Run-away sons

We have been witnessing a lively city coming to a halt - Mumbai, though only temporarily. No doubt the city exemplifies courage and resilience, coming back to complete shape every time some monkeys created havoc.

Indrani recently questioned - Where are the sons of Mumbai, the so-called Shiv Sena and MNS activists? What happened to them when there is a real need of them to come and save their bleeding mother? Sadly, they probably are amongst those children of the mother who don't listen to her, to her cries, to her grief. Rather, they often make her cry - cogitate just a few weeks in the past. The doleful truth is, that some loving and caring sons like Hemant Karkare, and the hundred other jawans of army and NSG, have to fight when the run-away sons don't turn-up. And ignobly perhaps, when they do turn-up too. These sons are not even worth being known as sons, just a bunch of ungrateful cowards. I don't see a difference between these cowards, and the cowards who attacked the beautiful Taj and other parts of Mumbai.

From the sludge of politics, religion, culture and sabhyata, who will stucco the wounds of the mother, the sons who died, or the cowards alive?

May peace be bestowed on the land. Impotently enough, another type of coward inside cries out for the brethren who have seen it, and taken it on their flesh. May the fragrance of your burning flesh awaken the ones still in siesta.

-G Singh, San Jose, 4:53 PM, 29th Nov, 2008

Bygone

The warm lap
A kiss on the golden-red cheek
That hand, anytime
Those assuring eyes, holding

The chirpy giggle
A naughty twinkle
That small stepped-run, wild
Those cajoling clings

The clock has ticked
Wonders the grown
That kid is lost
with the flower just sown

-G Singh, 21st Nov 2008, San Jose, California

All time blogger

May I be lured into writing by her slick interface. May the devices work in harmony for this blog. Anytime. Anywhere. Amen!

GS San jose 21st nov 2008

Made in China

From the land of maximum number of "Made in"s, comes this post as a souvenir. Sitting at the Shanghai airport transfer lounge, looking at the faces of all the fellow passengers who have been tortured with a 7 hour long journey iced with a faulty flight entertainment system, it appears that everyone is a hostage of an unpleasant event, and they have been enclosed in this huge glass walled cube (fondly called the waiting lounge).

Seriously, when the screen in front of you boots time and again (Redhat, as usual, sucks), you feel like opening some box and fixing it up or re-imaging the machine or .....

I was wondering if each such failure in the flight would be slapped as a penalty on Boeing. Jet airways would earn some bucks, but poor passengers get nothing. May be an extra glass of juice. Or honey roasted peanuts. Pity. Poor customer, always at the receiving end of it.

Lets see if the geeks in China can fix the system in 1 hour. Only then will I accept the mettle of these guys. May my blabber bring some color. Hail thass!

-G Singh, Shanghai, 16th Nov 2008, 9.30 PM

Analogy

I was speaking a lot the other day. For some reason, I was a bit high, may be standing at the roadside tea stall early-early morning without sleep was too exciting, and the victim was a poor (not literally) guy who was selling small artifacts in the Galleria around Harmandir Sahib, Amritsar. Though it didn't hurt him, and I was also doing a cinch blabber, it occurred to me that I should have spoken a bit lesser. May be the guy got bored. May be he misunderstood my words to some grief. May be it was 1.30 in the morning and I hijacked the last hours of his business (I bought some not very useful items in the end in bulk from him though :)). This brings me to a very interesting analogy.

Words are like arrows

I am not sure if this is a known analogy, but I am pretty sure Bollywooders have had the pie.

The analogy builds as-

i. There are limited arrows a warrior has. Using them wisely is very important. We have limited words, limited time here and limited energy to speak, using it wisely is important.

ii. An arrow hitting the right person, at the right spot is worth its price. A word, spoken to the right person, in the right way, reaching him in the intended sense is worth spoken.

iii. An arrow hitting the wrong person, makes you a murderer. A (wrong) word, reaching a wrong person can disrupt listener's calm.

iv. An arrow leaving the bow cannot come back, so will not a word out of the mouth.

v. Nobody nailed by you will forget you. Nobody ill-spoken to will ever forgive you.

Human mind, speaking loosely, is a paint blob. An impression on it is easy to make, persists for long, and also leaves a mark on you. Some souls, that are above this human instinct, are true Gods - Nirvair.

-G Singh, 1:25 PM, Nov 14, 2008, New Delhi

Talent, flowing, unabashingly

Traveler no. 1- T1
Traveler no. 2- T2

T1: Upadhyay ji, iska vyaakaran thoda druodh hai, aur isliye samajhna padhne waale ke liye asugam bhi (Mr. Upadhyay, its grammar is a bit convoluted and hence the meaning is difficult to understand)

T2: Sharma ji, padhne waale ko bhavnaaon ka sparsh ho, yehi vyaakaran bhog hai (Mr. Sharma, only if the reader feels the essence of the subject is the use grammar justified)


After a day at work, while returning home on "Delhi waalon ki Sawari", a million other frequencies struck my ears, along with "Delhi Metro mein aapka Swaagat hai". The above two lines pierced my attention, enough to bring it to focus, enough to tune it. There were some aged (people who know Hindi, please read "buzurg") people on board, and all of them Hindi literature luminaries (not all local language enthusiasts/literaries achieve fame). They were apparently returning from the launch of Upadhyay ji's novel at the "Karol Bagh Sahitya Bhawan", one of the million "Sahitya Bhawans" of the capital. I crossed all limits of over-hearing, and that too shamefully looking into their faces while keeping my ears to the ground. Though all of them were writers, one even a proud writer of 37 novels, some were still not old enough to be only writers - one a Professor, one a Reader in a DU college, one a writer with Jansatta (a local Hindi newspaper) and another a freelance article writer (who earned only by Pen).

"Ji haan ji haan, bahut umda thi" (Yes, yes, it was a very good read) came a reply from the man on my left when the man sitting one girl (who felt she was the patty of a hindi novel sandwich) to the right asked
"Aap inko to jaante hi honge, yeh Kailash Prem ji, jinki Hare Phool aur Laal Ghaans bahut prasidh hui thi pichle saal" (you must be knowing him, Mr. Kailash Prem, whose novel Green Flowers and Red Grass was a hit last year)

and the round of introductions was as smooth as the train ride.

In these introductions, in these literarily-glamorous talks, in the complex grammar pats and thumps, was hidden a difficult-to-find satisfaction. Here are some people who are no different than Rowlings and Zandts in profession and "self-understood" accomplishments, but are very different in the kinds of humble lives they live, the luxuries they (don't) enjoy. This, I feel, is Talent, unabashed of the worldly achievements, a pearl-reminiscent of success.

-G Singh, New Delhi, Nov 7, 2008 10:04 PM

A casual chat with a friend today reminded me of an intellectual, whose words were:
"Everything boils down to minimizing pain". Today, I beg to differ here, measly in words, but galaxies in meaning - "Everything boils down to pain".

Fun, to kill some pain
some types of fun, leads to pain
an urge to have fun, is painful
an unsatisfied urge, is even more painful

If everything is for fun (read your own definition, or substitute fun for whatever makes you happy), then pain is inevitable.

-G Singh, 2nd Nov 2008, 1:42 PM, New Delhi