

     “More dessert?” I interrupted, sacred to recall the conference and the disasters I committed.

     “You didn't like the presentation, I think. Am I right?”

     I nodded with the innocence of a school child.

     “Which one of the two you didn't like?” I liked the way she asked the question and I wondered. What if she also didn't like the presentation just like me? What if she is just faking? What if all the people inside were faking?

     I couldn't lie to her, so I mustered some courage but spoke slowly, “both were boring for me but I hated the first one more. Maybe, because I slept in the second one…. By the way, you were seated right in the front row… tell me did you hear me snore?” She moved her head sideways and I almost jumped in joy. That meant, I thought, my boss didn't hear me at all. That also meant I could keep the job. So what if I didn't like working in this stupid company, with this stupid boss, at least it was paying me well. And who in the world would pay an idiot like me, who is dreaming all the time, clicking bad pictures, writing stories even more badly? My friends called me a failure; my parents called me a burden; my two girlfriends – both left me eventually – called me a pest, addicted to a world that didn't exist. One called me an egotist and the other, called me an alcoholic, just because I liked to drink heavily at the parties.

     I liked the way she smiled, before whispering that she too didn't enjoy the presentations enough. “Oh!” I was surprised to hear the response though I had secretly desired just the same. “What about others?” I wanted to see how far my hunch could take me. “I guess it was the same with everybody.”

     “You know,” I scratched my stubble and spoke to her what I always wanted to speak to a good friend about my boss, “the first speaker was my boss. He is worst scum on this earth. He is such an idiot that it is impossible to work for him. But you know, these times of recession, I just don't have any choice.” She nodded understandingly and I marveled at my convincing powers. We joined the conference again after a few more minutes and I now dozed more confidently as she had agreed to pinch me if I snored. Now she sat right in front of me and it was a big relief in submerging into the world of my choice from where I could abuse my boss, become his boss, sack him for incompetence and order him to fetch me a cup of tea.

     When the conference got over, I and the woman exchanged our cell phone numbers. After a couple of days, I asked her if she could join me for a dinner. She agreed and I reached the address she SMS-ed me, wearing my best clothes sprinkled with the most expensive perfume in my cupboard. I found her standing in front of the gate, just as she had promised. Beauty conveniently clung over her, playing an overt game with the smart outfit she wore. It was already dusk and the dimming light abysmally contrasted with the glow on her face, failing like a born loser. Behind her, I caught something familiar on the name plate that slung heavily from the big wrought iron gates. I didn't have to focus hard to find out more. It was the name of my boss and she was his daughter. I heard her laugh behind me, as I raced away on my motorbike.

Glossary:

Nan (Hindi). An oblong shaped Indian bread made of wheat flour.

The British Court, Agra, India, 1856 A.D.

2011-04-06T19:07:00.002+05:30

Read my short fiction at Sonora Review, the Literary Journal of the University of Arizona, by clicking here, or scroll down. Thanks!

The white Magistrate asks the accused brown Indian, ‘Why did you kill the British soldier?’

The brown Indian replies, ‘Because he killed my brother and his family.’

The white magistrate is aghast, ‘Everyone knows it was an accident. I want the truth.’ White or brown, everyone nods in the courtroom.

The Indian smiles, ‘I killed him because he was white. A white lie.’

The magistrate’s verdict is ready: ‘To be hanged.’ Everyone agrees in the courtroom, white or brown.

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February thoughts from South Asia

2011-02-24T17:08:00.002+05:30

Read my column in THIS Literary Zine from here, or scroll down. Thanks!

Prof P. Lal, one of the most loveable Indian Publishers, closes his final book

I won’t talk about the literary festivals that are proliferating in India these days like wildfire (but don’t take me as someone who is averse to them). Rather, with esteemed reverence I would like to remember one of the India’s greatest publishers and writers, Prof P. Lal, who passed away recently. His ‘Writer’s Workshop’, during the five decades plus of its existence, published many famous names of the present times: Vikram Seth, Anita Desai, Shashi Deshpande and Raja Rao, to name a few.

I got to know about Prof P. Lal about four years ago and spoke with him on a few occasions. This was the time when I was looking for a suitable publisher for my novel. I had spoken to about a dozen editors and publishing house receptionists or so, and the only one who spoke to me with excitement was Prof Lal. Not just that, he also gave me a few words of encouragement, something that did a lot to my confidence and for which I am forever indebted.

But sadly, I couldn’t publish with Writer’s Workshop (I repent it to this day). And the only reason I didn’t publish my first title with him was due to the simple fact that WW didn’t have a distribution setup. Mr. Lal’s love for books was so deep-routed and his idea of books so unique that he hand-bound the books himself in lovely and colorful Indian sarees (the traditional clothing of Indian women) cloth pieces from his house at Kolkata, in north east India, and the book numbers were kept as low as 100, something like a limited edition.

During one of our recent conversations, I requested him to accept a small donation from me for the Writer’s Workshop, which his website announced they needed. I was honored because, not only did he accept my offer, but he also made it a point to talk about my small gesture on WW’s website. It is still there now. Aside from this, there was a poetry collection I had been working on, too, about which I told him and he asked me to send it for consideration. But since it wasn’t fully ready, I couldn’t send it. Now, perhaps, I never will. Worse, no one as good might ever be willing to see it.

A father at 94

Well, this got me thinking, I mean, how is it possible to father a child that is biologically one’s own at 94?

But it has happened right here in India! The man who achieved this feat asserted, according to a national daily, that it’s due to the food he had consumed when young: three liters of Buffalo milk, half a kilo of almonds and half a kilo of ghee (melted, clarified butter) everyday. It’s a magic formula to remain virile until the final breath, if you go by his theory. Food for thought for scientists, I guess.

In a race to unsettle the previous record holder, another Indian man who fathered a child at 90, this nonagenarian farmer is not just happy, he is bubbling with newly attained fatherhood and posing for pictures in his village in India’s northwest. He has called this unique achievement, ‘The God’s gift’. His wife is in her mid-fifties.

An important question: Is it not the responsibility of a parent to consider, before bearing a child, if he or she has enough residual time to bring up the child properly? But at 94 he can hardly be blamed to worry about such issues. And as Hugh Hefner, CEO of Playboy enterprises, recently said during his engagement to a Playboy model 60 years younger, ‘When you’re in love, age is just a number.’ Let’s watch out: he’s 84.

When it’s for the family, it pays to fight the weather

With the onset of a particularly aggressive winter this year, it hurt many of us to see so many people stuck at the airports all over Europe and America, spending Christmas and other holidays sprawled on hard benches or floors. So the question is: is it really worthwhile for you to jettison your travel plans, or the possibility of being with your loved ones, for the fear that the weather may play a spoil sport?

I would like to share what happened to me when I was confronted with the option and the opportunity came for me to visit my family at Delhi, nearly three thousand kilometers from where I am stationed. The newspaper had reported diversion of 76 flights during the last few days of December yet I grabbed the opportunity to visit my family with both hands and booked myself a flight for the first of January. And as luck would have it, the aircraft arrived in the afternoon on a clear day and on time. So you see, it does pay to fight the weather.

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The Walking Trees of the Village

2011-01-14T15:12:00.001+05:30

This short fiction has been featured by 'Asia Writes' on 12 Jan 2011. Click to read from the website or scroll down.

What did the walking trees say to the village when they headed for the city? ‘Bye folks! This place is so depressing. We will have fun in the city and come back a few years later.’

They did come back, but not a few years later. In fact by the time they got back, the trees were old, tired. And they had stories to tell. The village was not prosperous anymore but they were patient and they listened: the thatched houses, the big eared dogs, the jumpy squirrels, the charcoal black buffaloes, the docile goats, the saintly sheep and the pesky pigs.

‘We loved our lives, made lots of friends who hung out with us all the time and made a lot of money. But soon we got old. People get older much faster in the cities, and when that happened to us, the city abandoned us. All our friends, money and calm – it all vanished.’

‘Oh!’ The village and all its inhabitants exclaimed. There was sympathy in their reaction and the trees smiled, relieved.

‘Will you take us back?’ The trees leaves hung heavy from their branches. The moisture on them rolled and sat precariously on the tapered tips, like studded gems.

‘Of course, we will.’ The thatched houses, the big eared dogs, the jumpy squirrels, the charcoal black buffaloes, the docile goats, the saintly sheep and the pesky pigs all screamed together as if without thinking.

The trees jumped in joy and their leaves brought a fine drizzle of jubilation in the village. That year the crop yield broke an old record. And soon the village once again became prosperous.

The Rum Base

2010-12-25T12:13:00.001+05:30

Read my fiction titled 'The Rum Base' from the website of the literary magazine, Orion Headless, by clicking here, or scroll down. Thanks!

There is this group of men, who are staring at me from the bar counter. But I relax; it’s good to get attention. I want to fight them – all three of them – but not here, in the middle of the shady Delhi bar. I want to take them to the park, near the musical fountain, more so now, when the music would be dead, the fountain lost for the day. There are trees there and they would be the witness. I am confident I can take them by my bare hands, all of them. I also have a pistol, and if required, a knife in my sock, and if things really go out of hand, my dad’s high position in the judiciary. A phone call and the cars would come screaming, screeching, like they were waiting for my dad to ask them. So you see I have come well prepared.

My fingers ache. I close my eyes and recall the karate lessons. I am ready, but have to learn to wait. I go over my plan once more: hurt, make them beg, and if required kill them. It is far too exciting. I ask for another peg of rum, just as they ask for their whiskeys.

I whisper: Bloody whiskey guys, sissies, slaves, you have your noses in the ass of the British and the Irish. I am certain they haven’t heard me, but one of them suddenly seems particularly agitated. I like him glaring at me. This is the opportunity, I know, so I wink, smile and move my lips: fuck you!

It’s fun to see his face twitch as he deals with the surprise. I don’t want him to consult his friends, and he doesn’t. So, I wink again. I see him jump to his feet and charge towards me. I laugh; the game is going just as I wanted. He is halfway when one of his drunken friends pulls him back. The two of them have a slight scuffle and I laugh when I hear his abuse. He is taken back, but he is now staring at me like I am someone who has ordered the world to come to an end. There is still time son, I whisper, as he glares.

It’s under a full moon that I follow them an hour later, drizzle adding to the mood as I pull up in front of their car. They hit my car but manage to stop. I jump out and hop straight into the park, jumping the wrought iron gates, ignoring as they abuse me in Hindi. Moments later I hear their footsteps; it feels nice for the predator to be chased by the prey. I stop when I know I am at the spot I want to be.

I hit the first of them with a punch and he goes back reeling. The second one gets me in the chest; it is a mighty powerful blow. I fear I might just go to sleep, so I shout and lunge at the third. Something doesn’t feel right. It takes me a second to realize that he has already hit me with the pistol which I see now. I take out mine. But it is late. I hear them laugh and I smile, unable to laugh. I should have stayed with my fighting just-with-two policy. The lesson is clear, but comes at the very end. Whiskey wins; the rum loses. I must return to the base camp now, my home that is, the rum base.

*

Kulpreet Yadav interviewed by Sonora Review, the Literary journal of the University of Arizona

2010-12-11T15:07:00.002+05:30

I was recently interviewed by Natasha Stagg, the Editor-at-Large, Sonora Review. Click here to read from the website or scroll all the way down. You also might find my short short fiction at SR titled, 'Can I kill you again Mr. Hitler?', interesting. That's just after the interview down here, or read from the website.

*

Natasha Stagg: How long have you been writing?

Kulpreet Yadav: Eight years, in a serious way. Earlier I was just jotting random thoughts; and it could include anything of general interest. But now I am more planned, better focused and have developed an ability to take it forward where I left, much in the same tone. In short, I am able to sustain my thoughts, over a period of time.

NS: Do you write every day?

KY: Yes, on most days. I would reckon about eighty percent of days. The days I don’t write, I feel uncomfortable.

NS: What are your thoughts on “writing on writing?” Ever read the advice other authors give?

KY: I don’t know, frankly. It can work both ways: sure it is always a good thing to know what others think about your writing, but negative feedback can sometimes puncture the spirit of writing itself. To answer the second part, yes, I have read views of some people. In fact, I am at Zoetrope Virtual Studio, where fellow writers review other’s work.

NS: Do you have some advice to give?

KY: Just one thing: Writing allows you to reach areas and places you otherwise can’t. So, go ahead, write about your world, your ideas, your pains and pleasures. Reviewers may like the work, or may not, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is something that you thought worth sharing has been shared.

NS: Who is your favorite author of the moment, and what should we read by them?

KY: Anne Enright’s The Gathering, Rana Dasgupta’s Solo and Roald Dahl’s short stories. I am afraid I don’t have one favorite author.

NS: What is a book that kind of blew your mind, that we’d be surprised by?

KY: Tough one! As a kid, I was smitten by all the books written by Rene Brabazon Raymond. By the time I was eighteen, I had read almost all of his works. Indira Sinha’s The Death of Mr. Love and Upamanyu Chaterjee’s English August are two books I can say which really blew my mind.

*

Can I kill you Again, Mr. Hitler?

It’s funny; weird actually. When I close my eyes, I am with Hitler. But when I open, he is gone. So, excited, nervous, I keep them closed.

‘Hello, Mr. Hitler!’

He is smoking, smiling, but face is signature withdrawn. ‘Who are you?’

I start thinking, but he is ready for more, ‘Are you British?’

‘No.’

‘Russian?’

‘No.’

‘American?’

‘No.’

He turns to consult his aide; there is none.

‘We had fallen off the map.’

‘New enemy?’

‘Can I kill you again, Mr. Hitler?’

He laughs. ‘But I am a loser, already dead.

*

The Delhi Thug

2010-11-27T17:40:00.002+05:30

The Delhi Thug has also been featured in the Nov-Dec issue of This literary Magazine. Click to read

***

Rohan liked watching people smudging the sidewalks on a busy afternoon in the city, some with hope in their eyes, some empty. He would stand with a smile on his thirty-year-old face, eyes half closed, letting his senses filter each person. The targets were chosen carefully, and he never failed. It was on one such afternoon he came across her. The excess of dress she was wearing for the afternoon, the wide-eyed wondrous look of a new person in the city, and the unnecessary “excuse me” each time he saw her bump into someone across from where he stood were like a treat for his senses. Behind the spectacles, the Delhi thug’s smile gave him the face of a friendly stranger – someone you could trust.

“What took you so long?” he asked his just arrived partner, Sheila, without any change in his expression. She didn’t reply, instead adjusted the one-year-old hired toddler in her arms and homed onto their target in less than five seconds, watching her walk across the road along the zebra crossing. Both turned slowly, the con family without any link between them except business, and saw her enter a large bookstore. Their strategy was simple: Rohan was the one who did all the talking, while Sheila stood nearby to show the baby wailing in her arms as she kept pinching him. It was a foolproof plan and in seven long years it never failed. Nobody ever informed the police as the money they managed to fleece was too trivial. And in any case, the strangers who came to Delhi had far better things to do in the capital city in the limited time they could stay.

Today looked like an easy day, Rohan thought. He could find all he wanted to know in less than half an hour. The stranger was from a small town and in exactly two hours she would launch her book at the tea shop in the bookstore. A couple of people sat with her and he heard them discuss the event as he pretended to browse through the books on a shelf close to them. Then he slipped out of the door and out of sight where his partner waited, the baby dead quiet in her arms. She thrust the baby towards him. “What is this?” Rohan was annoyed. “This is your part of the job.” Sheila smiled, laughed, and declared loudly that she needed to go to the toilet and walked away without waiting for him to react.

He felt the baby’s stare as he looked around. He looked down and was surprised to see that the child had very big eyes, like that of an adult. It was difficult to look into them and Rohan had to quickly look away. Then he felt the body turn lighter in his arms until he thought he was only holding a shadow. He looked down and the eyes stared at him fixedly, but now there was a smile that curled the side of the lips, one side of which had saliva dripping from it. The contrast was scary – the sadness in the eyes didn’t match the smile. He was scared wondering what it meant but quickly brushed the thought away.

Sheila took an hour to get back and when she did he noticed the bruises on her face and neck. “You could have told him this is not a good time,” he said angrily. She took the child and sat down next to him. He repeated his comment. This time Sheila’s reply quieted him for a long time. She hissed, through betel nut-stained, rust-colored teeth, “He is my lover and he rarely asks. You don’t have to tell me when to fuck.”

They saw the target walk through the glass doors, look in their direction, and go away looking confused. Both knew she was looking for the restroom and would find it at the end of the corridor. But they stared at her blankly, the child suddenly crying, reacting to the pinch. Minutes later when she was on her way back, Sheila was holding her face in her palms, sobbing, while the child was still wailing and Rohan looked at their target, his face sullen, eyes big with fear, hair disheveled. He saw her hesitate in front of them for a second before walking away. He knew it was time.

After five minutes he was standing behind her. She was alone browsing through the books, while others busied themselves making the final arrangements for the event. He knew the format. The bookstore had been a favorite haunt. He turned the final time to see if Shelia and their unhealthy child were where he could show them to her. They were.

“Excuse me, madam.” He was happy to hear the practiced tremble in his voice. She turned and the expression was just as he had expected.

“Yes?”

A tear rolled from Rohan’s eye when he narrated his story. He said that their child needed immediate medical tests which cost three thousand rupees and he didn’t have a penny. He showed her the fake medical prescription with the day’s date (he had a big bunch of such undated blank prescriptions at home that he filled himself whenever required, like today). He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, the first reaction he was expecting. He continued, his finger pointed towards his fake family. “We stay in this heartless city madam, I don’t want the entire money, just give me whatever you can.” She was looking at the child. Rohan knew his little con game was headed in the right direction.

“I will return your money in a month’s time. Here is my card.” He handed her a fake card.She had tears in her eyes when she gave him two thousand rupees. He smiled, bowed, and cried some more, before thanking her profusely and vanishing through the glass doors.

By now many people had gathered and she was asked to sit on the chair facing them. As she sat down in front of fifty close friends and people from the media to read from her second book, everyone, except her, noticed the police take a struggling family in handcuffs through the glass wall behind her. She didn’t need to see them as she herself had planned the arrest after being conned by the same thugs two years prior when she was in the city for her maiden book launch. There was a roar of clapping when she finished her reading. It certainly looked like this book would do much better than her previous one. She was getting better at telling stories, not plain listening to them.

.

Life: Forever Jigsaw, Forever Straight

2010-10-17T16:44:00.001+05:30

I don’t know if I am sick, or it is just a bad taste in the mouth. Or, is it the mind that is playing tricks. I don’t know my state, but I would be lying if that is true. I think I might know: it’s the woman next door. Yes, I think that is what it is. You should see how unattractive she is. But she may be beautiful inside; I don’t know that yet. So, I live with the feeling.

Five years ago, I played a game with my friends; a game I think now can qualify to sit on the extremes of silliness. But back then, I was happy with it. The game was simple: scoop back the girls we fancied back at the school. Internet, my friends screamed. I think I spotted my own voice in it too. We failed, all of us still children. I guess, nobody grows.

I don’t like my job; I don’t like my not liking it; and now I do not like writing about my not liking it too. It is difficult to say you don’t like something. Its rejection; and it upsets me. It is one thing being cynical and quite the other rejecting it. If you are cynical, the creator of the thing cynical according to you has a chance to work upon it, or plain leave your cynicism all by itself. But if you reject, you make the creator reject your opinion, or hate you altogether. But I still choose to reject. It gives me hilarious pleasure, because in any case no one seems to be bothered about what I think. I am nobody; and nobodies can reject all the same.

There are sixteen varieties of bananas available at the fruit-seller near my house. He sells vegetables too, but I don’t need them as I don’t cook at home. The bananas, each variety, he explains comes from a different island in the Andamans. But there are 570 of them, I know, so I ask him why not so many varieties and he smiles, saying wisely that he doesn’t know. I like the man, so each time I go there I ask him why only 16 varieties, why not 570 and he just smiles, thinking I am joking. Sometimes he doesn’t charge me money; I think he is dealing with guilt that he can’t answer such a basic question of a weekly customer.

The other day I was at this bar: dark inside, smelling of sweat and roast peanuts, fans whipping the cigarette smoke into concentric circles. I don’t go to such cheap bars, but I did, and it surprised me a bit. Just a bit. So I asked the barman, a young man with a curly moustache and small eyes. He said I might have remembered that I owed him some money. I had to leave the place in a hurry. I don’t have money for such scoundrels. And I can’t remember taking anything from him.

At the airport last week I came across an old man. He was reading a book and there was this permanent smile on his face. There was something strange about the man, so I bought a coffee and sat next to him. An hour passed without him turning a page, or that smile slipping even a wee bit. When the boarding was announced and he got up to go, he answered my query without my asking, ‘I have read this book a hundred times. I was recalling my childhood.’ I smiled and he continued, ‘you know when I was a little boy I could fool everyone at my home that I was studying whereas I was not. Just like now. And I think I have been able to fool you too.’ I smiled, thinking, yes, we remain children throughout our lives.

The watchman of our society where I live keeps sleeping the whole day. What do you do at night, I asked him one day? What does anyone do at night? He looked surprised, while I waited. ‘I sleep of course,’ he said finally.

There is enough for one - Short Fiction by Kulpreet Yadav

2010-10-08T08:34:00.001+05:30

This flash fiction has been featured in the latest issue of the 'Salt River Review.' Click here.

I was happy. The friends played with me all day, dogs chased us home when we stole mangoes from the orchard, and the camels farted while we danced to Hindi film songs in the afternoons narrating stories about our ancestral courage.

There were three of us: I, the jovial, black eyed, timid seven years old; Hobe, eight, brown eyed, strong, with a girlfriend, someone who all of us schoolmates loved as a hero, and perhaps a God even; and of course Anita, grey eyed, the plump girl, whose gums grew with such ambition over her teeth that we loved her smile. The trouble was, I was only one who was poor; the other two of my friends were better off, living in cement houses, their fathers cycling to work, mothers making chicken biryani on Sundays after watching a movie with the family in the only theatre around which our small town grew like a ghost on fire, reds, blues and greens fading the sky and the earth to disappearance.

My dad was smart, I think, or maybe stupid. As a child I had no idea why he couldn’t earn, why he drank so much alcohol, why my mother cried the way she did, and why he bought lottery tickets. One day, he made me buy one, and a day later came home looking for me – my mother hid me under the cot – but he found me and beat me for bringing bad luck. I hated him, but he hated me even more. When I saw my mother’s stomach swell and she told me there was a baby brother I was to get, I danced with her.

I told Hobe and Anita. Hobe laughed, laughed, and laughed till he fainted. But Anita was kinder; she just smiled. I couldn’t figure how, but I thought my kid brother needed food, so I asked my friends. It was on the next day and Hobe’s face was still red, I think, due to last evening’s laughing. They gave me some money and I bought chapattis and curd for my mom. It went on for days; she told me I made her very happy, and that my brother was well. One day I got my friends home; they said my house looked bad and my mother sick, yet my mother smiled and held their hands, kissing them, tears running on her face.

Two months later, the midwife told all three of us that my baby brother was happy. But he still cried when he was born. Anita said he was healthy. But my mother died. The midwife said she was too weak.

Years later, I told my brother about the story of our lives: our parents, my friends. He cried. It felt sad to see our country’s boxing champion cry, but it felt good that he knew from where the food came.

The Evening Tea

2010-08-14T20:34:00.002+05:30

This flash fiction has also been featured in 'The Leaning House Press'. Click here to read from the site.

There were many flavors: jasmine, lime, apple, ginger. But eyeing the beautiful ladies, wrapped in glittering saris, I wasn’t interested in having tea at the hotel lawn at all. One of them could become my life partner, the pundit had said, and I believed him; I knew his astrological forecasts never failed.

So I waited, waited for that something to happen, looking for it in the swimming pool which reflected the hotel lights and from the sari glitter, the two fighting with each other, suspicious, jealous, looking like competing clusters of fireflies; even the diamonds that sent reflections from the pretty necks clashed with one another, looking venomous, desperate. It all seemed nice, a cool place with umpteen options. And the wait already seemed behind me. And yet the hibernating courage needed to be woken up, to hasten the process, to bring the love of my life, closer, and faster. Just then I heard the inner voice; I had come prepared.

I made a few trips to the toilet to drink my hip-flask whiskey, and woke up next day with an old, bald woman. She smiled, wore her wig, patted my cheek and walked away. Now I wanted tea. The flavors circled in my mind as I dashed into the bathroom.

.

Can I kill you Again, Mr. Hitler?

2010-07-24T20:26:00.000+05:30

It’s funny; weird actually. When I close my eyes, I am with Hitler. But when I open, he is gone. So, excited, nervous, I keep them closed.

“Hello, Mr. Hitler!’

He is smoking, smiling, but the face is signature withdrawn. ‘Who are you?’ he asks.

While I am thinking if I can tell him my real name, he asks another question, ‘Are you British?’

‘No.’ I am not surprised.

‘Russian?’

‘No.’ I try not to smile.

‘American?’

‘No.’ I don’t know how to react.

There is a pause. Does he know no other country, I wonder?

I see him turn, to consult his aide but there is none.

‘We had fallen off the map.’ I offer, leaving him with a riddle.

He is now squinting in a fresh waterfall of cigar smoke that is sweeping across his face, defying gravity. Then he asks, suddenly, ‘New enemy?’

I know this is the right moment so I ask, politely, ‘Yes, a new enemy, perhaps. But Mr. Hitler, can I kill you again?’

He laughs and seems relieved. ‘But I am a loser, and already dead.’

I nod in understanding, wondering if there can ever be a possibility of killing someone who is already dead. I decide finally to wait, thinking: who knows what the future holds.

Good Girl, Dumb Boy

2010-07-02T19:23:00.003+05:30

She was beautiful and he loved her.

He tried to tell her, but couldn’t.
Then on the final day at the college, he told her.
She beamed and they walked hands in hands
by the sea and made gentle love under the moon,
the waves tickling their struggling feet.

Both went their ways.
He wrote letters;
she replied sometimes.
Six years later he arrived at her doorstep,
flowers in hand
and wedding proposal on his mind.

But she couldn’t recognize him
as a drunken man pulled her in,
abusing him.
He couldn’t see her tears.

**

Also visible on Angie's diary.

.

Weekend at Havelock Island, India

2010-05-29T10:17:00.004+05:30

(Now also read it on about.com, a part of The New York Times Company)

Two reasons that made us select a weekend at Havelock Island: One, the Times magazine rated the Radhanagar beach as the best beach in Asia in 2004 (the only one from India to figure in the list), and two, many of my friends have been recommending it over the years.

Cruise to Havelock from Port Blair

Already at Port Blair, I along with my wife and two daughters departed by a high speed cruise catamaran called Makruzz at 0845 Hrs last Sunday. The catamaran, bought by a local company from Damen shipping in Singapore, has a capacity of about 280 passengers seated on two decks in three classes. We chose to travel by the Premium class (the middle one with one way fare per person of Rs. 650) and that got two of us the window seats. The catamaran is 37 meters in length and built to international specifications. While the kids sat next to their window seats, munching chips bought from the central kiosk, I and my wife sipped hot tea, seeing the islands appear and disappear around us. It rained for a while, but for most of the travel of ninety minutes it was clear with a good view.

The Barefoot resort

It will be difficult for anyone to sustain the enthusiasm for long, as the driver takes you through totally uninhabited parts of the island before finally breaking off on a dirt road, tall trees standing stout all around. So, the arrival at the resort was slightly discomforting for all of us, particularly the children.

The biggest hut with a thatched roof was the reception and we were welcomed by the front office manager, Mr. John. He showed us various accommodation options and we chose the duplex Nicobari hut at Rs. 6500 (off season discount included). Made entirely of wood, the structure sits on wooden stilts on all the corners with a large palm leaf canopy on top and has a folding five step staircase that can be folded up to keep the reptiles and insects away during the night.

From inside the hut, the foliage outside could be seen from everywhere: if one wants, through the sliding windows the curtain of which can be rolled up; and if one doesn’t want, still through the glass top bathroom and nylon net sealed three feet difference between the roof and the walls.

Within ten minutes, we had our first wave of happiness. It felt strangely comforting to be right in the middle of a jungle, the waves of the sea within hearing distance.

The Radhanagar beach

We threw our travel clothes away and donned our swimsuits. Then all of us ran towards the beach. Through the woods, the beach emerges like a blue green gem initially before you come across the powdery white sand all around it hugging like a pearly necklace. The beach mat, the umbrellas, the mobile phones all abandoned at the edge, four of us jumped into the inviting waters. Though it was midday it wasn’t sunny; the clouds had been playing hide and seek with the sun all day long and we didn’t exactly miss the sun. The Indian sun can be pretty harsh at such places, so we had prayed for a cooler respite and we were lucky to have got just that.

The best thing about staying at the resort – we realized at that moment –was the fact that since there was no other resort in the vicinity we had the entire stretch of sea and sand to ourselves. The visitors who come to the beach can reach only up to the far end on the other side where the road ends and we could see many of them looking like ants climbing over each other in the hazy distance. It was luxury to be having a beach all to ourselves, a forest guard sitting in the distance on his lookout post and the manager coming occasionally to check if all was fine with us. It took us two hours before the scenery began to wear its effect off and stomach grumbled with hunger.

The Crocodile menace

The deadly crocodiles were definitely on our minds when we took the dip. Now, I don’t know how wise we were to venture in waist deep waters, just a little distance from the spot where an American tourist was attacked by a deadly salt water crocodile very recently (God rest her soul in peace). She was incidentally a guest at Barefoot resort, also the place of our stay. It was a wayward incident we were convinced by the resort staff. Anyway, what is life without a little bit of risk. That said, we decided to forego all our earlier plans to go snorkeling. The girls didn’t simply have the courage and I didn’t see any reason.

Dolphins Ahoy!

Next day, having rested really well and woken up to the cacophonic early morning discussions of the local birds and also having finished an early morning stroll on the beach, bathed and fresh, we were proceeding for breakfast at eight, when the Front desk manger, Mr. John, told us about the Dolphins. Giving the breakfast a slip for the time being, we scurried through the woods a little distance away, where, as I said before, the road got the visitors to the beach, to be in the middle of the action. A crowd of about fifty people had already gathered but there seemed to be no Dolphins. I asked a bystander and he said the two Dolphins had been washed ashore an hour or so ago, but the forest officials had put them back into the sea. But we could see their fins in the distance, so we waited. Surprisingly, a little later the Dolphins were once again washed ashore. The crowd thronged on the people who rescued them. I learnt later they were the forest officials. I hope their efforts revived the drowsy looking beautiful mammals.

Diverse ecosystem

Most of the islands in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, I would like to mention, support diverse ecosystems. While on one patch you might have tall Mahua (Madhuca Longifolia) Dido (Bombax Insigne) and wild Jamun trees, on the other all you can see are short shrubs, while still on others you can see the coconuts and the areca-nut trees growing alongside palm trees. This diversity supports all kinds of life. We spotted parrots, mynahs and beautiful butterflies too.

The Vijaynagar beach

The next day, after checking out from Barefoot Resort (the checkout time here is nine in the morning but they allowed us the luxury of a late check out) we headed for the second beach called Vijaynagar beach. This beach has almost all the resorts dotting all along its curve. We selected the Wild Orchid for our lunch at the recommendation of our driver. The restaurant is called the ‘Red Snapper’ and when we ordered Prawn curry in coconut gravy and a Biryani, along with beer and coke we had no idea what was in store for us. Both the prawn curry and the Biryani turned out to be the best I have ever eaten. After the lunch we headed once again to the beach, our luggage in the safe custody of the front desk. This beach is not half as good as the Radhanagar beach: there are rocks dotting its shore line, which can become dangerous to navigate during high water, and there are too many people.

The Park

2010-05-28T12:51:00.002+05:30

I wasn’t alone in the park – there were trees, flowers, noxious fumes from the cars passing the street alongside. The sky seemed repentant, inverted, the sea it had sucked the past few days flushed out. But the sun was drunk, sleepy, about to happily roll over to the other side. Cunning, I thought.

I could hear the fishes talk, but they were in the water, and I had to laugh at the absurdity. I pitied a few of them, dead ones, which people like me ate at the seafood restaurant at the edge of the park. I could hear laughter, music, imagine people happy. I knew it was about time as I saw the first Tsunami wave rise. It felt nice to die knowing that you could.

.

Short takes

2010-04-14T11:10:00.003+05:30

Get me, I got her!

She spills hot tea on me when I look away, feigning innocence through blinking eyes as I get my gaze back. I know it’s her – am dead sure. But, “Oh, my God!” she exclaims. I want to shout, and hit her, but she is just blinking. So I curse her friend, her best friend actually, and that feels so good. “Leave her out,” she yells and jumps on me, and we roll on the ground, along the slope and finally over the cliff. It is now my turn to echo, “I love you Gulab.”

The Traffic
(Also at Sonora Review, the magazine put together by the students of the Creative Writing Department, University of Arizona)

The vehicles, the people, the animals, all swam around me like a badly directed movie. But Rita wasn’t there. A buffalo chased a dog and was hit by a car. I sneezed and suddenly she was there. I blinked, smiled. A dog ran past chased by a group of dogs, barking, bringing the world to an end. I wished to cross the road; Rita waved, her scarf running away from her, dancing in the wind. An elephant, cars, a camel, a family of pigs, cars, buses, auto-rickshaws, cars, and a donkey; but Rita was gone.

The Coconut

“Coconut on my head, coconut on my head,” Ramu was screaming. He had just taken the extreme haircut, everything scraped by the razor. But I needed a change. “Have you seen the calendar?”

“Why?”

I laughed, “Today is coconut’s birthday.”

Ramu screamed, clapped and ran three fast circles around me. “But how is that possible papa, my birthday is still two months away?”

“But you are not a coconut, are you?”

“I am coconut, here see my head, feel it.”

“Your head is a coconut, but you are just a nut.

“Yeah I am a nut, yeah!”

:)

One word (Flash fiction)

2010-04-10T09:49:00.003+05:30

A month after the accident when I called Anita, I was helplessly missing her. But when she came, I wanted to run away.

Ghosts had crashed within me, like a dream falling off a cliff. I winked at her: her body no longer an option, the eyes no longer lost, the face taut with concern. I heard her decisions and cursed myself for the tears. Then laughed, hahaha.

She was the winner. I was the fool. It seemed methodical. I, she, the life we dreamt, the God, and now this death. Life folds in just one word.

Damn!

F***!

ZZZZZ….

The Holiday

2010-03-15T16:16:00.003+05:30

The holiday
Ran itself out fast
We tried catching up
Panting, huffing and puffing

The plans
Ideas to reason,
Longing to talk
To meet
To love
Shun differences
Realize perspectives
See more; feel even more
Forgotten in haste

We chased
Leaving nothing to chance
Sea beach, mountains, wild, mega cities
All crossed
The eyes kept staring
Looking out for that holiday
That peace
That simplicity
Ease, sleep, and acceptance

But the holiday was faster
Meaner, shrewder,
And politically correct
It took away
What life had got
Sowed differences
Took whatever little chance was left
Buried, me
My smile
My life
My reason

***

A life, for a life - Short fiction by Kulpreet Yadav

2010-02-20T09:25:00.010+05:30

Well, before I begin let me wish all you wonderful people a very happy new year. May our world become a better and a more tolerant place this year. We are getting better, aren't we?

***

A life, for a life - A short story

It was hot in the city. Julia stood on the pavement, her head spinning, capturing the slight air with shallow breaths, her mouth opened to the accustomed rarity. Her mind busily crawled with worries, which roamed like frolicking earthworms inside her head where she could distinctly feel; but outside it, where short boyish hair sprouted, her thoughts wound her into a tight headache, shamefully awake in realization. The limp cotton dress that slung on her thirty year old body was heavy with moisture, and had trapped in it, in not so clearly visible crevices where the white fabric crumpled into straightened creases, fine salt granules from the dehydrated batches of earlier layers of sweat. Julia felt tired, spent at the effort of trying to make it good with John. For some reason, the harder she tried, the farther it sent her husband away from her – she hated to look into his eyes which looked at her without looking, smiled without a reason, showed concern unashamed of its emptiness, and talked things that layered the wedge between them even more.

It was different before; before, that is, Piyu was born. Little Piyu was now one year old, and Julia’s only companion to whom she could freely complain – which she did all the time when John was away at work. He went early, at seven in the morning, and come back at nine in the night. Done with the cleaning and cooking for the day, Piyu would only wake up her cuddly self just after. Once up, Julia had always been in awe with the speed at which she would wake up – her eyes opening to the world around, like tiny crystals lighting a bunch of small fires. Seeing the world around, tilting her head both ways, she would look at Julia and smile, brimming tears in her eyes. Julia liked comparing her tears with the fiery happiness in Piyu’s – it made her excited that her daughter was at least happy – she would then lift her, rub her nose against hers, and throw her up in the air a few times. Piyu enjoyed this, laughing gurgles each time she was airborne, streaks of saliva running from her plump lips – Lips that had been at work, feeding from her, caressing a feeling of completeness.

John was late even today. His getting late was pushing the clock backwards each day. Last week it was nine, this week ten, and maybe later he just won’t call, she thought. Secretly Julia desired she just wanted the day to come fast when her courage was bold enough to call it a day, call it enough, have a real fight, and see what lies ahead. Was there any possibility of a reconciliation, a chance to get back to the years before, burying the bad days under? She wasn’t sure.

***

She is at home waiting desperately when John finally comes in at ten. Julia finds him limping; his breath is heavy and there is smell of whiskey on him. She looks into his eyes – which are red now – and finds him a newer person. But ironically, that is nothing new; he has been looking a stranger each passing day, the strangeness only increasing every time. Today he looks weird and chooses not to even answer her question of why is he late – just smiles, eyes showing more drunkenness and walks to the fridge. There is no need for food, he says, saying there is no hunger. Julia, hungry earlier, finds herself feeling overfed, and says so. He smiles and opens a beer can and drinks in a hurry, his head up, his neck showing strains of the spirit running in the veins standing up. Piyu is asleep, she answers when he asks with a concern which has no meaning for Julia. He takes a few more gulps and heads inside the bedroom.

Julia takes a few minutes to go in, only to find he is out in the balcony smoking a cigarette and talking on the cell phone. She feels unhappy, seeing his expression so much at ease and contented, as if her existence has no meaning. A thought comes across: He has just come in a hotel room and declined the room service for food. If he wants sex, that is just an arm length away, and in the morning he will have room service breakfast before heading for office, or wherever else, and come back to this very same hotel room at any time he pleases in the night. Piyu smiles in the sleep and for a moment Julia is surprised at her anger at her. She kisses her and the smile becomes wider.

Am I just expecting too much from him? Julia is surprised at her own inner voice taking the side of her husband. Please just try, it says. Julia succumbs to it and washes her face. What she sees in the mirror is not something that she likes: There are dark circles under the eyes, the skin is lackluster and the eyes have sunk in. The lips are taut with small half circles on the edges and the hair just a mangled chaos straightened by force. There is a small bulge from where Piyu emerged one year ago. All these past few months she has tried hard to get rid of it but it is stubbornly present still. Now she realizes the effort was not hard enough. I need to do more, perhaps, in everything.

John is by now in the bed and he is snoring. Julia lies beside him and tries to gently rub her cheek across his lips. She feels the stubble sting happily but she doesn’t mind the discomfort. Instead, she increases the pressure. The snoring continues. Now she is trying to be on top of him, pulling and pushing, slowly at first, wildly later. The snoring stops, resumes after a hesitation, and stops again. He is up, his eyes wide, his forehead wrinkled. “What?” Julia is ashamed suddenly but there is now no going back. She pushes her mouth on his and allows him to take charge slowly. Madness gets a method, as he rolls her down and climbs. A few sweat drops and bundles of panting bouts of shortness of breath later, the roll down the hill is satisfying. It smothers the rough edges and Julia is happy to melt in the arms of John that surprise her in their sudden-asking in the darkness even few minutes after the meaty encounter. But Piyu is suddenly awake and she has to push John away. In seconds he is asleep, even before she can say sorry. But why should I say sorry: The question yet again divides her into two.

Julia has to walk her in the balcony. The room seems too stuffy for Piyu and her mood gets an inspiration from the cool, gentle wind that meets the two of them happily. The world around is livelier than the day – the sky a roof curving an un-rushed claim on the world below, bejeweled with stars that are twinkling dreams of a better today, a brighter tomorrow, and the half moon sitting with the naughtiness to engage the tiny Piyu. Piyu, now more awake and bright is innocently inquisitive. She smiles and closes her eyes.

Gandhi and the Gun - a short story

2009-12-28T17:37:00.009+05:30

All heads at the South Delhi’s JET SET club turned. Smiles evaporated; laughter ceased. Everyone saw the stranger come, struggling for confidence and not quite finding it, his nose exuding an insecure challenge in its cliffy obstinacy, his lips trembling at the loss of words not formed. The worst was noticed next – he was naked. But was he? At this moment, he clearly was.

The man walked inside the prestigious club lawns, spread all around from the tall, barricaded wrought iron gates in a numbing green of watered grass – in stark contrast to the brown, untended grounds of the immediate neighborhood – and stood in a clear patch. He smiled, while I, and others, continued to frown, our eyes focused on him. The naked man’s slim, frail body stood like an autumn twig, unwary of the chill in the winds. The eyes glistened with the ecstasy of the finalist in a game, who having just lost, was refusing to take the brain’s signal seriously. The skin of his face was determinedly taut, indicative of, perhaps, the jubilation of a feat soon to be achieved.

It surprised me when the realization came: indeed, the man looked like the Mahatma, Mahatma Gandhi, I agreed with the person sitting beside me. Barring just one flaw – the timing seemed a century late. We all noticed the pistol, but the weapon in his hand looked nothing more than a toy that had gotten suddenly ambitious. Silence remained, for though no one was sure if it was real, no one was sure it wasn’t too. There were no clothes on his body; except a loin cloth. The feet were like a cluster of dried branches caught in a pattern at the end of his legs.

“I am here to ask you a favor,” the voice now rode high on a rising confidence wave he seemed to be braving. At this point someone coughed and a lady at the other end of the club cleared her throat simultaneously, as if in the waiting. A mobile started to ring, kicking off a Hindi film song. The owner, a fat guy who always wore black clothes and sweated profusely irrespective of the weather, cursed the timing of the caller and had to fight with the mobile a few times, pressing numbers on the keypad, before the squeaky voice of the singer, finally relented. The silence returned.

“I am not here to trouble you. I am here just to ask a favor”.

“Who has let you in?” The club owner, stepped forward, his forehead a playground for sweat beads running across, and a few just hanging there, happily reflecting the distant lights.

The man smiled and straightened the nozzle of the pistol towards him. “That is not something I would like to answer. It will waste your precious time. Everyone’s precious time... I am just asking for a favor. Is there anyone in this place who is ready to answer my question?”

Seconds crawled by. Soon they clustered into minutes as everyone waited. The owner wiped the sweat from his forehead every few seconds. The man patiently kept on smiling, the pistol looking clearly out of place in his weak hands. He was not a criminal, I was very sure, but since he had the pistol I kept my assumption to myself. Something was however bubbling inside, and I thought I should try and get everyone out of the crisis.

“I will do you a favor.” I was surprised to hear someone speak. The sound hung heavy in the air. People now turned towards the voice. I found them looking at me. “I will do you the favor you seek.” I heard myself repeat; the bubbles had all erupted suddenly.

“Thank you, sahib.” The man with the pistol turned towards me. His eyes now seemed to water even more. I think I saw a teardrop roll down. The thought was confirmed as more joined their journey along his unshaven face of about fifty. “You are welcome. What can I do for you?” I tried to sound helpful. I think I succeeded.

“First of all, I just want you to know that I am not a criminal. Do you believe me?”

“Then why are you moving around with a gun in your hand?” Someone shouted from the back. His eyes ran in a frenzy straining to find who said that. But he was not successful. Neither was I.

“Because there is no other way... You tell me, would you have ever given a second glance if it was not for this pistol?”

The old man’s words hung in the air like the rain that has been halted midair by an eternal power. After a few seconds the rain splashed and the eager club goers began to hope for more.

“Yes, I agree with you that you are not a criminal. But what is the favor that you came looking for?”

“I am a poor man sahib, residing outside the city. I have no home, so I and my wife with our three children live in a small tent made out of used cloth.” He took a long breath and continued, “I have been working for a construction company on daily wages for the last three years. You know how much daily wages are? I mean what we get and what we sign for?”

Now I could see the tears flowing like a stream on his face and his voice was riddled with hiccups. He continued when I nodded.

“The contractor who paid us was a very good man. He was kind and generous. I agreed that he should keep half of the money I earn so that it will remain safe. I was told I could ask for it when I wanted.”

He seemed to be choking now. I asked for some water and a waiter came with a glass. The man declined the offer. “I can’t drink here. This place belongs to you rich people. I will have it later. But thanks for asking.”

He continued, “Today morning when I asked the contractor for my money, he said he didn’t have it. I was surprised. He said I never gave him any and he owed nothing to me.”

The man now broke down. His tired, distressed body slowly sank on his shaky, slender legs, as he sat down, hunched, the pistol pointing aimlessly at the grass a few feet away from him. People sighed relief and a sense of regularity began to slowly emerge. The whiskey glasses began to clink again with ice as one waiter walked from the bar towards someone who had taken the pause seriously enough to signal him.

The man shouted. “I haven’t finished yet, ladies and gentlemen.”

With one sudden movement he turned towards me and asked, “Do you want to know what favor I want or not? Or you want to see blood?”

I nodded, unsure, how to respond. “Yes, I want to know.”

“I want to kill that man.”

“But don’t you think this is too big a price for him to pay?” I was not sure if it was right for me to question the decision of the old man. I swallowed hard.

His eyes seemed to focus in and out of memories, “No,” he said at last, “Because later, he sent guys to my house to kill me and my family.” The man was now shaking like a leaf stuck on a windowpane of a car in a storm.

“But you are alive. What about your family?”

The man was now suddenly silent. His cheeks grew in and out like a man’s after a sprint and his eyes burned like embers. I knew the answer. They were probably dead.

The sound of a police siren brought a silent cheer in the crowd. But the man seemed oblivious. His eyes were busy scanning the crowd.

“You cannot hide. Come out, you snake. Or I will come for you.”

The crowd began eyeing each other suspiciously. Whispers went back and forth like waves. The siren grew closer.

“I command you to come forward, you coward.” The man now seemed in a little hurry.

“I promised you I will help.” I shouted and pushed my best friend forward. “Here is your culprit, contractor for you… and now I know, an evil friend for me.” My friend lost his balance and fell at the old man’s feet. A smile lit his face and the eyes now shined like those of a victor’s. It was the smile I had been waiting for. The old man bent forward and picked up my friend by the collar. Though he was just half his weight, but the old man was able to pull the shaking body without any effort.

He put the pistol on my friend’s head and fired once. It was nice to see the preyed, preying on the predator. It was like reversing the God’s greatest stupidity, by righting a natural wrong. The sound echoed like the arrival of a festival. Faraway a jackal began to howl and a few peacocks sitting silently on the trees above us jumped from one branch to the other in panic. The old man fell down. It wasn’t due to happiness or exhaustion.

The inspector behind had fired in the nick of time; I realized as everyone around began to clap. The old man was bleeding when I got to him.

***

“Get up, you joker.” I shouted at the old man, smiling. But he continued to writhe in pain.

“It is the real police.” Someone shouted.

“Shit! Someone please call an ambulance.” I shouted back, tears now running freely my cheeks.

The entire film unit began to run in circles. But the Gandhi, the actor who had played the part of the great Mahatma Gandhi so very well, was gone. He departed with a final smile frozen on his face. I broke down, comprehending what it meant for me: no mentor in the film world, no free whiskeys at the sets and no cigarettes to borrow....
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A picture post and a few thoughts

2009-12-12T10:06:00.012+05:30

Sorry! Been away for far too long, I guess. But couldn't have done better - a job to keep and a family to live with. Surprise, surprise! I love the latter, of course, but also like to stick around with the former.

Or maybe I was just plain too lazy to write.

Anyways, I think this is the right time to share a few off-the-cuff thoughts. Since 'to excel' is at the core of human aspiration ( at least I believe in it), I have been working mostly on my writing, to discover newer ways. I have come to believe that good writing is all about concentrated thought that has been intentionally lent a style suited to appeal to the senses of the seekers (readers). Mundane is what all of us avoid, like plague. That is common knowledge. I think the readers look for believable dreams, candid see-throughs from daily life, complete with dramatic ups and downs. They want to know what are they missing, what is happening around them out of sight, and how others are in greater shit than them? I think - at least at this moment - everyone wants to know and see more than what their surroundings permit. Now having thought aloud, it becomes obvious that I think writing brings with it a lot of challenge if one is hoping his work to be read. More on this soon. For the moment, though, let me share a few pictures.

The river Yamuna behind the Taj. Check out the gulls flying about and the fisherman trying his luck from a tiny boat.

That is Jeanie posing with a bunch of Oriental Lilies.

Liana with a big potato chip

I think Taj looks great, when you look past me.

Dad's pose makes him look stylish. Must learn!

The water colour image of the beautiful Taj (Picture by my daughter Jeanie)

Breakfast togather. What is wrong with me?

Thoughts on the run...

2009-10-31T11:53:00.009+05:30

1. It is madness to talk sense to someone in power. He is blind in the head and his brain can't see the obvious. Lesson: Jettison logic, if you got to see yourself somewhere high up. Or crib!

2. Red is the only colour visible in this late October haze of Delhi. But is there anything unusual about it? The answer is no. I only hope it doesn't get muddier or smoggier. At least some people talk about pollution and many a school kids draw pictures for their school notice boards. The realisation is crawling, but it needs to be paced up before we all choke. Will we inhale more noxious gases this winter? Let's just wait and watch. I hope we pollute less, and make the meteorological inversion less harmful this season.

3. Poverty: Is there a greater curse? I am certain there isn't. No medicines, no food, no entertainment ever happens for the poor. Sometimes, to seek these, if they must, a few cross the thin border of morality and crime happens. It makes them poorer, and their families more miserable. It distresses me immensely to see so many young boys and girls begging on the street crossings and so many better privileged ignoring them. If I ever pray, I will do so for the larger good of these young children. For the present, I must roll down my window and pass some food kept on the side seat for them.

Little mind, big problems

2009-09-27T13:17:00.003+05:30

Can you shout and get God's attention?

This is like writing aloud - Frankly, I must say, I am angry, very angry.

Usually very guarded when it come to discussing religion - I am aware, it may not be important to me, but sure is for many - this time around, I guess, I need to unleash, even if it is just a little.

Yesterday, was a big day in my life. My daughter Liana turned seven.

We ( I and my wife) had made elaborate plans. Dad and Mom came down from Alwar ( about 160 kms south west of Delhi where they live). Brother in law came in from west Delhi along with his family. Our plan included recital of a poem by Liana after the cake cutting, which was to be followed by a riddle competition for all. There were prizes were to be given away and obviously Liana was very excited about the whole thing.

Earlier, my wife had given her all the fourteen gifts we had bought over the past one week or so. Anyway, just when all of us were getting warmed up to the party, the worst happened.

Someone had apparently fixed tents down below, near out society's pool, and the pooja (Hindu prayers) ceremony started. The coolest thing was, all the devotees were inside the semi open kind of a tent, and the blaring loud speakers were all out, facing the balconies of the flats where people like us live. Funny verses, film songs and the like ruined our party bone dry.

I tried all I could: Closing the imported sliding Fenesta wind shields on the balconies, adjusting the heavy curtains etc. but without much difference. The sound was so much that we had to cancel Liana's poem recital and she somehow managed the riddles. It went on for a long time and the maintenance staff also could do nothing.

My question is: Can you get any audience from God by ruining the peace of others?

The Dairy dives - 2

2009-09-02T08:41:00.002+05:30

Well, I just thought I must continue to share my daily dives - some portions from it, at least. Below are a few gentler ones listed. It makes sense to me; I hope it does to you also.

1. A poem (definition): A good poem is the one that allows the reader to fathom an unrealised emotion.

2. Stories are of three kinds. Ordinary stories, that the writer tries telling himself, or a few known readers, trying to convince all the while that they need to be allowed to see clearly what he is trying to word. Good stories, that the writer tells for the present times, showing layers on people, or situations that they create, which he is sure has escaped the attention of others. Great stories, that seek to freeze the real picture of today, in a manner that future generations draw a parallel from, and grow siting on top, that unravel the present not like making a cabbage naked, layer by layer, but like a feeling of running a knife through it.

3. Beauty: What kicks boredom out of the window

The Shadow in the mirror, By Kulpreet Yadav

2009-08-19T09:04:00.004+05:30

It is five in the morning. My head is aching. My breath is labored. My spirit is contained, chained. I am alive, but dead. Another person sleeps beside me. The bed sheet under her is crumpled. I look at her face. Her eyes are closed. But her face still seems to look at me. Her mouth is closed too. But there is a hint of a mild smile on the edges of her lips. She looks beautiful. She looks desirable.

It has been two years now, we have been meeting like this – spending afternoons in a hotel room. Weekdays, it is possible. Weekends it is not. Sometimes it feels good, almost great, and superbly addictive. But more often now-a-days, it looks like a useless exercise. She wants a child. I want an escape. The difference is too huge. How do I tell her?

There is someone at the phone. I pick up my cell. It is the office. There is a meeting in an hour’s time. I have to go in half an hour. I drain the remains of the beer from the glass at the bedside table and get up to dress. But the clothes are gone. How can this be? I nudge her. She moans in sleep. I push her hard. She opens her eyes, finds herself, perhaps, looking at an alien, smiles with a frown, and rolls to the other side. Clothes? Where can I find them?

I must rush to a shop. But how? The question is a self inflicted slap. I sit down. Sweat drops appear on the forehead. I call up the room service and ask for another beer. I must think now. Maybe the room service guy can help. I sure can tip him for the favour. There is a knock on the door. I jump up and open it. There is a stranger facing me. He is smiling excessively. Do they send salesmen in the hotel rooms also?

“Yes?” There is more alarm in my voice than the question. His smile is more even more effusive now. He throws his head back and laughs. I see him now better. He is wearing my clothes. I look closely at his face. My jaw turns that of a crocodile. My eyes pop out like fresh popcorns and forget to blink. My legs are shaking now as if I am dancing. The sweat is like a rain, each drop merrily jumping on my white-haired chest.

It is ‘I’ facing me. “Shit’, I somehow shout. The word echoes in the corridor and returns back to me in cascading whimpers. After a while it collectively crumbles down at my feet.

“I am the mirror”, he says. Now he peers at me, and his forehead wrinkles in furrows. He looks like an intellectual, eagerly awaiting the final call for a big award, maybe an Oscar or a Booker. I gather courage, somehow and look at him. There are bags under his eyes. Whiskey, I know. There is an ashen smear on the face. Cigarettes, I know. There is less hair falling on the forehead. Dandruff, I know. There is a glint in the darting eyes. Greed, I know.

“What are you staring at, my friend?” The bags push up the eyes.

“Nothing”. I am embarrassed. I look down.

There is a paunch. Beer and restaurant binge, I know. The hands are spidery. These crawl on the bare bodies of many women, I know.

“Why nothing?”

Now he has a pistol in his hands. I stare at him. I am frightened. It feels like a deer in front of a lion, waiting for the final assault. The bullet feels as it enters the body. There is now no fear. It feels less painful. Death could be such an easy escape, I never imagined. I am smiling, happy at the easy death.

I wake up. It is a dream. She is shaking me. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I am sad at being alive.

“I have good news.” She is blinking her eyes. Her head is tilted. I try to ignore her. But she is defiant in her declaration, “I am pregnant.”

@#$%&^*

The leather book dives...

2009-08-05T21:02:00.009+05:30

Well, it is the camel leather notebook, actually. I bought it from Jaipur a couple of years ago and it has since become my favourite place to dive in, when I am just myself - say, biting my nails, shut alone in the tiny corner of my home, brooding, complaining, or just procrastinating. I really can't tell, how much is it going to impress you guys, but I think a few of these might end up making that oblique kind of a sense (whatever oblique-sense means).

1. Quiet: An oscillating mind demands a lot of quiet.

2. Sin: To sin is far more human than being afraid of sinning.

3. Success: It stinks unless, someone sees it the way it feels.

4. Poem: A good poem is like a boring joke that has decided to turn philosophical.

5. Original: Originality fails, fails, and fails... until it takes rebirth

6. Ambition: It rots without labour

7. Dream: My dream is her story

8. Desire: Biggest excuse to escape reality

9. Surprise: Innocence revisited?

10. Love: Mother of all inventions

---------------

A picture post...

2009-07-13T13:13:00.015+05:30

I have my Brother in law to my right and my co brother to my left. We drank half the whiskey in the bar on the eve of my co brother's departure to the US.

This is one of my favourite picture. You see the river Yamuna through the wire fencing, the biker leads in the picture with the car overtaking the minibus. Above us the rain clouds are just getting ready to pour.

It sure can get tiring protecting the city's ATMs. I was glad to see someone taking rest on duty. I would fire him if I were his boss, though.

I had this wonderful opportunity to head the table at my brother Anil's birthday at a city club last Saturday. It was one of the most enjoyable parties that I have attended in a long time. But there was so much of food that we could eat only one fifth of what was served.

On the way to the office today, I wasn't surprised to see the water collected under the bridge on the Bhairon road. I think the civic authority needs a shake up. So hard, that their brains fall off and they affix new ones to do some thinking. Frankly, I have seen the same thing happening for the past six years. But everyone forgets when the rains are gone.

I am certainly not the Pranava Kumar for whom the envelope from Hindustan times was intended. I accepted it just because my name was in the list with the courier guy. I also didn't mind his wishing me good morning in the afternoon. But I sure came to know that HT has done some overhaul. I think the new paper has a good feel. So, regardless of the goof ups, I stay with HT. Here is also wishing them good luck.

Kasauli - Five reasons to visit this summer

2009-06-28T14:40:00.009+05:30

Five reasons why one should plan to visit Kasauli in Himachal Pradesh, India. (For a more detailed account read my complete article at About.com. Click here.)

The Kasauli Brewery

One. Mr E Dyer who was the father of the notorious Brigadier General Reginald Dyer, the perpetrator of the Jalianwala bagh massacre on April 13th in 1919, set up the Kasauli brewery. The brewery was famous for making the "scotch of the east", Solan No 1 brand, besides the first ever Asian beer, Lion, that was brewed here. Yes, you got that one right, the first beer to be brewed in ASIA.

Two. The (in) famous President of Pakistan (earlier Pakistan Army Chief and later Field Marshal) Ayub Khan was a tenderfoot 2nd Lieutenant of the Indian Army, who probably did his first appointment with 1st Battalion, Royal Fusiliers at Kasauli, after passing out from Sandhurst Military Academy in the United Kingdom.

Three. To escape the gruesome summer of 2009. Picture this... A small army cantonment, three British made churches including one called the "Church of England" built in 1884, several British made green and white cottages, two malls catering for local and tourist needs, and plenty of calm, makes Kasauli the ideal summer retreat for heat and dust weary Indian families, desperate to cool their bodies in an idyllic, friendly landscape.

Four. For fruit wines and homemade Salami. I would strongly recommend fruit wine, made by a local brewery called Sutter House (now called Waterfall Wines), available everywhere. It comes in riotous colors and flavors like peach, strawberry, apricot, grapes, rhododendron and apple. The best part is the price. A bottle of 750 milliliters ranges from 130-300 rupees only.

Five. Last but certainly not the least. Khuswant Singh, the nonagenarian Sikh writer who famously holidays in Kasauli each year, says so.

A poor Dalit couple donate their dead four year old son's eyes

2009-06-28T09:02:00.005+05:30

A poor Dalit couple donate their dead four year old son's eyes

The parents of a dead Dalit infant in a remote Uttar Pradesh village donated his eyes, making him the youngest such donor in the country reads Hindustan Times. Further it says,

The Dalit couple was overcome with grief, but at the insistence of Satyapal’s elder brother Harpal, 30, they immediately got in touch with Dr Ashok Jain and his wife Kusum, who run the Roshni Eye Bank in Saharanpur, about 100 km away.

“It was a difficult moment for us but we decided to keep our son alive by donating his eyes,” said Meenakshi, who had studied up to Class 10.

Apprehending controversy and opposition from other villagers, the family requested Dr Jain to remove Lucky’s corneas before daybreak.

In doing so, they not only gifted vision to an eight-year-old girl and a 55-year-old man, but also helped break several centuries-old social taboos.

In caste-conscious UP, Dalit organ donors are still a rarity. Then, there is a widespread belief among villagers that cornea donors are born blind in their next birth.

Man, I am moved. I wish I was a Dalit. As an Indian I think such instances must be recognised and upheld. I am glad Hindustan Times made this their front page story this Sunday.

Micheal Jackson goes with a white skin

As a child I was always excited at the prospect of listening to the great MJ. I remember looking at his picture on the cassette cover and hearing him play on my tape recorder in the early eighties. For me, he looked a shade darker version of us Indians. I am not sure if it was a dark man singing an English song that attracted me or just his impact-full voice. Now I know, perhaps, it had do with his voice. But nevertheless his colour too made an effect on me. Remember I said I was just a child. Then came this song about the equality of blacks and whites by him. I was disappointed. The sound came from from a mouth that belonged to a white skin. Was he upset being a black. Off course he was. Now I know. But hey brother, it would have been a lot more better if you had done a re-graft and left us in your original colour. Whether someone likes it or not, I must say let's be proud of what we are. In colour, in caste, in race and in language. Phew! I am sorry if my getting overboard has disturbed anyone.

On another note, this editorial in the New York times by VERLYN KLINKENBORG is a good read.

Post card from Amsterdam by a blog friend

My blog friend, who goes by the name J, is taking a road trip in Europe with friends. No no, I am not with him. I wish I did, though. Okay, he has posted a beautiful first hand account from Amsterdam. He concludes by saying... And then someone shouted… dude, where the hell is the red light district. And someone else said, we can still do it, we are still in Amsterdam aren’t we? as we stopped for a quick break in Antwerp. No questions asked, the last I remember was giving directions to my home, my mouth filled with dark chocolate.

I must say the trip wasn’t 100% successful, but I got my wish though… to sit in a coffee shop in the Dam caring two hoots about the world. Not-so-perfect getaway, but perfect in it’s own way. Next destination, Budapest in two weeks ;) Click here to read the full account.

Leila, Sheila and I. A short story by Kulpreet Yadav

2009-06-21T09:48:00.004+05:30

Leila looked happy. Very happy!

She laughed easily and even threw in a few jokes. Inexpensive, now that the ones she talked about were exposed, I too enjoyed her jokes.

“That Sheila… she was the wedge. Didn’t I tell you?” She again burst out laughing, perhaps for the millionth time.

I smiled, as bravely as I could. The cheeks hurt. So I scratched the day old stubble in self-consolation. The shower of the salt and pepper tit bits that grew ambitiously, on most parts of my face, stung my fingers back in return.

Shelia! It was difficult to stomach her ridiculous competitive hatred for Sheila. In fact, I liked her more. She wore her body rather more delicately and seemed less possessive. In her company I definitely had more breathing space. But, why Leila then, everyone asked? I knew the answer, but lied. It was easy to lie. After all, who doesn’t need money?

We ordered another round of beer. It was our third pitcher. I looked at the watch. The happy hours had gone and I knew now every sip would be dearer. The small wallet in my denim trousers screamed. Any other order and I would not be able to pay. I hated myself for giving up the credit card.

“Í was sure you would some to me. But now that we are talking about it, tell me, is it not true that you were all head over heels over that bitch Sheila?”
The sting hurt me again. A couple of quick gulps of beer helped. I smiled as bravely as I could, turning my head from one side to the other.

“Hmmm…”

When she was gone, I called Sheila. “I am at the bank, you know. Making a draft for my dad” I had to. For I had felt her call silently purr at least five times in my pocket. “I was worried” Her voice hung in the ears long after. It disappeared only when Leila came back bathed in a fresh overdose of paint and spray. She looked hot.

“At least keep you mouth closed… You are embarrassing me”. She had to say it thrice, before the sound waves reached me. I shifted in my chair. The adjustment became necessary. The cell phone again started purring silently. I knew Sheila would come to know, her worries so damn close trapped in my phone, inches away from the place that was in riots. But how is that possible. Am I already drunk?

“Please promise me, you will never talk to that bitch Sheila again.”

I nodded hypnotized.

“Please promise me that you will also never talk to Anita”

I continued nodding. Somewhere in the back of my mind a skinny smiling face came, waved and ducked out of the view. It didn’t really hurt to let her go. On second thoughts, it did. But only like a slight pang of sadness. I dealt with this one rather well.

Leila ordered another pitcher. It sent my sprits down. But only for a few seconds. I got an idea. I nursed it for a while, sipping beer. Then, from the secrecy of the restroom, I called Sheila

“Sheila, can you please lend me some money…”

“About two thousand…”

“Shit!”

Leila naughtily winked when I got back. I scratched my stubble and smiled. The smile stayed for I don’t know how long. Leila kept on speaking animatedly, curling her fingers, pulling her hair, inspecting her fingernails and winking every few sentences. I thought, perhaps, this is her idea to energize for sex. Sex, yes that word made sense. In fact a lot of sense. I looked at her again with renewed interest. She sure looked desirable. There was clear proof; I shifted again in my chair.

At that moment the bill arrived. I got up, alarmed, unsure what to do. Running away made more sense but I knew that would be a blunder. Better option was to act. I gathered myself. Say something like, shit, I forgot my credit card.

Slowly, I opened the bill folder. The stamp of the words ‘PAID’ hit me like a cold shower. “Thanks Leila”

“For what?” She looked confused.

“Sahib, it your friend over there, who had paid for you.” The steward was saying. I turned. Sheila’s eyes met mine. She was smiling. I had never seen such an uninhibited smile on her. She got up, delicately, and came close to us.

I looked at her. Surprise, repent, attraction, a jumble of emotion stitched my mouth. Like a dope, unashamed, I looked at both of them, one by one. They laughed and walked out hand in hand.

God, Kerala and my Family

2009-05-30T18:38:00.033+05:30

Guests in ‘Gods Own Country’, Kerala, India

(Click here to read the abridged version on about.com or just scroll down for the more detailed one..)

View of Kovalam beach from my hotel room

So says the promotional punch-line of the tourism department. The last time I was in Kerala was way back in 1991 when I was a bachelor boy brimming with dreams and making the most of a new found job. This time I decided to take my family there for a vacation. But it wasn’t me who had proposed a visit; it was this advertisement that had done the trick on my kids and wife. And as usual, I had just given in. Well, actually not really given in, but agreed instantly to revisit the place I had loved so much as a reckless guy in his early twenties. Let me share how it all started just the next day of our landing at the capital city Trivendrum, after a four and half hours single hop (Kochi) flight from Delhi.

The God or the Beach? Or Both?

Certainly only the beach… For, the beach is so scenic that it successfully shoves God out of the frame. It is my first morning and I am by the sea some15 kilometers south of the city at a beach called Kovalam. And I am thinking aloud: It is difficult to be at a good beach and think about the work you could not complete back at office. It is rather easier to let your soul get drenched wet instead, without having to lift your feet from under the swaying coconut tree you are sitting right under. It is even easier to let the beer silently bubbling in the glass by your side do the drenching from inside out.

A sea-side is the most perfect place to let the past drift away and to find the future perfect in a new found nearness. Having a family around adds to the fun as you end up chasing the kids on the sand long enough, fully aware all the time that you would lose. And when you get back, thirsty and heavy footed, the beer too is gone. You frantically, first look at your wife, who shrugs, and then at her glass which is empty too. You jump happily and order another round. Life is always so good near a beach on a holiday. As I look at it now my Kerala trip was along the predictable lines. Well, almost…

The God’s surprise

God always throws up surprises. So, he didn’t forget this one too. Kolavam, at first sight I must say was disappointing. Sitting along the crescent shaped cove hanging like an earlobe from the Arabian Sea; it’s the colour of the sand that surprises you first. It is a dull grey, almost black. Then you see unusually laid back trucks (yes!) and workers busy in rehabilitating the damage caused by the Tsunami five years ago. ( More informed people, though insisted that it is the construction of an artificial coral reef just about a meter deep from the surface, some 50 meters further out into the sea from the beach, that is the real reason for the beach resembling a construction site).

Leela Kempinski – God’s own five star resort?

Leela is one of the oldest five star properties on the Kovalam beach and as expected, quite pricey. But with my children summer holidays always falling in the middle of the off season, the recession too timing its ghostly presence about now and the rather ambitious overdrive of the hotel to cut its prices to woo customers, I was able to decide to take a 2 night package for just under 12000. Though food wasn’t a part of the deal and given the fact that we were more committed to eat out during our outings than at the hotel, in the end it didn’t actually work that way. The place at this cost is sure a steal. Not that alone made it likeable for us; the location, the food, the services, all is too good to ignore. I loved staying at the Leela. With the coveted 2009 award for excellence from the American Academy of Hospitality sciences under its belt, a private beach, efficient service and good food, our stay was as effervescent as it promised right from the start, if not that economical. Leela is coming up in a big way in many other cites as well, I understand and with the attitude on display that I witnessed, I think they will come out well.

The God’s house and the Palace Museum

Though only 20 rooms of the place of the erstwhile ruler of Travancore, Maharaja Swathi Thirunal Balarama Varma, have been opened for public viewing in 1995, after being locked for almost two centuries, 60 others are in a state of disarray and therefore, obviously, closed. The palace has a narrow door from one of the rooms that took the king to the Padmanabhaswamy temple of Lord Vishnu. Even today, the time from 0700 to 0730 in the morning is reserved for the 100 odd family members and descendents who stay at Trivendrum. The place and the temple both are an architectural marvel. The temple can only be visited by wearing a mundu (Indian loin cloth) for men and a sari for women. I opted out while my family hired a piece each for 15 bucks and had merriment with God in his own house. Though I don’t believe in God but let me guess, if he is anywhere around, Kerala will sure be a good choice for him to stay.

The palace is spread over an area of about 22 acres and has in its rooms a dazzling display of Belgian crystals, Italian mirrors (with silver backs, not mercury, we were told by the guide) and Chinese gifts. The palace has a frieze of 122 wooden horses on its exterior and is therefore also called as the ‘palace of horses’. Inside, its floor is still original. Smooth and cold under the feet it was made more than 200 years ago using charcoal, limestone and egg white. The ceilings are mostly wood using teak or rosewood only. There are beautiful mirrors and paintings using vegetable dyes that still look as good as new. The king who completed it and got 200 workers to toil for four years could live only for one year in it and died at the age of only 33. The dance rooms, the conference halls, the meeting rooms, the puja (prayer) rooms are now all quiet but bear the testimony to the organized threshold of a king who was understandingly loved as much by all.

God’s creatures and their creative instincts

At the Trivendrum zoo

The former are plentiful in the zoo which erupted in my agenda due to the fact that my children discovered that there is one such. I crisscrossed the zombie zoo-lovers conducted pathways and smiled at the animals sitting unashamedly naked in captivity while my kids screamed in joy. But the latter was sheer delight for me while my kids moved rooms after rooms in the Chitra art gallery not-so-excited. The awe inspiring works of the Raja Ravi Verma are on display here. His paintings for those of you who know have unique vastness – from portraits to theme to common pictures depicting the life of the times he lived in, he has indeed given us a huge treasure of jaw dropping works. The ornaments and gold inlay work in cloth on his subjects are so vivid that it might put the real ones to shame. Then there are Dr. Svetoslav Roerich’s (Cine star Devika Rani’s Russian husband) paintings inspired by his surroundings in Manali where he stayed for a long time. Also there are a number of Chinese paintings and a few others by Indian artistes.

Kochi – The historic gateway to India

In the background are the Chinese fishing nets

It was at Kochi that Vasco Da Gama first landed in 1498. In fact his body was laid at rest at the St Francis church for about fifteen years after which it was transported back to his native Portugal. The Chinese came here too, to trade spices. The tradesmen of Kublai Khan taught the locals a new and innovative way to fish. Called today the Chinese fishing nets bang at the mouth of the Kochi channel these are in use even today. Next arrived the Jews who stayed on for centuries. There is a Jewish Synagogue in the city and a street by the side of it called the Jew Street. It today has neat rows of shops manned by friendly faces who sell mostly antique furniture and spices. I bought white pepper, cardamom, vanilla pods, star anise, cashew nuts and sambhar masala.

Backwaters in the Vembanad lake and its Godly labyrinth

The traditional Kerala lunch abroad the hired houseboat

We had to travel about 70 kilometers south of Kochi to a place called Allepey (Alapuzzha) to board the house boat we had earlier hired for our family. After an hour and half drive by road we arrived at the starting point of the traditional Kerala race (Vallam Kali or the snake boat race) that takes place every year during August looking at a wooden boat that was berthed alongside many others. Inside it had two cabins and a forward covered enclosure ahead of the superstructure that was going to be our sitting out deck area. The only catwalk (passage) that ran from forward to back, alongside our two cabins, had a wash basin in the middle and a kitchen at the far end. Poorer by five and half grand, we were left by the owner (one Mr. Biju Thomas) in the hands of a three crew for a day and night floating about in the backwaters, a must-do on every travelers agenda who comes to holiday in Kerala. It seemed fun at the beginning. We took pictures, watched the locals washing their clothes in the narrow waterways through which we were steered, ate a just about okay local lunch. But soon thereafter the heat caught on to us. The Air-conditioning, we were told was only for the night. So the excitement began to grow thin on us after a few hours. At about six, we were brought back to the same place at about six and told to relax until the wee hours on the next day, when the boat will set sail again for breakfast at sea. There were mosquitoes outside but we had no choice as sitting in the cabins without cooling was next to impossible. Fanning ourselves with newspapers and smashing mosquitoes in-between, we watched a Shahrukh Khan starrer on a 14 inch television on the deck. Finally at nine in the night when the Air conditioning also refused to start, we realized it was enough and headed back to the cool interiors of our room in Kochi. So here is the lesson learnt: Do not go backwaters cruise in any of the ten hot months. December and January would definitely be better fun. And yes, don’t forget to take a guide along. The boat crew doesn’t understand either Hindi or English.

Cruising the backwaters

In Kochi, I figured out more on the Vembanad Lake, the longest lake in India. Spread over 1500 kilometers its wetlands weave an intricate labyrinth of channels and waterways that sustains the unique flora and fauna making the locals depend on this confluence of fresh water from the lake and the salt water from the Arabian sea. One can see numerous waterfowls ducking and emerging every now and then around the boar looking for their daily meal. Over 20000 are expected to be in the lake which is about 14 kilometers wide at its widest point.

The Real Banana Country

The colours of Bananas

Bananas come in many colours. Shades of green and yellow have been a familiar enough sight, but to see a banana that is red in colour was indeed a surprise. Called Kappa, it comes at eight bucks a piece as against two for all other shades. I bought a few. With the pulp pretty in light pink, it tastes quite like a banana – silly, we had all exclaimed, for a banana is expected to taste like a banana – but leaves the sampler with an instant feeling of fullness and gratification. I boarded the flight back for Delhi the day after the poll results were announced. Like me most Indians saw sense and reason in the result. No banana country this, I thought all the while cruising some 30000 feet above the peninsular India on my way to Delhi. It was the closest I could get to God, but perhaps not as close as the Gods own country, Kerala, got to him. My family joins me in authenticating that Kerala is indeed God’s own.

Marigold Art Gallery, Claridges, New Delhi - Home to Contemporary modern European paitings and sculptures

2009-05-02T08:15:00.005+05:30

Marigold Fine Art Gallery is located at The Claridges Hotel, New Delhi. Boasting of a collection of high-end, as well as affordable Contemporary Modern European Paintings and Sculptures by renowned European Artists, it is fast becoming a fascinating new destination for the art lovers.

In a breathing space of splendour and elegance, it displays a varied collection of Paintings, Sculptures & Lithographs by great European Masters like Salvador Dali , Pablo Picasso, Arman besides other well known artists like Stéphane Cipre, Jörg Döring etc.

I recently got to chat with Gavrav Assomull, the CEO of the art gallery. I discussed with him the value of art with respect to the recession and the awareness of the European arts here in India besides other things. By the time you are through with the interview it will dawn upon you, as it certainly did on me, that why is Marigold set to go pacing up in the future. To borrow from Picasso, 'Painting is just another way of keeping a dairy'. And all of us need diaries, don't we?

Kulpreet Yadav (ky): There are too many art galleries by the name of Marigold in India and abroad. Why this name? How does it establish the link of European work and India?

Gaurav Assomull (ga) : The reason for the name Marigold is because one of our companies is called Marigold Group that deals in Luxury. As art is hubo luxury, it would certainly fall under this category. Being the only gallery in India dealing in European art, with names such as Dali, Picasso, Warhol, Monet, Matisse and Botero, we are slowly putting ourselves on the map and are aiming to be India's leading European Art gallery.

Having had 2 exhibitions in the space of 6 months of opening our permanent gallery space in Delhi, we have had 2 sell out evenings, which was beyond all our expectations due to the current economic situation. However we are expanding and are very optimistic for the last quarter of 2009. We will be launching at the luxury Emporio DLF mall in June, which is part of our expansion programme as well as a permanent space in Mumbai come Jan 2010.

ky: Do you think the Indians will be interested to buy the works of European artists here in India. Is there so much awareness?

ga: Indian love new things. Based on the last 6 months, it is very clear that there is a market and there are people looking for this kind of work, however we have not even scratched the surface yet. As for awareness, the big names such as Dali and Picasso are known, however from our side, we have to take on the challenge of educating the Indians and exposing them to these great works.

ky: Delhi is flooded with art galleries. Many of these are not doing good business. Few say there is lack of awareness. Do you wish to comment.

ga: Indian art has taken a big hit in the last 9 months, therefore people are little scared to both buy and invest in Indian art which is understandable, with the economic situation, it is not suprising that business is slow. However we are doing good business and are very happy with the way things are shaping up. We have reached leaps and bounds in the last 6 months. For a young gallery I believe we have got to where most galleries are after 2 years.

ky: Recession: How is that affecting the gallery? Some time back there was a news that recession is making new faces appear at the Galleries to go for high value collectibles. Is it true?

ga: Our Price brackets are what you call affordable art. 2 lakhs- 25 lakhs is 90 % of out stock, therefore we are not experiencing too many problems at all, as we are delivering a new product at affordable prices of very high quality and scarcity.
I am sure that 18 months ago would have been a better time, but why look back..

ky: Where does Marigold art Gallery see itself down 5 years from now?

ga: 5 years, from now I hope to be established as the number 1 European Art gallery in India, with outlets and galleries throughout India.

ky: As CEO Gaurav is a tad bit young. Does it get in the way of business, because few take youngsters seriously in the acquired art
of selling high value art.

ga: Age is a number, how you prevail yourself is how you are judged. I understand I am young, however i take my work seriously and keep it strictly professional. Building trust and confidence with my clients and potential clients is important.

Curfewed Night by Basharat Peer - Book review by Kulpreet Yadav

2009-04-21T09:15:00.002+05:30

Curfewed is perhaps an erroneous word made up by Basharat Peer for his maiden non fiction, Cufewed Night (Random House, India 2008) to convey a point. Once into the book, you won’t find his stance out of place; in fact you will find it purposely relevant. Since Kashmir has become a wronged reality, why shy away from it. So, how right he is, to use a wrong word for a place he belongs to – and clearly dearly loves – that has seen nothing right for a very long time indeed. On target? Fair enough!

For most Indians, Kashmir is like a dream, an obsession, a God like head that sits atop our great nation which can’t be traded for anything. The deep rooted hatred of Indians for Pakistan, who seems to be infatuated by their love for the land, too, just like the Indians, doesn’t seem to make the ordeal of the innocent Kashmiris, any better. As they pray, hoping peace will return some day, the soldiers from India, Militants from Pakistan, Kashmiri boys who routinely become militants by crossing LoC, informers, State Police and the Paramilitary seem to be existing just to have enough reasons for the conflict to go on. It is tragic that one of the most beautiful of the places on the earth has to put up with so much pain, insoluble grief and abject misery.

Basharat takes the reader through the Kashmir he has seen since his birth, through penetrating observations and a reporter’s pragmatism. He has studied school in Kashmir (Anantnag), politics at Aligarh and Media in the US. There is pain in his voice for all that the Kashmiris had to endure, revelations in his narrative of a place that has been loved by so many in the past and a passion in his story that dreams a future of peace and happiness. He has travelled far and wide in Kashmir and other places in India to understand the pain of the people, to be beside the graves of the strugglers gone by and has listened to the torture tales of the captured militants. The militant for him is not an enemy; he is sometimes a next door neighbor, a school friend or just a relative. Basharat’s Kashmir is a beautiful place but certainly not a paradise it used to be. He describes the people as simple human beings who love their feasts, live amicably with the nature and wish to lead ordinary lives, watching Hindi films and dancing to the tunes of its hysterical songs.

The book is sure to bring a tear or two in the eyes. It is not the kind of book that hits hard. It is the kind of book that gets under the skin and stays there as a silent reminder of the pain many fellow human beings have had to face. Basharat has closed his story with a wave of his hand at the visiting POK Kashmiris who crossed the LoC in 2005 when the bus service to Muzzafarabad and Srinagar started after half a century. There is hope in his voice. I think that sentiment makes him closer to his Indian counterparts; people like us who are equally hopeful. I have never been to Kashmir. It is not that I am scared. It is just that I don’t feel like. This is not to be construed as a disowned neglect for the place. Far from it, I also want to be there one day. I am also hopeful, that a day like that will some day take me there.

Book Review – ‘Calling Sehmat’ by Harinder S Sikka

2009-04-14T11:32:00.002+05:30

Book Review – ‘Calling Sehmat’ by Harinder S Sikka

Harinder S Sikka’s maiden novel, Calling Sehmat, is based on the basic premise that Kashmiris are as much Indian in their hatred for our western neighbour, as anyone else. The Indian-ness in them is so profound and committed that they are ever prepared to go to any extent to prove their love for their motherland, India. It is not hard to imagine from where this basic assumption of the author comes from. A retired naval officer, Harinder’s one sided obsession with Kashmiris may be shared by many Indians, including myself. The story takes a young and beautiful Kashmiri student in Delhi, Sehmat, away from her love to get married to a Pakistani Army officer who happens to be also a son of an ISI General. The purpose, understandably, is to spy from the household and pass on the information to the Indian intelligence. One such input warns the Indians of the presence of the Pakistani submarines in the Indian Ocean just before the 1971 Indo-Pak war – something that helps the Indians to help make a more accurate strategy which leads to the sinking of PNS Ghazi and the attack on the Karachi harbour. After the war, a pregnant Sehmat returns to India only to turn delusional as her college love takes her son away for a proper upbringing. A miraculous wanderer finally is able to revive here to normalcy by offering spiritual talks, much of which Harinder claims he has borrowed from Dr Brian Weiss’s ‘Many Lives Many Masters’.

The strength of Harinder’s narrative is that it is very straight and doesn’t allow too much of a room to the reader to wander – perhaps due to his Naval rearing. The description of the 1971 war brings about a much needed naval focus which many Indians may not be completely aware of. This, he claims, is the only part in the book that is not fiction. I read the book just after Basharat Peer’s ‘Curfewed Night’, which, though autobiographical presented a totally different picture of the Kashmiri’s heart. I feel Harinder braves the impossible, making his characters to fathom seemingly impossible abysses of realizations that readers sometimes find a tad too difficult to fathom. But then, as I said, he is a brave writer who chooses, perhaps consciously, to lend heavily on his fauzi upbringing. I for one will be looking forward to read more from him, to see which way his adventure takes him.

Recently published information and articles by Kulpreet Yadav

2009-03-20T09:45:00.004+05:30

Though I have largely been busy giving finishing touches to my second book, there have been a few developments that I wish to share with my blog friends.

Donation to Writers Workshop: I have always been hugely impressed with Prof P. Lal and his running of the half a century old publishing house in Kolkata called Writers Workshop. I bow to his creative spirit and the rare determination to run the publishing house against all odds. The decision to give an annual donation to writers workshop has therefore been, for me, long in the the waiting. Read about it by clicking here.

Sommelier India magazine's anniversary Also, my fascination with the wonderful world of wine continues. In the latest chapter, it was a delightful experience to be part of Sommelier India's anniversary celebrations a few days ago. Read from here.

Organic wines and India: Since the whole world is going the organic way, I embarked on a research about it's relevance to the world of wines, particularly from an Indian context. The article can be read from here.

When I grew big enough to understand love and Valentine’s Day...

2009-03-15T08:54:00.001+05:30

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin – it’s the triumphant twang of a bedspring. B.J. Perelman

When I grew big enough to understand love and Valentine’s Day, it somehow kept eluding me. Some sparks flew a few times in school and college but didn’t last long enough to catch a fire. I tried to woo girls on Valentine’s Day, but didn’t succeed. I ran behind them with flowers, read horribly written poems to them, cracked jokes… but it all fell on deaf ears. And the ones who tried to see me woo so hard, my blind eyes perhaps could not see. They for their share, dropped big enough hints, passed messages, held on eye contact long enough, but failed. My friends told me this later.

Then I got married – Arranged, Indian istyle. Clueless what to do on the first Valentine’s Day, I did the same mistakes again. But, hey, no failure this time. And thankfully no one else to deal with. So I bought her watches, jewelry, perfumes, cards, dresses… all these years and the love held. It has been fourteen years since we have been married – happily – and life seems to be promising enough for many more. People say life is full of compromises. I don’t believe in it. I feel life rocks if you believe in loving and giving. Someone always comes around the corner who will bounce back with equal force. So, guys, hop across to the nearest florist, buy a dozen roses, pick up a bottle of good wine and some chocolates and reach there at her doorstep. Then say it. The day might have just gone. But the truth is, everyday is a Valentine’s Day, if you are willing to see it that way.

A Picture post

2009-03-06T12:10:00.010+05:30

I thought it would be a good idea to share some of the recent cell phone pictures taken by me, floating around Delhi. I must admit that I have played with colours of a few.

This is the Indian fruit tree called Ber (Zizyphus Mauritiana). The fruits green in colour now in March, will soon turn yellow-red and become a great treat for the people...

Oriental Lily blooms at my home... hint for guys struggling to be good lovers: Chocolates and jewellery are all passe, try to pick these and see the effect. It's works guys!

Bebinka has always been one of my favourite puddings. It is a layered rice cake dripping in a heavenly syrup of Jaggery. I was lucky when my brother got me one from Goa recently.

This was a great wine (see details here) that I shared with my wife on the Valentine's at Home. Costs Rs 1290 at Khan market in cash. If you choose to use your card, the shop charges an extra 20 rupees. I know because I had to pay. I liked the wine and have got my tasting notes ready to be posted on my wine blog. Will do it this weekend.

1911 has been a favourite bar to visit at the Imperial for some time now. I spend lazy afternoons there reading the book on the hotel and sipping beer. Like last weekend in the picture.

The awe-inspiring lady at a park near my home...

Lodhi gardens is also home to some of the most beautiful of Delhi birds. I just love the sight of confident looking white breasted Kingfisher, always seriously searching Indian Babbler, perky Lapwing and the ever agile Red-vented Bulbul.

Valkyrie - Movie Review

2009-02-22T16:36:00.002+05:30

Valkyrie is based on the July 1944 plot to kill Adolf Hitler. It is a true story in which German soldiers, frustrated with their Fuehrer, conspire to kill their supreme Commander. The man who is singularly responsible for the form of world we live in today. At the face of it, it looked like a water tight plan. The officers, along with their political friends, trick Hitler into signing a document called Operation Valkyrie, which authorizes the Berlin Reserve police force to take over the country in case of Hitler's death. In the centre of it all is Colonel Claus Von Stauffenberg (Tom Cruise). The plan goes well. The blast takes place as planned in the war briefing room of Hitler at a location in Russia. The reserves are mobilised. The SS are taken in custody. But then the news floats that Hitler is not dead. The small changes are undone in minutes and all those involved are arrested. Later, as it is a well documented historical fact, all of them are executed.

In today’s times when the young generation has no clue of the ‘pains and scars’ of the World Wars, the making of this movie is a brave initiative indeed. The movie is well directed by Bryan Singer (Superman Returns, being his latest in 2006). Tom Cruise with one eye covered and sporting a different hair style is good, though at times I got a feeling that he appeared to be a little stiff. But then the times were such. This is perhaps the thirteenth attempt to capture the essence of the Jul 20, 1944 plot to kill Hitler. The number might be thirteen and many might be saying it is not a great movie, but according to me it is a must watch.

Random jottings...

2009-02-03T21:11:00.002+05:30

The Economics of Public losses...

The world seems to be war-devastated. Except that there is no real war this time. It is actually the economic crisis that has caused the devastation - largest of the world's banks have collapsed, business houses are weighed heavy under unsurmountable debt load, surviving a job seems to be the single biggest daily ambition of millions, the stock market's bear seems like a snail that has eaten it's own head, and the buyers everywhere have simply vanished. Governments are busy doling out large chunks of public money to the greedy private players who unethically lost money to hopeful investors. The real question today: how will the modern world deal with this devastation? And if it does, how long before the crisis is made history.

Well, I am no economic wizard. My only investments remain in a single savings account ( it rarely has more than the minimum balance) and the paltry sum in the office Provident fund. But as an educated human being it is something that bothers me a lot - appalling as it does, to witness the catastrophe. The vicious circle is foolishly simple - business houses seek people's money promising good returns, sponsor politicians, who in turn, bail them out using public money. In short, whether you put your hard earned money in taxes or put them in banks/stocks, the politicians and the businessmen will always ways to use it. Phew! I wish these guys were less predictable. I think I am fast loosing faith in the moral lessons taught in school. And I am sure, I am not alone.

The eyes of hope...

A few days ago, a boy of about eight tapped on my car window at a traffic signal in Delhi. He wasn't begging. Holding national flag in one hand, his expression however seemed so. Ten rupees he seemed to be saying but the music and the closed window however kept him muted. I looked into his eyes. Somehow those transparent, almost stoned eyes have stayed with me since. I wish I had bought the national flag that day. I have been looking for him since then. There are many others at the signal except him. I hope I didn't deny him last meal, or his last drug shot.

The voice in need...

Have you ever noticed how a person sounds when he needs something from you? Next time someone calls you asking for a favour, try to spot the excessive submissiveness in the voice. Call him later, fake a unknown name, and then ask for a favour. The voice won't sound like his. In the world obsessed with needs, the human beings change dramatically when asking or giving. But we all know this, don't we?

Flash Fiction: Scribbling on a Paper napkin in a bar...

2009-01-21T13:18:00.007+05:30

Julio and the storm: This is the Flash fiction I wrote on a paper-napkin a few days ago during a party at a city bar.

The city slept. Everythig looed perfect as Julio finalized his plans. A smile played on him as he walked to the Imperial hotel. The stolen watch jingled in his pockets. Fresh soap mingled with overpowering cheap perfume seeped through his new clothes, reflecting solicitously. A pair of shiny white shoes took the twenty four year school-dropout past gleaming cars into the lobby. An hour later, smelling different, but in the same clothes, he walked out. He could no longer feel the watch. The white lady, Sarah Jones, is dead, he murmured into his cell. Petrified, he saw Sarah Jones, smiling from across the road. She was holding a cell. Julio felt her disconnect in his ears. He knew he had been tricked. Behind him, a police jeep siren grew like a hungry wave in a sea storm.

Happy New Year 2009

2009-01-01T13:40:00.013+05:30

I am with my Dad, opening a bottle of sparkling wine on 31 Dec 2008, his birthday, at my home in New Delhi, India.

A year has come and gone
Run away, without looking back

Left a new year trembling

Facing joyous humans at midnight

It sure will be afoot soon

Won't though promise you the moon

But will kill you with a winning smile

If you get up and let you thoughts really fly...

Delhi and the Satellite Towns – A Harmonious Daily Intoxication

2008-12-16T17:11:00.001+05:30

Delhi and the Satellite Towns – A Harmonious Daily Intoxication

By Kulpreet Yadav

Harmony and intoxication might as well sound like a wronged irony for you. But living in the city I truly love, I allow my senses to see it another way. Like when you say, the drink was stiff, but well rounded. So, the kick was well received. Anyway to make it simpler, let me hop on to the point straight from here. I am talking about the happy marriage of Delhi with the satellite towns that make Delhi a NCR.

If Delhi arrests you with Lutyen’s never-easy-to-understand labyrinthine roads shooting obediently off beautiful, landscaped and flowering roundabouts, the NCR with its skyscrapers, order (okay, chaos is being taken care off) and glitzy malls set amidst planned beautiful colonies sets your spirit free. To compare the satellite towns with the British made and Mughal sprawled amalgamation of Delhi therefore makes for a curious experience.

Let us try to see it in a little more detail. While Delhi offers calm and solace in a friendly environment of monumental relics hideously seeking attention among varietals of trees and flowering shrubs, the extravagantly opulent infrastructure of the satellite towns offers entertainment and business which the modern-lifestyle-infused soul seeks. And for someone like me, who has to drive everyday from Indirapuram in Ghaziabad to the office at India gate circle, it is transcendental bliss. Having dined at a plush restaurant with my family over the weekend in NCR, the drive across the Yamuna, alongside old fort beckoning an early morning welcome on Bhairon Singh marg, and the flowering trees bowing to greet the satellite town dwellers like me from the east with a smile on the Mathura road, the transition is both relaxing and soothing on the soul.

Delhi, at least most of which I frequent, seldom hurries me up, but strangely, I still complete my tasks on time. And when I am done, to catch a breath, the wondering peacocks surrounded by peahens set the clock backwards. Still later, finished early, the sunset over India Gate is awe-inspiring. It’s like history going down the horizons after a lazy, unhurried day with the Rajpath gently rising away on the Raisina hill, bisecting with pride the north and the south blocks in the distance blurred in haze and finally merging with the Rastrapati bhawan.

An exotic, riotous and extravagant interplay of seasonal blooms, perennial greens intermixed with numerous climbers in the so called lungs that are interspersed in the city, and a wide variety of pecking, flapping and flying birds that are dependent on these bursting spurts of volcanic nature all around, makes for the most inspiring and calming dazzle of flora, fauna and avifauna. It is like a timeless jungle adapting to the evolving need of the human civilisation – perfected to a blend that sustains each other. Well, almost… Whether or not flyways and new roads should eat away the forest bit and ruin this equilibrium is off course in the hands of the experts though I often wonder if they are experts enough. But I am sure they must be, because all this has survived far too long, and will survive the future too – a reason for us NCR dwellers to celebrate and enjoy. Until then I am sure the epileptic fascination for Delhi will continue to dominate the senses of the satellite dwellers and keep them intoxicatingly hydrated.

A few recent incidents that will shape India’s immediate future…

2008-10-30T15:00:00.006+05:30

Future is in the present. It is now. Only we can’t see it… But if we try hard enough, perhaps we can...

Well, it might as well sound like a prophecy mounted on my suddenly realized obsession to crystal gaze, but, in a way I think a lot actually happens in the world that had earlier left a trail behind as a hint. Those who had seen it coming, rejoice in a self-salute of their preparedness, saying, ‘Yes! I told you so, Brother’ and those who had failed to see the point just end up biting their finger nails. Fair to say then, the ability to analyse the happenings-on seriously, gets one better prepared when the consequences finally hit. At this stage, let me leave you with the things that climbed my conscious wall these past few months and is likely to shape the future on India.

The Regional Addiction

If you choose to ignore the fact that the Shiv Sena appears to be like that cat from the kindergarten story who taught all the tricks to the lion, including how to climb the tree, you, by a reasonable sense of judgment must be quite wrong. For, the party suddenly finds itself staring at an insider who is wearing their own clothes. Sad, it feels, the clothes fit the insider quite well. In other words the Sena’s alter ego seems to be fully equipped with the tricks of the trades. And the unexpected but conscious acceptance of the people to recognise this newly-attired-man as a man of their cause is, perhaps, Shiv Sena’s scariest bad dream. And no prizes for guessing that they might as well be right.

I am reminded of my days in College in Pune back in the late eighties when the sainiks had just leant the tricks of terrorizing people by resorting to vandalism. The power visible in the eyes of people of the chawls then who had suddenly tasted violence (nobodies of the society given the garb of a tiger to wear, someone had said) in the form of a sparkle had in fact set the course of the otherwise tolerant society, downhill. But such is the ambition of the human race to survive that in the end it survived the chaos quite well and was comfortable and standing upright until a couple of months ago. For, thus far, the damage done has been nothing more than names of a few stations and buildings changed. The city too has painfully lost its name and I think a fraction of its character. But still things were still pretty much under control, despite the onslaught. Until, this new ambition came along. I guess it is about time someone took note of the fact that Regionalism is a menace that will, at this rate, eat away the fabric of this wonderful nation.

"I have seen great intolerance shown in support of tolerance." Was something professed by the British poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge more than three centuries ago. Our politicians need to know this I guess. But will they?

Medals ahoy!

Our guys have for the first time come home from Beijing Olympics with three individual medals, including one in gold. Plus there were a few near misses. I reckon, this is a new ambition of a younger India who is not scared to take on the world. Surprisingly, the ambition is common to a vast spectrum and is visible in the achievements of India in various other fields as well. Be it Global acquisitions of our business houses lead by a team of younger suit-clad-businessmen or the Fashion tailors (pun intended), or even the sportsmen who came from the hinterland with no facilities to clinch medals with their sheer will power and a hunger to win, I think the trend bares the young India’s ambition. A lot has already been written in newspapers and magazines and debates have plotted and suggested the best way forward, but I have a humble point to make. Please for God’s sake, don’t let too many old fashioned people take too many decisions. Get the team of trainers and the mangers age down by many notches. And then ask what the young generation wants. Just give them what they want. And then trust and wait. We need to build up from here and target at least three times in the next Olympics.

India On Moon

But poor still are poor, screamed many headlines. I don’t agree with the late night whiskey drunk edit writers in their saying this. Why? Simply because you treat different aliments, differently. Poverty and hunger are a problem that needs to be addressed and the Government is doing it on priority. But the effort is short of the requirement. Right, I agree the edit writers have a point there. But does this mean we allow the ambition of our scientific community to languish in abandonment. Wrong. The mission of moon in terms of cost is just a fraction of the amount as compared to what is earned during the Cricket premier league. Shall we say, because people in India are hungry that we stop playing cricket? Come-on, the edit room guys need to be serious in their analysis. I think it is a brave new step that India has taken and needs to be applauded. After all, space is the final frontier for human race to conquer and India certainly should not be left behind.

Short skirts and long heels

The Indian girls are taking their image too seriously. Not too long ago the dress code for the Indian girls was something like this: Saris for mothers and wives, salwar kameej for the common office goers and jeans and a tee for college girls. Not any longer friends. I am not sure if you all have noticed the slow but sure transformation of the India girl. Now it is salwar kameej for housewives and mothers (sari is somehow being preferred only for weddings), skirts (long or short) for office goers and its flimsier variants for the younger ones. Let me speak my mind on this: I think the girl’s sense of dressing is coming to terms with both their sexiness and their Global ambition. Well, seeing the positive-ness of the points I mentioned, I think you all guys will agree with me that it is something which needs to be appreciated. Specially, when it treats our senses the right way too... I want comments here.

Meeting Shridhar Raghvan

2008-09-13T11:39:00.014+05:30

Meeting Bollywood's most promising Screenplay writer

I met Shridhar Raghvan last week in Mumbai exactly after twenty years. In fact, I had lost contact with him soon after college until someone equipped me with his latest contact details. That was sometime in the beginning of this year. With bated breath, I waited riddled curiously with the nature of response. Thankfully, the conversation took no longer than a second to find itself fondly recalling old days and anxiously asking each other who all were still in contact. I was eager to meet him. But work kept me busy here in Delhi.

Then last week I got an opportunity to travel to Mumbai for a day. We met near the airport at a bar as soon as I landed. Shridhar Raghvan turned out to be the same old college boy. Right from the first sip of the Vodka, we caught on as if it was just yesterday that we had parted. John Lennon had once remarked during the making of the song in 1967 by the same name " Oh I get by with a little help from my friends". Frankly, I too, for whatever I am today in the creative business, I have a lot to thank Shridhar about. I remember besides Lennon, we shared stories, cigarettes and vada sambhar at our college canteen during those beautiful days. The only difference, I chose a career which was in many ways anti creative (though I still love it due to my addiction to the thrill and adventure it treats me with), while he is still stuck on to his belief. Already winner of a national award for the movie Apharan and famed with the success of the movie Khaki, he is presently busy with the movie Chandni Chowk se China which has Akshay Kumar in the lead.

It was absolutely fascinating for me to hear words of praise for my book 'The Bet'. He is very confident that the book qualifies for a good movie adaptation . He also feels that it might even work as a TV serial as well. At a time, when I am just about to wrap up my second book, I think the information acted as a catalyst that allowed me to take the extra last peg. Thanks Buddy, wishing you a lot of luck and looking forward to a closer collaborative association. Cheers!

Title: The Lonely Mall and Maya (A flash fiction)

It is eight in the evening. The mall is crowded. Maya is absent, but the coffee still tastes good. Happiness is perplexing. I must repent, I admonish myself. But the inner voice is revealingly unconvincing. The girl on the next table is staring. But I know better - she is also talking on the cell.

Suddenly, the place begins to shake violently. The chandeliers in the atrium are menacingly dancing in preparation to fall down. All are running for cover heading for the faraway corners. But the girl is still is busy talking on the phone. My coffee is placid in the cup. I slowly turn the cup and it flows on the table. A chandelier comes crashing down. It falls next to me killing a rat that just happened to be running underneath. Now I see, there are many rats. More than humans. Some men too look like rats and many women are like rats wearing lipstick.

The girl has now hung up and is alarmed at the surrounding. Run, I scream at her. She is looking at me now. Her eyes are reflecting the glass beads of the broken chandelier. A smile hesitates to come on her face but disappears. I am sad, I have spilled my coffee. There is no one at the counter .I can't offer her a cup of coffee. Or cold coffee with ice cream. I am sure she would love that coffee with ice cream. All girls do. Even Maya is very fond of it. I walk up to her. Her eyes are now moist. Another chandelier falls down but misses us. I pick her up in my arms and walk up to the counter of Barrista.

It is not too difficult to make a cup of coffee. Thankfully the machine is still working and the power is miraculously alive. She is looking at me with her hand on her mouth. Now there are no tears. She is smiling when I hand her the glass of coffee. Suddenly, there is a spark and a spray of light beam and then total darkness. Her lips find mine. The place is still violently shaking. I am sure it is end of world. I kiss her and am surprised by the familiarity. My hands begin their hungry prowl. I am mesmerized with the known rise and falls. I know, at last, I have yet again found a new Maya.

Let's heal Darfur

2008-08-08T12:28:00.003+05:30

Alex Kamunyu is a brave young man who is determined to make a difference to the millions of humans who are suffering in Darfur, Sudan. He runs on the roads of Johannesburg to raise awareness and has a website to garner support of the world community. Here I quote from his website:

…Since the start of the conflict, many lives have been lost -- mostly women and children as well as destruction of property and the wanton raping of women and girls. It is estimated that more than 250,000 lives have been lost and more than 2, 5 million people have been displaced. By far, this is the worst humanitarian crisis at present. The USA describes the situation in Darfur as 'slow genocide'...

At the moment he is determined to taking a minimum of 1 million signatures of all those people who choose to recognize the atrocities being perpetrated on the innocents. I urge all readers to jion in. Because he then intends to print these out and submit bound copies to the following stakeholders:

1. United Nations Secretary General – H.E. Ban ki Moon.

2. Chairman of the African Union – H.E. Jakaya Kikwete

3. President of the Republic of Sudan – H.E. Omar El Bashir

4. Prime Minister of the People's Republic of China – H.E. Hu Jintao (China has been accused of supplying small arms to the Sudanese government which in turn are used by the Janjaweed ( Arabic for 'armed men on horseback') to cause conflict in Darfur.

It was a moving moment for me to receive a request from him a few weeks ago to use the poem that I had written after reading Ban Ki Moon's article in Washington post last year. I readily accepted, off course. According to him it appropriately captures the situation that the people are in. Read my poem from here.

Can there ever be a sound advice for writers?

2008-08-01T09:14:00.005+05:30

When it comes to writing fiction, everyone has a different opinion on how to go about it. Having read a lot on the subject, I still reckon it is best to react to one's gut feeling. At least that is something I have always been doing. Can't say, how much I have succeeded as my first book did only mediocre business if sales is the only indication to go by( as per my publisher), but I still feel that by sticking to what you are possessive about, you have a more reasonable chance to chisel your skills. In other words, you choose, consciously, to stick to originality and that is what ultimately sells.

I was going through what others have to say on the subject, but I think I can summarize what I feel, as follows:

Intrigue, surprise and delight are the three pillars that provide a sturdy platform on which any fiction writing can comfortable balance. That is my take on the subject; just to share my idea about the method.

Some pictures...

2008-07-23T08:48:00.007+05:30

Miles and miles to go before I stop... National Highway 24 as it looks on a lonely Sunday morning running away from Delhi.

Few can beat my co-brother in hosting parties overflowing with good food and great drinking options. Just take a look at the picture above. This before the whole fare was laid down. Absinthe, Scotch, Bacardi, Beer and chunky eats. Must mention, there was dinner also later in the night. Join me in saying cheers to Sanjay. God bless you. Happiness always!

Not many might believe that the picture has been taken using my Motorola cell camera. I am not an accomplished photographer. I just try my hands with the aim to capture a frame that tickles the senses in that curious sort of a way. But great results, I think. Agree?

Lodhi garden , in the heart of Lutyen's Delhi. The tomb rising with blunt penetration against the azure sky, soothes the temporal bliss that is life, I reckon. See the tree bowing down in the foreground.

Some guys will never learn, I guess. In the case of Buller wines, it seems to be a good enough excuse. The girl seen here is displaying a lively cleavage caught between two bubbles. The picture was taken from the company's stall at a food and wine event at Pragati Maidan. What say?

You know, the interesting part is that the company's website, doesn't show any of these excesses. Then the question is why this special treatment for us Indians.

Salman Does it Again

2008-07-16T13:23:00.009+05:30

Salman Does it Again

I was fascinated to the limit of creative numbness. I think the greatest strength of the book is its uninhibited prose that leaps out to the reader with an authoritative, new-fangled firmness and leaves him happily caged in a new world order from where even the basic understanding of the scene all around is interestingly altered

Meanwhile, Rushdie has disclosed that he “wasn’t confident at all” when he wrote Midnight’s Children.

“It was all just a trick. My first novel [Grimus] had done less than zero and had been trashed. I had four or five other unpublishable novels, so I felt like a failed writer. At the time Ian [McEwan], Martin [Amis] and Julian [Barnes] had had great successes. All my contemporaries were like Ferraris, leaving me at the starting grid,” he said in an interview in Guardian.

But it’s like Déjà vu for many like me. We had almost seen this coming. Perhaps it was inevitable.

36 % of people voted for Midnight’s children. The voters also included an overwhelming number of youngsters. It puts to rest the views of a few critics who have publically documented older people going for his book more than the youngsters. It seems that the ‘young-disconnect’ theory was only in their minds. I guess Rushdie’s acceptance is beyond the dividing lines of age, religion, culture or race. ‘Best of Booker’ has proved the point.

Salman Rushdie is a big guy. He has success, women and lots of money. His intellectual strain is worth cloning many say and the air he breathes is creatively rejuvenated when exhaled. I have grown reading his books. I guess an entire generation has. Frankly, I haven’t read all of his books but I think Midnight’s children happened to be the first one. I must have been in college at that time. The impression that I got still resonates vividly in my conscious. The book had spun a virtual world around me. I had begun to see and feel the world through its characters. Then I read it again, about six or seven years back. I was fascinated to the limit of creative numbness. I think the greatest strength of the book is its uninhibited prose that leaps out to the reader with an authoritative, new-fangled firmness and leaves him happily caged in a new world order from where even the basic understanding of the scene all around is interestingly altered. Yes, this is the way I would like to describe his works.

Read my other article about Salman here (though it in a different context altogether). I am leaving the readers with a part from the interesting stretch (The complete stretch makes the whole book, actually…)

…moments of solitude in the gloomy spidery corridors of the landowner's
mansion he was gripped by an almost uncontrollable desire to turn
and run away as fast as his legs would carry him. Unnerved by the
enigma of the blind art-lover, his insides filled with tiny scrabbling
insects as a result of the insidious venom of Tai's mutterings, his nostrils
itching to the point of convincing him that he had somehow contracted
venereal disease, he felt his feet begin slowly, as though encased in boots
of lead, to turn; felt blood pounding in his temples; and was seized by so
powerful a sensation of standing upon a point of no return that he very
nearly wet his German woollen trousers. He began, without knowing
it, to blush furiously; and at this point his mother appeared before him,
seated on the floor before a low desk, a rash spreading like a blush
across her face as she held a turquoise up to the light. His mother's face
had acquired all the scorn of the boatman Tai. 'Go, go, run,' she told
him in Tai's voice, 'Don't worry about your poor old mother.' Doctor
Aziz found himself stammering, 'What a useless son you've got,
Amma; can't you see there's a hole in the middle of me the size of a
melon?' His mother smiled a pained smile. 'You always were a
heartless boy,' she sighed, and then turned into a lizard on the wall of
the corridor and stuck her tongue out at him. Doctor Aziz stopped
feeling dizzy, became unsure that he'd actually spoken aloud, wondered
what he'd meant by that business about the hole, found that his
feet were no longer trying to escape, and realized that he was being
watched. A woman with the biceps of a wrestler was staring at him,
beckoning him to follow her into the room. The state of her sari told
him that she was a servant; but she was not servile. 'You look green as a
fish,' she said. 'You young doctors. You come into a strange house and
your liver turns tojelly. Come, Doctor Sahib, they are waiting for you.'
Clutching his bag a fraction too tightly, he followed her through the
dark teak door.

Builders build houses and fools live in them

It must be so.

Frankly, I don’t know how to deal with people who cheat habitually but profess exactly the opposite. The builder who made the society that I am living in at the moment certainly is one such. Preaching a catchy slogan ‘We deliver what we promise’ the builder (Mahagun) promised the innocent public delivery of modern apartments. But instead what we got in return for our hard earned money was one hell-of-a-hole-stacked-in-a-wall with falling plaster, leaking basement, crowded open area and generally substandard infrastructure. Soon after moving in I had written an article for the Hindustan Times consciously choosing not to use the builder’s name. I don’t think, now in the hindsight, it was a very good idea. See the article here.

I moved in my flat in April last year and since been surprised at the lack of interest shown by the residents to take up these issues with the builder. The attendance of the residents during the weekend meetings has been slender. Until last Sunday when at last, the people of our society woke up to a rare solidarity for the common cause and were truly up in arms against the builder. See the pictures above.

Soon the police had to be called and a case was registered against the builder for the failed promises and far from satisfactory maintenance standards of the society. A couple of TV channels too followed to record the resident’s concerns. Looks like now at last the builder will finally pull up his socks, connect better with us residents, leave the business of running the society to the duly elected RWA (a long pending demand of the residents) and part ways smilingly. If he is good businessman I see him going away after shaking hands with our RWA. But if he is not, we might have to invent more ways to step up the pressure.

A Donkey and a Car

Ask the people of Afghanistan the value of a donkey and they will be ready to pay you more money than a car. For, utility of an asset defines its value.

But not here in India…. Stray animals in our cities reflect the apathy we have heaped on them. It echoes our diminishing civic sense (if there is one such at all). We have conditioned ourselves to happily ignore these guiltless creatures of God. Today an entire society is living blindly in a crowd of germinated and discarded animals. Our eyes turn blind when we see one run over on the road. I feel time has come when someone – and constructively, maybe without the NGO badge – does something to lessen the plight of these neglected animals.

A few good captures

2008-07-04T16:34:00.007+05:30

Good pictures are wondrous interludes between oscillating mood caught in a temporal chasm, and the world that is pregnant with intuitive fluidity, creative enough to consider capturing that very moment in the frames of a camera. Some recent mood-naps as stilled by my camera are posted down-under with notes

Cat napping and a bunch of flowers smiling. This is one of my favourite pictures of all times. It was taken during spring last year on the way to Rumtek Monastery on the outskirts of Sikkim. Cats are intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a function, says an anonymous quotation. Need I say more?

The baked ground…
After the Monsoon’s pee
Shining moments…
Green happiness and
Camels in a queue

Drive alongside the Rajasthan state highway on the way to the Sariska Tiger sanctuary. Did you guys know that tigers are back in Sariska? My newspaper unfolded this great news about a week back when they got a pair from Ranthambore. Roar…

That is my favourite sofa at the end of a good day. Ditto at the start of a great day.

A blonde places her order using SMS at a New Delhi bar. Was she Australian? Just kidding man...How can blondes be so dumb? And this is not a joke...

Have a great weekend folks.

Creative Works and College get-togather

2008-05-17T12:46:00.011+05:30

Raghu Rai’s picture of Calcutta Dock

Calcutta has remained an artist’s paradise. For it has the most amazing of people, bounteous natural beauty, and historically – as they say – opinionated populace. It is also that part of the country where the amalgam of the Indian faces takes place as the inhabitant race changes from being straight featured to the rounder ones. Mixed with this is the fact that it was the British administered capital of India for the greater part of their rule. Not to forget that the imbroglio of misery and the rampant struggle for survival afforded the people the best of country’s freedom voices, most melodious and dove eyed of all the nautch girls with legendary status, the most accomplished of artisans and the best of playfulness of words in its writings. Once the British abandoned the port city for Delhi early last century, it left the people with lot of ideas to survive but without a clear way ahead. It came much later in the form of independence but the creative populace fell prey to the leftist philosophy. The city and the state remained stagnated thus and were christened the ‘dying city’.

Notwithstanding the pathetic condition that the city had to do with, the people have remained amazingly present in all spheres of our society displaying their willingness not only to survive but also to excel. At the time I read Amitav Ghosh’s fiction ‘The Hungry Tide’ I lived in the shadow of Calcutta. I spent considerable time traversing the winding water lanes of the various Hoogly channels and the labyrinthine waterways of the Sundabans. People have an amazing ability to survive – in the face of tempestuous weather, treacherous waves, snooping tigers, eroding islands and falling fish catch.

For me, pushing a boat out to sea from amidst a mix of sea, metal and bilge all around, all by a single soul demonstrates a rare will to survive. Hey Mumbaikars, the Calcuttans might not be too vocal about their spirit, but they have very much of it. Believe me or see the picture above.

Yusuf Arakkal's Charpoy, 1989

Yusuf Arakkal’s paintings demonstrate his deep concern for the society.

He puts forth despair as the central theme around which – rather in support of which – he makes a web of dark moods that somehow resonate intimately with the viewer, willingly filliping him forward so as to invite a deeper dwelling, till such time a more serene and truthful face of the Indian society emerges.

The one above is called charpoy (The Indian Cot), 1989. The boy and the girl in the picture are intently studious in their existence; defiantly living the moment, not a wee bit concerned that the restful abode they might have to lie upon when night falls is broken. According to me the painting spreads the charge with which life can sustain itself in the face of most common of existential miseries.

Ganging together

Seated left to right, Abhijeet, Rajeev and Shekhar. Standing from left to right, Naini, me and Mustafa

Reliving college days might be a distant dream for some but not for all. I am one of those few lucky ones who get the best of everything, every time. Well almost… Only if I chose to ignore the anger the adventure got my wife into. Though I did try, but folks, not coming home after a party (so what even if it was approved by the lady herself) doesn’t speak much of a husband. One who has to be more disciplined, more caring, more responsible…. I am sure most good guys can figure it all out. Meanwhile I am trying. I am sure the lovely lady will come around. She always does.

Anyway, the gang got together after 20 years (yes, you read that right) last Saturday. Six of us - besides me, two from Delhi (one, a businessman and the other a senior Army officer), two from Pune (one entrepreneur and the other vice President of a leading company) and one from Chandigarh (a showroom owner). The ladies were not in attendance. We wanted to relive the college days, remember. The best of Scotch and Vodka peeled the age away and once again we were the same kids studying in the Nowrosjee Wadia College in Pune. Sometimes I wonder how easy it is for us to fall back on yesterday’s emotions when life had more promises and a deeper meaning. It was an evening well spent, with folks who were the best of friends and gave me some of the best life’s memories. Now the wife…

A photo Exhibition, a Birthday and Delhi Summer Flowers

2008-05-09T15:12:00.011+05:30

Raghu Rai’s Photos exhibition at the Indian Academy of Modern Arts, New Delhi – 16 Apr – 30 Apr 2008

The banner outside the Indian Academy of Modern Art, New Delhi

I turned up at the National Academy of Modern Art, Jaipur house located near India Gate to see Ragu Rai’s photo exhibition on the last day of his fortnight long display of some of his best works. And what an experience it turned out to be.

One of the photos at the Exhibition that I liked and clicked

I was moved, thrilled, intrigued, surprised, overwhelmed and finally climaxed with a surge of emotions that completely knocked me out of my senses to say the least, as I strolled, room after room, with eyes open and mouth agape. Raghu’s attitude in capturing the confines of the focus is wondrous, bordering, in that remote sort of a way, to desperation that seeks to set so many elements, colours, moods, sentiments, all together in one spilt second. In the following paragraph, I have tried to show a candle light to the sun that he most certainly is in the creative art of photography. It is a candid view without any pretentions or, maybe if I choose to put it blatantly, fears. After all, it takes courage to comment on the work of the country’s one of the most renowned photographers. Let the candle flicker, so here it goes.

Brazen, and often, stark comparison of the diverse and seemingly impossible to amalgamate themes, in a manner that not only induces logic, but also reaches out with a lesson that spurs a honeycomb of emotions. These then concentrate suddenly as one view the pictures long enough. According to me this is Raghu Rai’s underlying theme in most of his works. People, places and split second drama can be another way of describing it. Also, Raghu depends heavily on intrigue – something that sends a small fry like me too skimming crazily in the creative waters.

I bought one picture of Kolkata Dock that somehow seemed to send across a sticky lesson – the kind one looks for on a piece that adorns the wall. In the picture a solitary man is moving a boat in the Hooghly River. There is something telling in the manner in which the solitariness of the man is coming to terms with the immediacy of his surroundings.

Jeanie, my lovely angel turns twelve

That is I and my daughter Jeanie

Jeanie, my elder daughter turned twelve on the second of April this year. Her first birthday ever since we moved into this new house of ours turned out to be a private, family affair. Perhaps, she too liked not being attending to guests, thanking gift bearing friends and in the end, left too tired to spend time with mom, dad and her little sister. So, unlike other years, having distributed candies to her friends during the day at school, she was excited to receive me at seven in the evening.

I got her favourite chocolate truffle cake. Sporting the new ‘Fast track’ watch (which she had earlier bought as a birthday gift) and a new dress, she cut the cake to the cheers and claps of her sister, mom and me. Soon, licking fingers with chocolate stained fingers, we decided to further the celebrations. The venue turned out to be a restaurant called ‘Fortune Platters’ at the nearby Shipra Mall. Strange it may sound but a combination of Italian and Chinese dishes were ordered. The chefs delivered well and completed what started as an enjoyable party.

She is twelve now. “You are not yet teen”, her mother emphasized the next day. Her grimace and throwing of shoulders conveyed that she thinks she is. It is perhaps the first expressive denial of Mom’s authority. I know soon it will be me. Will I handle the situation better? You bet.

Delhi Summer, Peacock flowers and Indian Laburnum

The sun is out with killer instinct, baking the Indian summer so hot that even after it ducks down to go around the other half of the world while the earth merrily rotates, its curse doesn’t leave us even for a second. For we see it again the next morning smiling vengeance in the form of even more blistering heat. It is first week of May and the maximum temperature has already crossed 43 C. The immediate future will not be easy to bear most reckon. Notwithstanding the heat, aren’t humans best at being optimistic in the worst of the crises? Well, if you ignore (try, it is not too difficult) there are a few bright sparks that sure will elevate your mood.

A Gulmohar tree in full bloom

Gulmohar (Peacock flower) and Amaltas (Golden shower or the Indian Laburnum) are in full bloom, cheering everyone up from every corner, alongside jogger’s lane and beaming from every other promenade next to the water bodies in the public parks, at traffic signals and on the roadsides. The Orangey-Red of the Gulmohar clouding the green foliage has filled the hearts of many a poets and singers in the past with desire, warmth and love. Look at it long enough and feel the burden of heat lighten. Golden shower on the other hand is a miracle that puts the summer sunshine to shame by pouting invigorating bunches of effusively bright flowers dangling heavy from an almost leafless tree. The yellow on the tree is overwhelmingly dominant – it is like garlanding a dry tree with millions of bright yellow flowers. Blue Jacaranda is also in full glory though less visible except in a few areas.

Kasauli - Kiss in the Himalayas

2008-05-06T08:50:00.008+05:30

Kasauli – The hilltop abode for that longing kiss you thought will never come

Flowering Silver Oaks on the way to Kasauli

Khuswant Singh, the nonagenarian Sikh writer who famously holidays in Kasauli each year and has entertained – also educated! – our countrymen for their entire independence period, describes Kasauli as ‘the place where kissing is always in season’. Whether or not he is right I will come to a little later because first, let us make way for an introduction to get the setting right.
At 6000 feet, sporting tall and slender pine trees and perennial burst of wild and ornamental flowers, Kasauli sure drugs the visitor with its scenic beauty and cooler climes. A small army cantonment, three British made churches including one called the ‘Church of England’ built in 1884, several British made (since bought by Indians, mostly) green and white cottages, two malls (lower and upper) catering for the local and the tourist needs, and plenty of calm, make Kasauli the ideal summer retreat for the heat and dust weary Indian families, desperate to cool their bodies in an idyllic, friendly landscape.

The Church of England at Kasauli

Look anywhere; shoot from any angle by your shutterbug or take any road through the whispering pines on both sides, the place has a naturally reassuring ambience that, in a way – I sure tumbled upon this feeling – permeates into the skin and balms the soul. Suddenly the energy that you thought you lost due to ageing – or due to the damned Indian summer – bounces back with a vengeance. Result: You want to explore more, laugh more, eat more, and live more. And the kissing off course comes in-between, many times. Having family around at such places allows for more intimate sharing of thoughts, beliefs and, most important of all, fears. I did just that when I wasn’t looking around appreciating the beauty – which one, do I have to still elaborate?

Fruit wines and tax exemption

Fruit wines and jams neatly laid out at a shop

I would strongly recommend fruit wines made by a local brewery called Sutter house (now called Waterfall Wines) available everywhere. It comes in riotous colors and flavors like peach, strawberry, apricot, grapes, Rhododendron and apple etc. The best part is the price. A bottle of 750 ml ranges from Rs 130 to Rs 300 only.

Why so cheap? I asked the local guy at the ‘Daily needs’ shop who sold me some fantastic square shaped homemade Chicken salami the previous evening. Sir it is all due to this tax exemption, he began hesitatingly. Stutter house began four years ago with a tax holiday window (part of the HP Government’s drive to boost investment in the state) and last year when the holiday was coming to an end, the company just overnight changed the name to Waterfall and got another tax holiday for five years. Smart! I exclaimed and bought two bottles – peach for Rs 150 and Rhododendron for Rs 200. While Rhododendron, made out of wild red alpine flowers found in the higher reaches of the Himalayas, was cunningly mysterious (refraining me from conclusively declaring from the flavor wheel), it ranged from being fruit intensive to something like cocktailed with sweet Chinese vinegar, the Peach wine was sportingly sweet for an unaccustomed Indian palate.

The Kasauli club

The Kasauli club started as a ‘Kasauli Reading and Assembly Rooms’ in 1880 and was finally converted into a club in 1897. The club was registered at the office of the Registrar, Lahore in 1898. Present in the first meeting were Brig General Symons CB, Commanding officer Sirhind Division, Brig-Surgeon Lt Col O’Conner and Major Young Husband, British high commissioner to Tibet.

According to Major General (Late) Mohinder Singh Chopra it was ‘a natural meeting place and was extremely active. There were six tennis courts in commission, but even then they were fully booked and we had to take turns. Evening tea was served in great style above the tennis courts by bearers in snow-white starched uniforms, with turbans, Cummerbunds and white gloves. The club served players and guest alike with muffins, macaroons, paper-thin cucumber sandwiches, sponge cakes and large iced cakes served on shining silver stands, all for one rupee’. The club, even today, looks majestic and imposing, withstanding its glory and magnificence with pride and colonial charm.

A Bit of Pakistan

For me it churned a great deal of intrigue when I learned that the famous (?) President of Pakistan (earlier Pakistan Army chief and later Filed Marshal) Ayub Khan was a tenderfoot 2nd Lieutenant of the Indian Army serving his probably first appointment, after passing out from Sandhurst Military Academy in the United Kingdom, with 1st Battalion, Royal Fusiliers at Kasauli.

The Kasauli Brewery

The entrance to Kasauli brewery - the makers of Solan No 1, once regarded as the 'scotch of the east'

About three kilometers of rolling down from the lower mall we took a two kilometer detour at the road that branched off at Gharkhal on its way to Dharampur. And we arrived at the 1860 commissioned Mr E Dyer’s whiskey brewery. Mr E Dyer was the father of the notorious Brigadier General Reginald Dyer, the perpetuator of the Jalianwala bagh massacre on April 13th in 1919.

The brewery is famous for making the ‘scotch of the east’, Solan No 1 brand besides the first ever Asian beer, Lion. It was bought by Meakin and company in 1873 and finally amalgamated with Dyer’s Brewery, Solan in 1920s. The ownership finally went to the Mohans group who owns it even today as the Kasauli brewery of Mohan Meakin.A tour in the brewery turned out to be a happy escape from the chill outside into the heady aroma of fermenting malt. The process demonstrated was pretty simple – a capacity of 3000 liters per day of whiskey is made out of fine quality malt, first crushed with water at 65 degree centigrade then mixed with yeast till fermentation begins before standing for maturation and finally the distillation. Why not much marketing for your brand these days? I had to ask the escort who took us around. Shortage of good quality of barley and addition of ENA (Extra Neutral Alcohol) in lieu, has somewhat compromised the quality, he said. Whoever said people from the hills are very innocent. Guess he was right. After all no one tells the truth about quality these days.

Had it not been for my great friend and brother in law, Sachin, and his lovely wife Rachna, the trip would not have been so much fun. Let me take this oppurtunity to record my thanks to them for arranging boarding, lodging and travelling. It was great guys. When do we go there next and make up for what we could not do? We are ready if you are...

Happiness and Expectations – Tinkering with life’s basic beliefs

2008-04-17T08:44:00.004+05:30

Happiness and Expectations – Tinkering with life’s basic beliefs

“Learn to value yourself, which means to fight for your happiness” Ayn Rand

It is difficult to get everything in life. Right? But unfortunately, not many accept this simple binding truth. Or just plain ignore it, at least subconsciously.

Unfulfilled gratification, aspiring enrichment, seeking satisfaction and unrealized happiness, therefore, sucks human beings into a self created black hole called ‘expectations’. To expect a lot more than what one deserves is the evil at the core of the entire human existence.

The myopic ‘expectation–dependent’ approach that humans are so obsessed with seldom allows them to open out to a larger canvas – where life has much more to offer. This obstinately dug in anchor which one can’t get rid of keeps the subconscious bound to a tunnel vision which has the same person peeping from the other end. The rest of the world for him is alien. One sees himself in the mirror and perceives the goodness of life on the basis of how the reflection looks. And sadly the reflection always sulks, for, it only shows the truth.

The truth is no one can guarantee you satisfaction, however hard they try...

Gratification, satisfaction and happiness are three elusive pillars on which life is planned to balance. But these seem so near, yet so far, like an evading shadow that one can only chase but never reach. Result: A dissatisfied present. Now the question is how to acquire these three simple truths? Is it at all possible? The answer is yes. But only if we are ready to see the world, and those around us, at home or work with a newer perspective. Only if we change our definition of good and bad, desirable and essential, must and might or win and lose. Only if we open our eyes to a new world where enlightenment reins, not expectations. This is not a preaching lesson. Nor is this a physiological or a religious discourse. It is mainly a way of calming yourself in the heat of the moment. It is just a method that allows you to find yourself. And the icing on the cake is, it is so goddamn easy.

Smile is infectious; it is necessary sanity...

It is just the way we look at life. The trouble is we look at it from our own obsessed point of view. We seek enrichment of resources, because others have them or we come to know of them. We seek enrichment of resources, because others have them or we come to know of their existence. We seek gratification because we wish to achieve most difficult of personal agendas because others can do it too. We seek satisfaction because everyone else has everything. And, finally, we need happiness because everyone else is happy. The real trouble is not someone else, but you yourself.

Now, let us try the other way. Let us just pledge to be happy with whatever we have achieved in life and work. Instantly, a feeling of satisfaction will permeates the conscious which in turn leads to gratification and finally a feeling of enrichment. Now, suddenly, life doesn’t seem ridiculous or insignificant anymore.

In short, try to find happiness in any situation and stop expecting what others have. Expectations fuels dissatisfaction because to meet expectations of all people at all times is a biological, social and commercial impossibility. So why chase a mirage. Let’s turn the whole thing around – Count smiles, court friends and catalyze from what you have, not what you don’t.

2008-04-11T08:51:00.005+05:30

What is common between Naipaul and Advani?

Well lots… Not many might have figured it out but LK Advani and VS Naipaul have a lot in common. For one, both left their home countries, circumstantial or otherwise, to find new homes – the former in India and the latter in the United Kingdom. Two, both have lived a life, mostly in the last decade, along the tightrope balancing their path to remain in-between self inflicted controversies on the either sides. Three, both support Hindutva. While Naipaul described the destruction of Babri Mosque as a “creative passion” and the invasion of Babur in the 16th century as a “mortal wound”, Advani’s inflammatory speeches, arguably, brought the monument actually down in 1992. Four, both habitually court controversies and have a Pakistani link. Naipaul, all of us know, is married to a Pakistani Journalist Nadira, who he married just two months after the funeral of his wife Patricia, and Advani has a yet to be finished case in Karachi court regarding a controversial plot he had supposedly hatched to kill Jinnah. Surprised? It dates back to the pre independence days. Wow! And last, but not the least, intriguingly their biographies too have hit us readers at the same time.

Tibet and China Olympics

So Baichung Bhutia seems to be the last man standing. Or is it? Difficult to reckon with hordes joining the 17 April slated Rajpath Olympic torch run. Add to that the French incident which is still fresh in our memories. There seems to be a lot of action readying up. And with China bent upon using force to douse the uprising in Tibet – or so we are made to believe – the acting aspirations of the world’s most populous state is at last getting a serious stage fright. It is show time guys. Bent upon to impress, the conducted tour of journalists (India left out) too haven’t done them much good. There are a lot of canons still required to be fired to water the uprising and the consequent relative global unpopularity.

Some say, politics and sports don’t match. Wrong. Because if it doesn’t match then why so much trouble? Games, just like war, are a serious step towards politicking fulfillment when other methods fail. After all, nobody spends so much just for kicking balls and seeing sweating bodies slither on the race tracks. The fascination of watchers and cheerers are made; cultivated over a time. It is international politics boys and we are in the middle of it. Let’s wait and watch what happens. For me, politics or otherwise opportunists who are diluting the struggle of Tibetans are the real trouble makers. And there are a plenty of them.

Civility and Indians

There was a time in the recent past when I used to curse the Indian people honking and spitting on the roads all over the country. These two typically Indian habits were obnoxious enough for me to consider running away from the country. Frankly, I contemplated so several times. So when last week Mumbai decided to have a honk free day and Delhi decided to fine spitting people a little earlier, I was among those persons who breathed easy. At last, we are beginning to evolve in the civil sense. Though there hasn’t been significant change in the way people still honk and spit, at least a word has spread that these are prohibitory habits. Hopefully, by the time my overseas friends come visiting next, I won’t be as ashamed.

A weekend Safari - Sariska, Rajasthan, India

2008-03-29T19:39:00.010+05:30

A shot taken in the middle of the jungle. White spotted deer ( Cheetal) can be seen running about

Sariska, the 11th Tiger reserve of India, is indeed an audacious safari to embark. So say all those who have visited this sprawling, over 800 kilometers of wild life sanctuary, located just outside Delhi, at a distance of about three hours by road. But, as adventurers, we needed to double check it out for ourselves. And that is exactly what we did. Kid’s holidays and the possibility of sneaking out of office for a few days leave last week, translated the idea into a plan.

Pugmarks on display. But where are the Tigers?

Though devoid of the big cat, the Indian Tiger, Sariska brims with history, a rich flora and fauna, and a picturesque running about of undulating ridges and steep mountain slopes, among a mish mash of bobbing greens and frolicking wildlife. With Tiger not any more in the jungle, the other wild life can be seen making merry here abound, despite the fact that the 58 or so, we were told, leopards are on prowl.

November to March each year is the best period to visit the sanctuary. Located half way in-between Delhi and Jaipur, it is about 160 kilometers from both the destinations and can be reached from either of these cities by train or by road. There is no airport at Alwar, though a road called Airport road exists in the city. But then the city also has an area called Swarg (Heaven) road. Anyway… let us get on.

Can you sight a wild boar in the picture? If see see carefully enough perhaps you will.

I drove my family in my car. Dad and Mom joined us from Alwar, which is nearest town on the north of Sariska, about 30 odd kilometers. The state highway that connects Alwar to Sariska was potholed and pebbled. But the scenery on both sides was blissfully breathtaking. In March one gets to drive past orchards of Mangoes with small bunches of mangoes smilingly waving, and the goose berry (The common Aamla) trees turned brown with the burden of several hundred of Goose berries sitting heavy on the branches. The flame of the forest (Or the Butea) added the much needed dash of orange sending our hearts aflutter.

Indian Goose Berry ( Aamla) tree laden with fruits.

At Tigerden, the RTDC Hotel at the edge of the forest, we decide to take a little break. The staff was hospitable and helpful. With a qualified guide embarked on board my car, we began our journey at about three in the afternoon. There is a tar road that runs right through the center of the jungle to the Pandupole temple. Legend has it that the site of the temple was hit by Bhim, the strongest of the Pandava brothers, while they were in exile, and a water fountain sprung out of nowhere. Now there is a temple of Hindu Monkey God, Hanuman.

In the Jungle... Has my daughter Leah grown horns.

Besides the flame of the forest glorifying the meetiing of the trees with an azure blue sky in the distance, like a fire beautifying the jungle, Sariska has a wide variety of flora to boast. Amaltas (Cassia fistula) was just about getting ready to bloom. Dhok was all around. And so was the common Ber or the Indian stone apple (Ziziphus Mauritiana), which both langur and Chetal are so very fond of.

Deers and Indian Langur - A truly sybiotic relationship.

Sariska also has a rich diversity of animals and is home to many rare species. On our way through the forest we saw Langur, Monkeys, Spotted Deer (Or Chital), Neelgai (Blue bull), Wild boar, Mongoose, Sambhar (The largest in India from the deer family) etc. Home to about 250 birds, both residential and migratory, Sariska also has a rich avifauna. Among birds we saw Partridge, parrot, peafowl, Indian Lapwing (Tatihari), Red vented sparrow (Bulbul), green pigeon and the long tailed Rufous treepie

The Indian Lapwing ( Tataihari)

My daughter Jeanie has a Rufous Treepie eating out of her palm while my wife Seema looks on

The majestic mysticism of Sariska wild life sanctuary rejuvenated all of us. Why we need to desperately hang on to the nature was one fact that yet again caught on. And the beauty and the earthy charm of the wild allowed us to reinvent us in a whole new way. So folks, adventurers and holiday seekers, with kids schools closed for holidays now is the time to pack your bags and go on a jungle safari. And Sariska is what I strongly recommend.

A picture post - March 08

2008-03-28T08:58:00.008+05:30

Folks, I have been totally occupied with work since last couple of weeks. Reason I couldn't find time to write at leisure. Hence this picture post...

Leah striking a pose in the lift of our building. She convinced me last Sunday that I must accompany her to the kids park.

Both the daughters practicing golf in my wife's Uncle house recently. Thankfully nothing was broken.

Seema and I are very fond of coffee. Sometimes, actually out of the house for an evening health walk, we end at a coffee shop. Like the one above...

Both the kids out on an early morning walk with their granddad.

Dad and Jeanie climbing a hillock near our house in Alwar, Rajasthan, India last weekend.

Jeanie and Leah seems to have grown up. Helping their mother by volunteering to get rid of the peas from the pod.

India Gate - Driving past.

2008-02-29T08:56:00.003+05:30

I took this picture last week driving past the Indian gate in New Delhi using my cell phone. Notice the Moon on the left on the gate. What you see on the right are artificial lights. The picture, perhaps, is not as mesmerising as the scene truly was. But I thought it to be a worthwhile moment that I can share with my blog friends.

Cheers!

Kulpreet Yadav

The Girl in the Lounge

2008-02-27T10:00:00.004+05:30

The Girl in the Lounge

I am sitting at the lounge of the hotel in the midst of lost people. They find me non-existent, I think. I still look at them. There is one child, about five years, tugging her mother’s skirt while she is trying to prove a point to her male companion, looking seriously at him. But he is looking away.

The staffs at the reception desk are submerged under plastic smiles, greeting people. The flowers affixed to the shallow base of the flat plate like pots in the lounge area are all admiringly looking at the biggest basket of flowers in the centre. Tilting outwards, on all sides, the stalks are at their smiling best. There is one peculiar looking balding man with a rolling paunch, scratching his balls and eating the last bit of a pencil thin moustache, talking in the cell phone. He seems least bit conscious of the horrified expression lounging people transition into while crossing or plain looking at him from their couches.

At the far end, beyond the waist height separator, about two dozen tables are playing host to the coffee lovers. An occasional laughter speaks of the comfort level of a few of the guests. A heady aroma of the freshly brewed coffee is wafting invitingly beyond the sucking power of the deodorizing environment. The man on the cell has just fished his call and has mercifully been spared of the itch. But he is now scratching his bread instead and looking around. He sees me and suddenly looks away. Now I notice the little girl with the mother again. She is wearing a pink frock. Her mother has since convinced the man and both are now talking much easily, seated alongside.

There is this dark girl who has entered the lounge just now. She is tall with a tawny complexion. The short coat pulled over a white shirt is bursting by the thrust of a handful of contained breasts. She is walking on a pair of long stocking contained legs emerging out of a short black shirt. Her heels fleetingly take her to the sofa across me, about five feet away. I find her looking at me. The little girl in the pink dress declares rather loudly that she wants an ice cream. I hear her somewhere faraway.

The tall girl is now looking straight into my eyes. I see her wink. Unable to take the lead plays heavy on me like a caterpillar slithering over a fresh leaf. The anger bakes my inside and I can feel smoke emerging from my ears. Suddenly I wish the sofa could crawl and take me away. But something makes me hold on. I try to once again look at her. She is still looking at me through big eyes, her pink mouth in a pout. I am scared, but excited. The girl in the pink dress is getting a scolding from her mother for spilling the ice cream. A staff is running with a mop cloth and a supervisor in tow. The man on the cell is once again talking, scratching furiously. The reception staff suddenly gets distracted by the entry of an uproarious crowd. They are wearing dhotis and kurta and are bursting in energy with puffed arms and legs showing... Some are wearing vermillion tilak on their forehead. The reception supervisor is animatedly giving them directions. But they are looking everywhere except him.

I steal a glance at the tall girl. But she is missing. I lose a breath or two at the loss. My eyes are wandering in every nook and cranny. There is no sight of her. The flowers suddenly seem to be laughing. The frock girl too is smiling looking at me. Revealingly, the man on the cell is still talking but he is not scratching any more. Now I once again see the girl. She is talking to the Dhoti politician who was left out of the group. Glancing at me she gives him a piece of paper. Probably it is a visiting card.

Now I see her coming. She is coming straight for me. I can feel the juices dancing against the sluice gates somewhere down inside my abdomen. With each step the rubbing of the liquid is getting more inspirational. A plan is spawning in my mind. But I need time to act. It is happening too fast.

Come let’s have a cup of coffee, she says to a speechless me. I follow her. The girl in the frock is asking for one more ice-cream.

My Valentine - My Wife

2008-02-14T08:40:00.005+05:30

With my Wife Seema on the steps of Amer fort, Jaipur, India

I Love My Wife

I love her!
I love her
For the joy
And for the tears
for believing in our life
Without regret or fear

I love her
For the warmth
And for the cold
For being with me all the while
All the seasons
Every inch, every mile

I love her
For the hugs
And the kisses
For being beside and close
Caring and living
An affection that shows

I love her
For raising the children
And for raising me
For lending tranquility
Helping me find home
When I am lost in job, or the city

I love her
For the warmth of desire
That dabs the inner fire
Each evening or morning
Reinventing the bond of life
Moon brimming, or the sun shining

I love her
For being my wife
Helping me find meaning
In the dullness around
Teaching me sensitivity
Whispering pleasure sounds.

The urban blues

2008-02-07T09:22:00.000+05:30

The Urban blues

The newspaper wasted my time. The magazine turned me sleepy. The nothingness of the park crawled over me, aimlessly trying to make me laugh. The bench where I sat failed to turn soft under my weight. The grass under my bare feet merrily irritated me with its late evening wetness.

The sun was about to set. People from all walks of life were seamlessly lost in the Indraprastha Park. A little distance away rival trails of competing cars cut across the smoke and horns, enviously seeking pace and speedier reach. A flyover gently rose like a big brother failing to calm down the vehicular frenzy.

My cell rang. It was Rita.

I refused to take the call. She called up again masked under the ringing ‘don’t cha’ number by Pussycat dolls. I heard the song but didn’t take the call. It stopped with the suddenness of repent and the empty shrillness that seemed to awake from it, encircled me. I was certain that it won’t ring anymore because I knew Rita. Her commitment, I cursed, would only last couple of attempts. Damn her! A fountain of anger rose in me like a trapped volcano happily unleashing at last. Why does she ignore me these days? The anger ballooned with the daylong question further. And I, yet again, cursed the park and all those there.

“Peanuts, sir”, the man with the offer seemed to smile through a shadow of pain. I looked away. The salesman in him caught on. I politely refused but he persisted. I got up. It was time to leave.

But I wasn’t really in mood to go home and meet Rita.

A bar in the nearby Khan market made more sense. Before entering the dimly lit bar, I entered the rest room. My picture in the mirror looked gloomy. I repented being me and therefore washed my face rubbing irritation with force and splashing cold water. The effort failed. I pushed my head under the tap and let the coldness reach my brain. After combing afresh the look somehow seemed overhauled as I met with my reflection with a relative ease.

At seven in the evening there were only two tables occupied. I climbed the stool near the bar and ordered whiskey. Only if Rita listened to me more… I suddenly hated her – for her nagging, her intrusion in my affairs, fussing over clothes, pushing me to set my cupboard right, arguing over television soaps, expressing disgust over the movies I liked to watch …

The barman refilled the glass. I greedily took a gulp and wondered what next to do. I wasn’t yet prepared to go home. Not until, I sort my mind out. I must teach her a lesson. The thought made sense. But How?

There was a lady in the corner drinking beer alone. She too seemed melancholic. I glanced at her and we met in the eyes, unplanned. But both gave up simultaneously. Now I was on my third drink and aware of the fact that I should not take more. That would enliven Rita’s courage when I get back home. I slowed the speed and instead began concentrating over the eats though I wasn’t hungry.

This time Rita sent an SMS. ‘I am sorry’ was all it said. A calming melancholy began smothering me. I slumped more on the stool and took the calm with a heavy and long breath. Suddenly things looked better. The lady in the corner seat looked and smiled, frightening me a bit. I raised an inhibited hand responding with civility.

She is dangerous, the barman whispered in the ear. But did it matter? I got up and walked across to her. “Can I join you?” She smiled in return. Now I could see that she was foreigner. “Hi, I am Kunal.” I grinned. “I am Enola. Enola Besot”. The name seemed familiar. We began to talk. I ordered another round of drinks for both. An unmistakable fire seemed to erupt between us. With every passing second it seemed to leap out of control.

Leaving her exasperated and proposing to meet the next day, I eloped with a drunk myself. I can’t cheat on Rita, after all, irrespective of whichever way she treats me. It was difficult for the thought to reason with me, but in the end I was glad it did.

My car crossed the Indraprastha Park at ten in the night. I slowed down and stopped, staring in the darkness at the sleeping park. Someone seemed to be seated on the bench on which I sat in the evening. But the gates were closed. I parked the car and got out. Jumping the fence, I walked to the man.

I wasn’t surprised to find myself sitting there. We looked at each other. I must be drunk; it just wasn’t possible. How can there be two me? Frustration turned me into an endlessly laughing man.

“So mister who are you?” I struggled to sound audible through an incessant laughter. There wasn’t any reply. There were instead, tears in his eyes. It made me sad. Suddenly the cell began to ring. The reminder declared that the Valentine day has slipped across the midnight.
I walked back to the car and returned home. The house was sleeping, just as I had expected. Hanging the key near the door, I entered the living room. Suddenly there was light everywhere. I was blinded with the intensity. A familiar voice screamed and cheered. Seconds later I found Rita standing in front of me with a large bunch of Roses. There were flowers everywhere. On the table, orchids, my favourite. She hugged me and said sorry.

“Sorry, for what?”

We couldn’t make it to the bedroom.

Happy Republic day 2008 to all Indians

2008-01-25T17:02:00.000+05:30

To all Indians, here in India and all around the globe: Here is wishing you a very happy republic day.

We all know that on this very day the lost might of India was restored after more than two centuries of humiliation and bleeding.

Yes friends, on the 26th of January, 1950, we once again got a fresh lease of life when our nation was formally transferred from the British dominion, as headed by King George VI, to us Indians with the formally adoption of the constitution and the election of the first Indian president to the highest office.

Many of us take this day as routine and just prefer treating it as another holiday. Well, while there is no harm in this approach, we must also try and recall the day’s worth. History can’t be undone, so no point in cribbing and getting angry at the perpetrators who ruled us. Instead, since today will be history tomorrow, we must use this day for introspection. Are we good citizens? Are we contributing to the nation’s growth? Are we giving enough time to the poor and the needy of the society and empowering them? And the biggest question of all: will our children be proud of us tomorrow? Will we leave an inspiring legacy behind? Will we set worthy examples for the next generation to emulate?

Let us on this big day take a vow that we will make a difference.

Let us just rededicate ourselves to the spirit of new Indian. An Indian that thrives on firm values and is soon going to take the whole world in its stride. The wheel has to spin our way. Our prosperity has been gone too long.

Best wishes from an Indian. Have a great day.

In love with Anita

2008-01-23T11:27:00.000+05:30

Her eyes spoke without speaking. She was once again in the balcony.

I signaled with my hand and repented as suddenly as she ignored. I was sure she had seen me. But still, I failed to get a response. I tried again, desperate to reach out as loud and clear as possible without tripping over the tiny balcony of my sixth floor flat. And failed again.

Since that day, about four months ago, the story remained same. She timing her stare with mine, and finally ignoring my inventive ways of making myself noticeable, shirking away absent mindedly to the confines of her house. Not getting noticed was part of the fun. But for how long? For I was sure she was watching me. And she kept on coming back, over and over again, infusing confidence, without missing out a single day. So, to make sure I succeed in the competition and make her wave a hand or smile back, I kept on getting more and more inventive by the day. On some days I would wear a bright red coloured sweatshirt and on others just walk out in a vest hopeful that the made up body will at least arouse some attention. But nothing seemed to be working. Therefore, at last, I confided in my friend Harry.

“Harry what should I do?” Sitting in the coffee shop near our office I asked my best friend.
“I guess, you should do something so outrageous that she, just bursts out laughing. You know girls like the guys who can make them laugh.” My friend professed. I couldn’t agree with him more. Though I knew that would come at a heavy cost of a bruised ego. But still one thing was clear: I knew I had to do something really stupid.

“But do what?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. Maybe you can pretend to jump from the balcony.” Harry stammered, looking imaginatively into his coffee cup. He wanted to avoid saying something as stupid as that. But to me, in all its suddenness, it seemed like a good idea. But the only problem was will it work? And what if it didn’t?

In another hour, we drew up a plan. The plan was that I will slowly climb the railing on my balcony and pretend to jump. For the results, it was decided that even if she rushed inside to call up help using the telephone, it will be constituted as noticing and acknowledgment of my presence. At best, both of us hoped that she will shake her head or fold her hands. As we revised our plan, the latter seemed to be the more likely outcome.

So, in accordance to the plan, I stepped out in the balcony at the scheduled time the very next day. Harry took position under the window peeping through the curtain. My heart skipped a heartbeat to see her standing right where I had expected her to be, looking straight in my direction. I waved the usual ‘Hi’ without any response.

Slowly, I took out the Wooden Pole with a red flag tied on it and extended it fully outwards of the Balcony. A shadow of concern swept past her face. But Harry said I was imaging it, when I whispered.

Then I, trying best to control my suddenly jittery confidence that began its prowl on me by shaking both my legs and hands, creepily set a wobbly jelly-turned-foot on the railing of the balcony. But she kept on staring. Nothing, Harry confirmed. I didn’t believe him when he said I was just seconds away from winning. Am I doing the right thing? An elemental Question took a pot shot at me, confusing my resolve to further the adventure. You can’t get back now, Harry’s message was clear. I took a longish breath and set the other foot too on the balcony. Now I was too scared to look anywhere except my own feet. The girl in question ran out of my conscious completely and instead a surge of fear gripped me. Under my feet a six floor vacuum gaped at me hungrily. Now I was sure it was a misadventure from the start. I cursed Harry for tricking me in. Seconds passed without anything. Harry, I called out. There wasn’t any answer. I looked up. The girl too was standing on the balcony railing. She smiled and waved. I too smiled, shaking badly. She was the first to jump. A divine expression scanned my face as she went down.
Only the next day, did I come to know that a blind girl staying in building next to mine committed suicide. I went over to meet her parents. Her mother was saying to the weeping crowd that she had just turned twenty five and was disturbed about her non-marriage. A suicide note lay next to her. I picked it up and began to read.

Dear,

I am aware of your presence only for the past few months. I don’t know your name. Not even the place you stay. But for some reason, I feel you stay somewhere close. And you like me. Just like I like you, though I am aware our ways may not cross at all.

It is stupid, I know. Because such things don’t happen. But somehow I am sure that you exist. Just the way I am sure you will read this letter. I just want you to know that I have never been loved by anyone so completely and dedicatedly. Only if this love was possible. Because, I know it is not.

When I am gone, please don’t despair. Just let me mingle with the ashes without any burden.

Anita

I couldn’t speak for several days after that. Harry was equally upset. I could not forget that quiet expression on her face as her corpse lay rolled up in a white bed sheet. People said she looked sad, but I noticed a faint smile on her face.

------------------------------

“Son, please get up. The sun is already up. Don’t you want to go to the office today?” My mother pulled the quilt from over me. It was a new morning. I rubbed the dream out of the eyes.

“Oh my God” I said aloud. So it was a dream. I ran to the balcony to look for her. She was very much there. I waved and shouted, “Hey is your name Anita?”

“Yes”. She waved back.

Men get naughty at Four '0' Forty

2008-01-17T11:35:00.000+05:30

With daughters Liana and Jeanie at Home in Delhi

That is Jeanie, my daugher who is in sixth class

At 40, more than the housie number call – Men gets naughty at four ‘o’ forty – I feel altogether different. Let me try to word it down.

I feel like a fugitive who is trying his best to escape the reality.

Why am I doing this? Perhaps because I have been taking the advices of others too seriously, whether conveyed directly or silently. And in that bargain, I am running away from the feeling that more needs to be taken for shot at, in life. In fact, the four decades spent has been more of an intentional belief of satiation, achieved through immediate applause, without realizing the whole aspiration that the soul sought. In other words, I have been happy, but without feeling the guilt of losing out of a hidden ask by the inner voice.

So, lesson drawn – Here is what I think I should do. Instead of running away towards the structured beaten path shown by the well wishers, I must make sure I reach within myself. Take the proverbial ‘the road less travelled’. Then, I must assimilate with myself. The belief of originality that has been ringing in the ears now for so long should stay put there, instead of getting burdened under the barrage of advices.

That apart, the naughty thing too makes for an instinctive sense. Pardon me for being addicted to normalcy as a human. Therefore, I had been saying about the likelihood of my being naughty to all the female friends who have been calling me, no matter who they are or how much may I offend them. And guess what, no one seems to be minding it.

The Catwalk

2008-01-12T16:42:00.000+05:30

The Catwalk

The smile was effervescent
And the mood was reflective
The expression sailed animatedly
The manner was inventive

Her whisper seemed a talk
Eyes blinked a caught emotion
With her gestures challenging
There wasn’t any commotion

She delivered the message
Unafraid of the competition
Playing oddities with ease
She declared her intention

Her glamour was her strength
Her gait her rant
Garb she carried fervent
Among claps and chant

Easy applauded the frenzied dreamers
Sitting in rows, eyes gaping
The music breathed license in her appeal
As she went about, her love raking

A very happy new year 2008

2008-01-06T11:47:00.000+05:30

Hi Folks,

First of all wish you all people wonderful new year. May the lord bless you with the fulfillment of all your wishes. And all of you are able to stick to your respective resolutions. As for me, the year gone by had been one with a lot of ups and downs. I shifted my family from the Indian state of West Bengal to the capital Delhi in April this year. We settled in a new house, finding new friends and loosing many. As someone who has been shifting every two years it wasn’t a last bit unexpected. But somehow, having sifted my family about eight times in the thirteen years of marital bliss, I guess this as the only time when I and wife felt the strain of the transfer than ever before. So, decision taken, I may not shift them any more. Daughters, studying in class Six and UKG, after all need some stability, now that they are growing up.

At a more personal level, I have a lot of targets lined up for the year. Though it might be a little early to declare, but two things that I am looking forward to are a sponsorship course later this year at the world’s best university overseas and the adaptation of my maiden novel, The Bet (Frog Books, Mumbai) into a movie. For the latter, I and a very experienced and promising screenplay writer from Mumbai have agreed to collaborate. The terms between us have been finalized and as of now she is trying to attract the attention of the Bollywood producers. Both of us are convinced that there is a story in the book that needs to reach a larger audience across the subcontinent, something several critics and newspaper and web reviews have upheld ever since the book was released in the autumn of 2006.

My wife Seema, daughters Jeanie and Leah and My MIL's sister (Mausi). In the backdrop is the town of Landour, the hometown of the famous Indian writer Ruskin Bond

Behind us are the snow covered peaks of the Himalayas

I had been to Dehradun and Mussorie for a holiday with my family in the last week of December. We celebrated Christmas up there and wound up the year enjoying ourselves looking at the snow clad peaks of the Himalayas from our bedside windows, eating, chatting, and playing pranks…. Kids loved the outing and both I and my wife too arrived back refreshed. I will write more about the exciting time we all had over there a little later.

News wrap-up, 12 Dec 07, New Delhi

2007-12-13T09:31:00.000+05:30

Mahatama Vs Modi

There is a lot of mudslinging that is going on between the ruling BJP in Gujarat and the ruling Congress of the UPA of the centre. And frankly, it hurts. For it is neither good for the state of Gujarat, which can easily be described as one of the most prosperous Indian states, and the country, that is most recognized for its communal tolerance, at least in the immediacy of the recent past.

Speaking is the easiest way of courting trouble. And who else can exemplify it as well as the BJP. If we recall, during the national elections before the present govt came to power in 2004, according to me just one quote from the BJP Stalwart Sushma Swaraj buried whatever little hope they had of getting back to power. She said, ‘If Sonia becomes the Prime minster of India, I will shave my head.” I think that statement was one of the most significant reasons of the ruling party losing out. Sonia just had to refuse. And that is exactly what she did, and rest as they say is history.

According to me what the Chief Minister of Gujarat is saying about Sohrabbuddin is not the actual problem (though it is serious enough), but what he said while wrongly referring to Mahatma Gandhi is where his problem lies. As someone who subscribes to Gandhian ideology completely, I feel that was a serious error. Serious enough for the people to vote against it. And if the present Govt in Gujarat falls down, I feel it would be solely due to this very reason. I wish Mr Modi had known that Gandhi’s first name is Mohandas not Mohanlal.

Kumble’s men

I liked the way Anil Kumble led the team as a captain. I think the honour bestowed on him, though late, couldn’t have been better timed. Playing at home against a formidable team like Pakistan, both his courage and temperament were put to test. And just as anyone had imagined, the intelligent and thinking player, as he is known to us, delivered the right substance, displaying an amazing proportion of maturity.

India smashing the Pakistanis at home soil after 27 years could not have been possible without a sizable support and leadership from Kumble. I think now the BCCI should keep him for a while so that he consolidates himself and not make him another of those mistakes by putting unnecessary restrictions and disputing his views till such time he breaks down. We don’t want him to become another Tendulkar, Dravid or Ganguly. I hope they heed attention to this small request. But it will be interesting to note what actually happens when the new Indian coach Gary Kristen joins the team. Will he too, like his predecessor, ruin the team by shoving large doses of horror in them by dropping them suddenly, or will he consider a real future for the team. Let us see whose payroll he remains on, the outsiders or the BCCI.

Winter in Delhi

Hey folks, we are in thick of the winters in Delhi with the night temperature dipping up to six degrees and the days staying at just over 20. I have decided to play this winter, instead of snuggling under the blanket. So, to start with I am off to Dehradun on the morning of 24th by Shatabdi for Christmas at Missouri. Once back, we are planning to take a long drive through the hinterland of Rajasthan in my Car meeting old friends and making new ones.

Just love the weather… I really love the large doses of Sarsoon ka Saag and Gazar ka halwa. And the whiskey (my brand is teachers, or Royal Challenge/ Stag on the rainy days), off course tastes great. A BIG WINTER HUG TO ALL YOU MY BLOG FRIENDS.

When Words Drum the Retina

2007-12-11T08:43:00.000+05:30

When Words Drum the Retina

Times around, thoughts home bound
When words drum the retina
That fails to see the hyena
Crossing the stream up-close
Hiding fear in its prose
When it juggles random options
There aren’t many
To choose from, to corner
Ideas then, suddenly, come tumbling
Sending me helter-skelter
Running behind words, breathless
Running hard not put down by their teasing
And winning most times
The final exhale with a satisfied smile
“Why do you do this”, I ask?
Not allowing the stubbornness to mask
Behind a hard and woody cask
There is never an answer
But I find myself staring at my shadow
Drenched in whiskey
Struggling to fight, repenting
Trying all over again…

This can’t be a writer’s block
If it is, it indeed is a shame
To turn me away from what I love
Without a reason to blame.

A Fine Tommorow - No love lost

2007-12-03T12:43:00.000+05:30

Beyond words
Ripe with anticipation
The various hues of a contained mood
Submerged under a sea of philosophy
And a dose of history
Seeking trouble
To run away from trouble
Silently
Intelligently
Absorbing strains; living relationships
Chained, but free
Tied to an invisible tree
That grows humanity
As candid fruits on the global tentacles
Move over old jokes
Camaraderie, moral values, love
Run away ‘basics’
I am busy adding the new concoction
Without hurry, without desperation
I am paid to conquer
New ideas, recipe for celebration

From Alain Schnapp’s Discovery of the Past

What’s your problem, history?
We are not a mystery
As you accuse us to be
We are, in fact, you in the making
Only less rigid, less mean
We shed a tear when the loser falls
Rain the ambition all around
Not like you beating chest
And jumping on the hollow ground
We date the future
To impress it with promise
And promise, promise galore
We expose the tomorrow
To become a medium between you, history
And the history which is yet to be lived
Many Gods, however sexy their intention
Can’t put actions in tomorrow’s world
However generous they might be with their wishes
Granting them magnanimously
Come dance with the oldies
Allow me to show the way
Listen to me first
Then fearlessly, have your say

Warlord is a rabbit
Girls roam caged free
Cities breathe fire and ammunition
Hatred is the new magic potion
Some sell death
Some take the sellers
Sellers again run amok
Faking shelter, killing with shock
All in the name of liberty
A few can holiday in fancy camps
As heads roll
And millions are found in the hole
Don’t be confused history
We are just teaching you a lesson
Loading our cannon
With food and gunpowder alternately
To look holy and saintly
Meek are no longer mean
Perhaps they never were
For they are the real brave
Unafraid to embrace the might, unrepentant
And hurry to their grave

White, green, saffron and red
All join together to make a bed
Black as charcoal
One that stains the clean
But leaves the conniving
Ambitious and mean
Fighting must not stop
The policy makers seldom proffer in open
But after every disaster they say
Oh God! If only we had a way
To save the innocent
But don’t you worry they say next
Whatever it takes, we will fight
The rats out of their shelter with fright
The other despots take the bait
And meet their planned fate
People rejoice over dead bodies
Peace of death that they had felt
And that made them repent
All the wealth, ammunition and fire power
Our memory is short
Or we leave a history
Compelled in sub conscious not to lose
In glimmer, loss or gain
A slice of our cherished pain

So it is our admiration
For you lovely history
That we must work hard
To lose or make lose
In pursuit of a victory
We must smile struggling
Fighting, killing and loving
Big games, false promises
Because there is always a choice
That clouds our opinions
Logic is clear
We are not loosing method
If thousands die
For if they live
Penniless will we become
And elections won’t be such a fun
Without all that money
Republicans and the Democrats won’t fight
Tooth and nail
And run or loose like a snail
There won’t be entertainment then
Papers won’t sell
Opinions won’t auger well
TV commentators will be jobless
And people will wonder hapless

It is simple isn’t it?
How history is made
Copied well a proven record
Cast in a newer block
And stamped new in the name of holy God
Reasons change
But fate doesn’t
Forever it will remain so
As we find among ourselves
Friends and foe
Throwing white pigeons in the air
And catching them again the next day
To free once again…
The cycle goes on
Friends, dad and mom
Change we will surely bring
In the manner we sing ahead
Peace, harmony and tolerance
Before firing unprovoked
Yet again, over the peaceful fence.

© Kulpreet Yadav 2007

Dream - Snails galloping in comical excitement

2007-11-27T13:26:00.000+05:30

Snails galloping in comical excitement

Yes, it was a dream – a dream that finally thawed from its frigid cocoon inside me yesterday, after an unpretentious hiatus.

But why all of a sudden this revival, you may ask? The question needs an answer. And in pursuit, my guess won’t have to run amok afar. I think, most definitely, the wedged separation with my wife that had reached a definitive resolution in the form of a divorce application just yesterday, had finally become, a reason for its relapse. Perhaps…or was that really the reason? Skimming further under the confusion, I insist that the former be it. For, I know there could be nothing else.

Allow me to me go back to the dream, for the moment. It was the same girl; same place and the same situation. And she began walking towards me, her hair dancing like a cluster of millions of diamantine bars, her eyes dripping energy that seemed to reach out and embrace me with a definitive, authoritative grasp, her hips swaying like a gold coconut tree braving a tropical revolving storm, and her lips moving as though, licking an ice cream. I was being seduced, I knew. But what I, however, did not I know was I was also breathing the last of my life.

So, I couldn’t move.

The fatal attraction was in any case more powerful than my gingerly resolve. I again tried, harder, but landed in the mud, falling from the tree stump on which I earlier sat, watching the castle in the distance from between her legs -- the image moving as though shackled, from the petal smooth skin of one thigh to the other, as she walked towards me. I had little doubt that pendulum was my home and wanted desperately to reach it, but couldn’t commit myself to take the route from between her legs. She came closer, her energy intensifying, the house blurring under the impact and the sane corner of me becoming even more remote.

Her hand was the first to reach me. The touch stopped my heartbeat. I began to shiver, drowning into the inky depth of her eyes, as our eyes met. My senses seemed to slowly kindle a series of bubbles up from under the abyss somewhere deep inside. The effort drained my life. It became dark and then suddenly there was light.

I awoke with a start, running and jumping simultaneously out of the bed, with arms outstretched trying to hug myself, until both of us – me that slept and me that didn’t – collided headlong with the mirror. It cracked and commanded to stop with a penetrative force. I looked in the mirror. The image seemed friendly but a crack had created a veritable double role of it. A red streak of blood, that slithered on the slippery surface, alongside the crack, separated the two of them.

Suddenly the doorbell caught our combined attention. Who will go to get it; it wasn’t too difficult to decide. I rushed, pushing the other two into vaporized non-existence, the blood dribbling faster now, as if in a hurry to reach the bottom. The bedside clock struck three in the morning. The gong of the clock screamed and converted the doorbell echo into a cascading whimper. Both seemed to compliment each other, in their attenuation, like the differential and deafening horns of two trains competing on the countryside rail tracks, till one sucked its own echo out and the other surrendered in quick succession, hurriedly ejaculating as a winner.

My hand reached the knob and it felt cold, or was my hand hot, my spirit wondered. There wasn’t a soul outside. Surprised, I looked on both the sides of the narrow corridor. There sure wasn’t anybody. “Shit”, the curse ran through the dank outside air, thick with sleep and impregnated with dripping moisture of the July night. I waited for a response. None came. “Shit. Who the f*** is disturbing me in the middle of night.” I shouted now, the courage ejecting words with force, which echoed one another until all crumbled into silence, while I waited bravely.

Then closing the door, I returned to the mirror. My friends smiled, spraying confidence, infusing leisure and looking eager to chat. I brought the bottle of whiskey and the cannabis-laced cigarette. Through sips of the brew and rings of dull smoke, we talked, sharing the same glass, same stick. Then minutes later, I slept.

It must be the doorbell again. When I ran out of the bed, naked, committed to catch the swine that had been troubling me now more than a week, I was furious. But once again there was no one. The air was now thicker and darker. And then I saw a movement. At the end of the corridor, there was a shadow and it had moved just as I looked.

“Hey, who is there?”

The shadow began to move closer.

“Hello, who are you?” My voice was chocking. It came closer. I repeated and repeated all over again. There was no reply.

Finally it came and stood in front of me. No, this isn’t a chimera, I reckoned. In fact it was her, the girl I had seen in the dream, at her savage best. She was smiling. I met her in the eyes and drowned in them, like a competitive surrender of a deer by a lioness. This time it was real, I knew it. Death won’t be in a dream, I had never thought of. I sank deeper and deeper, trying wastefully to pep up and defy the impending, eventual fate -- the lame part of me unsuccessful in giving me a leash of hope.

Then all of a sudden she was all over me, her nails piercing pattern of treasure maps on my back, thighs, chest, and thereby simplifying, I hoped, my hunt for the Davy Jones locker that life had adventured me into. I ducked deeper; she helped, spreading like an eagle, transforming thus into a manically urging queen. Our curves bumped from time to time. And finally, a spirited gush of tempestuous fountain entangled and calmed her obstinate authority, as the yield of the communion. We unfurled.

“I love you.” I could not bear to control the inside from not collapsing over the lie that unnecessarily remained fixated over my conscious. My older self, decomposed into infinity, too seemed to agree with my newfound persona. I suddenly turned towards my friends -- my inside wishing them away, no longer interested to further their company -- but it was too late. They had left me even before I could think of leaving. Disappointed, when I turned to face her once again, she too was gone.

It was the telephone call that woke me up the next morning. A female voice, that sounded strangely familiar, unshackled the chains with which I was still securely tied to the last night’s dream sex. It was successful in waking me up, fully, at eleven in the morning. Outside, a noisy Central Delhi was already at its awoken best and poured from the small windows like greedy saliva. It also seeped through the hinges of the close doors and windows elsewhere in the two bedroom- hall apartment I lived in, alone.

“Yep?”

She said she was a school time friend and wanted to meet me. With the prospect of another boring day staring at me like an unrepentant toothache, I decided to treat my loneliness to a surprise.

“Okay. Do you MM Coffee shop at the Cannaught circus?”

“Good. Catch you there at, say, one.”

“Right then.”

After a wash, coffee and a last swig to drain the bottle of whiskey of its contents, I kicked the door shut. But before I did that, it wasn’t also too difficult for me to tear my wife’s photograph into two neat halves --each remaining with one mean eye, half unduly proud nose and half pursed lips that in real life, spoke so much through so small an orifice. God, how much I hated her, and how much I enjoyed tearing the photograph.

But look at me and spare me a reprieve, for, I hadn’t filed for a divorce only because I had learned to hate her. But because she drove me insane by her orderly methods in the house, conditioned living under the same roof, shrugging the need to love more often, and spending hours on phone talking to her mother, to mention a few. The plane that we had both merrily hopped in had nose-dived only because of her over-possessive and overtly grandmotherly tantrums. And the future had seemed even darker. But strangely still, despite the oodles of anger and hatred for my wife, I hadn’t been able to rid myself of this very photograph. Today, having had enough of it, the last bit of her memory too found its rightful place in the overflowing dustbin.

The coffee felt good but not the unrelenting, sympathetic condolences of the restaurant staff -- me being a regular, the broken relationship a cause for their concern. Bored, I ordered more. The next cup, almost miraculously, made the realization go limp, and the bouncy, lively rhythm of the place found its resonance within me. Outside on the pavement, I saw through the high glass windows, people move about like snails galloping in comical excitement. The surroundings enlivened, and so did I.

Time in hand and feeling at home, my mind wandered to the earlier times when I was intoxicated with my wives beauty and how much we loved each other. The stroll in the backyard of the times gone by also brought to the fore, numerous cherished memories, affectionate interludes between epitomes of sex, bouquet of pleasant surprises and a rather weighty bundle of enlivened moods. Things had gone pretty much okay for about six months, but later…

A familiar greeting from behind caught me with an awkward surprise. I turned and was disappointed to find no one. But still, the surprise did not rob me of the finicky similarity in the voice of the girl who had earlier called and the one my senses chanced upon. I concentrated more, recalling the pleasant echo that still rang inside and was taken aback at the result it offered. The voice had an uncanny similarity with the woman in my dreams, with whom I had sex last night.

“Shit.” I tried hard not to sound too loud. And failed.

The voice reached me once again.

This time she was standing right beside me. It indeed was the same girl. I blinked, shocked at the appealingly delicate and friendly avtaar that she presented herself in, clad, with servility, in a salwar-kameej. Tears rolled in cascading strings from swollen eyes and lips trembled, trying to speak the unspoken. And finally, only when I got up to respect her arrival, and offered her a chair, did I realize that she was my estranged wife.

India: A land of paradoxes

2007-11-26T13:13:00.000+05:30

I agree with Shashi Tharoor: India indeed is a land of paradoxes.

Seeing boys sell commodities like books, towels... and even flowers al traffic signals is sure disappointing. But this alone is not disgusting. The disgusting part is that this disappointment doesn't seem to be temporary. For, lost in the surge of an economic boom, not many are doing enough to obviate such a lopsided growth. Some are happy, but life for most is still a burden. It is still a struggle. Childhoods are lost, labouring for pittances. Lives end due to abject poverty, disease, social disorder...

Somehow, in the middle of all this, I can feel the tightening of the noose as the divide between the rich and the poor widens: A concern also shared by the prime minister when he recently advised the companies to cap salaries of their top bosses. I took these pictures from the car window while on a recent trip to Mumbai, the economic capital of India. And you will agree these tell a story. A story that needs to be read, not scripted. So just writing, as well as Shashi did, may alone not be enough.

A picture post

2007-11-20T11:03:00.001+05:30

My daughter Liana in the guest room at my house in Delhi, India

The early morning shot of my bedroom

The living room. I do most of writing sitting on the right corner of the sofa.

Am I getting bald? The gale suggests so. At Vizag, during a recent trip.

Liana in front of a papaya tree at my ancestral village in Haryana, India

The village of Kosli ( my native village) has the distinction of producing maximum no of officers and soldiers for the armed forces of India. The record goes right up to the first world war, as the plate behind suggests.

Posing on my cousin's new bike at my village. My uncle is in the background.

My daughters, Jeanie and Liana posing, just before a party at my dad's home in Alwar, Rajasthan. Dad too is in the picture at the background

At dad's home

Striking a pose in this recent picture taken at Indore.