Steel-Willed Resolve

Every year, our country gives birth to certain people who grow up not only to raise their families but also to rise. They rise above their circumstances to inspire a million others. Today, I will tell you about two such people who inspire me. These stories are of people who have been nominated for JSW Will of Steel awards.

The first beacon of hope is Dr. Debal Deb. He has spent over twenty years in the difficult and unstable areas of eastern India, helping farmers stay true to their roots. Dr. Deb's cause is something nobody would ever have thought of. It doesn't even remotely come across as vital. But herein lies the crux of his struggle. He has worked with several farmers to conserve traditional seeds. His work is time consuming, and requires a lot of patience and long hours of field exposure to educate the farmers about the importance of indigenous varieties of seeds. In India, we have a crisis of traditional varieties of seeds due to the rampant cultivation of crops which are widely consumed or yield the best produce. Many farms still have cash crops as a backup.

Source: willofsteel.in/home/story/117

Dr. Deb's relentless efforts have saved nine hundred and twenty varieties of rice in in West Bengal and Odisha alone! His creative and unique approach is impressive and inspiring. He truly knows that India can progress only when the poorest farmers understand what they are growing and how they should be growing it.

The second story is that of Arunima Sinha, a volleyball player of national level. She inspires me for more reasons than one. She is an amputee who climbed Mount Everest! It is my dream to summit the tallest peak of the world once in my lifetime. That peak is extreme not just in its height but also in its harsh conditions - the wind, the temperatures that go up to minus seventy degrees Celsius, the low concentration of oxygen which takes your blood-oxygen level to about 40 (normal level is above 94). Such conditions are enough to kill the fittest of people. To survive the Everest, one needs plenty of endurance, excellent levels of fitness and nutrition, and several days of acclimatization.

Source: willofsteel.in/home/story/69

All of these challenges increase in intensity when your left leg is amputated. Arunima first showed her courage when she fought with the goons who were trying to snatch her chain. Then again when the robbers threw her out of the train. I salute such women who have the strong will to fight for what is right and rise despite all odds. I sincerely hope we all find that will of steel in us. It is an important ingredient in getting anything done, especially when our circumstances are unstable.

I’m voting for Dr. Debal Deb and Arunima Sinha’s #WillOfSteel and blogging on BlogAdda to help them get felicitated and eventually enabled by JSW.

Book Review - The Accidental Wife

I just finished reading the second novel by an NRI writer, Simi K. Rao. The book kept me glued to my desk all day, and it is with a happy heart that I write today's review - for "The Accidental Wife".

Fast Facts:-

Title: The Accidental Wife 

Author: Simi K. Rao

Genre: Mainstream Fiction/Romance

Publisher: Kando Books

Pages: 202
File Size: 6.11MB (PDF version)

Price: $1.59 (Kindle Edition ebook)

Key Characters:-

1. Rihaan Mehta: A ridiculously handsome neurosurgeon and Harvard graduate who is nagged my his mother to get married.
2. Naina Rathod: A beautiful teacher and photojournalist who becomes Rihaan's "accidental wife". 
3. Shobha Mehta: Rihaan's controlling and commanding mother whose only goal is to find her son a suitable wife and herself a complying daughter-in-law.

The Review:-

The Accidental Wife is the story of two strangers - Naina and Rihaan, who agree to get married for reasons of their own. Rihaan, a successful neurosurgeon and an incredibly attractive Harvard graduate, is sick of his dominating mother constantly badgering him to get married. All Rihaan wants is to get his mother off his back and live his own life freely as a bachelor in New York. Meanwhile, Naina, a stunning Delhiite, who teaches school kids and ardently pursues her passion of freelance photojournalism, wants to remain independent and single.

By both design and deceit, Naina and Rihaan find themselves in wedlock and are forced by social-appearance-pressures to keep up their little "drama" even as they both outwardly detest being with each other. Life, however, plays cupid, and with time, the two protagonists of this story fall in love with each other.

In a few months, their love story is met with a tragic incident that shatters their tranquil lives. This is when the true test of love is administered by fate. Will Rihaan and Naina persevere and pass this test or will their story end in tragedy? Only this novel holds the answer.

The story at first seems like a regular chick lit or romance novel with the usual elements of two attractive characters besotted with each other, some tiffs and some scenes of unbridled passion. But Simi shows her real skill when she brings in the surprise element in the latter part of the book. That is when the book gets really intense, and enters the realm of a serious novel.


My Verdict:-

The two lead characters are undeniably well fleshed out and have interesting personalities. The plot is very tight and the editing rather good! (I could only spot a couple of typos in the entire book.) Simi is quite adroit with dialogues, and she creates very natural scenes, especially with the words exchanged between Naina and Rihaan. Despite the predictability of the romance scenes, the adept writing makes you enjoy every moment. The first half of the book seems like a run-of-the-mill Bollywood romance movie, but the author ups her game in the second half with the story taking a very grave turn. The animal-passion in the former half of the book transforms into a deeper love that has little to do with bodies.

This book gets an overall rating of 9 on 10 for putting an unusual and interesting spin on an otherwise regular love story. The good quality of writing, easy pace and charming story makes 'The Accidental Wife' an unputdownable book!

Book Review - Thar Express

Last week, I read another new Indian author - Nagendra Murti. This time, it was an ebook, but I loved it nevertheless. So, here's my review of the 'Thar Express'.

Source: amazon.in

Fast Facts:-

Title: Thar Express 

Author: Nagendra Murti

Genre: Fiction

Pages: 409
File Size: 1.18MB (PDF version)

Price: Rs.181 (Kindle Edition)

The Review:-

'Thar Express' is the unbelievable story of a man who is discovered in Poonch, at the the India-Pakistan LOC (Line of Control) after a team from the India BRO (Border Road Organization) finds him trapped unconscious in a landslide. After this badly injured man is admitted to the nearest military hospital in Anantnag, Kashmir, the doctor learns that his patient has lost his memory and has no recognition of his identity or any recollection of his past. After a few days, this man recollects his nickname (Mano) through a dream.

'Thar Express' is the story of Mano's journey through various cities in India in search of his lost identity and memories of his past. Mano is shifted from Anantnag to Nashik to be treated by memory-loss specialist. It is here that he makes some progress and regains most of his health. On the advice of the doctor, Mano undertakes a journey to Srirangam, Tamil Nadu after he recollects being in a temple there. One thing leads to another, and Mano gradually finds familiar memories from various places and dreams. He ends up changing a few jobs in his quest to start earning and be independent. His search for his past life leads him to Goa, Mumbai, Rourkela (Odisha) and Jabalpur (Madhya Pradesh).

All this while, the army, the local police of several cities and the NIA (National Investigation Agency) keep an eye on Mano and later are alarmed by his frequent change of location without their knowledge. They suspect Mano to be a terrorist from Pakistan due to the sensitivity of the location where he was found. They also don't entirely believe his story of memory loss. They start a fierce search for this alleged insurgent and try to piece together his whereabouts by questioning every single person who comes in contact with Mano.

The last part of the story leads up to a crescendo as the mystery of Mano's identity and past is disclosed. The reality is unfathomable and horrifying! It makes one think of the condition of people in similar situations. The revelation also answers why the book is titled 'Thar Express'.


My Verdict:-

Nagendra Murti does a commendable job of tying up all the loose ends of the story and the ending is a satisfying one. His style of writing is smooth and undistracting. The prose is mostly simple and straightforward with dialogues that lack much impact. The author takes a very clinical approach to the story an presents it as is without much effort to turn his book into a travelogue of sorts. Mano's character, though, develops gradually, and makes one sympathize with him at every turn of the story.

Even though the narration is crisp, it makes the reader long for vivid descriptions of the myriad places that Mano visits. Murti misses many great opportunities to paint picturesque images of Indian and Pakistani lands. The book also needs some proofreading as a few typos surface. I believe the change of scenes can be better depicted by effective formatting. The sequence changes (especially between Mano's parts and the police-army-NIA parts) are rather abrupt in the second half of the story.

Thar Express gets a rating of 7 on 10 from me for keeping my level of interest fairly high and for the compelling and unusual story that may actually be real for many.

This review is part of the biggest Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

3 Things I Must Do

I got a nightmare last week and I woke up with sweat all over my bed. I had dreamt that I had lost everything I had achieved so far and I would have to start my life all over again. And this made me think about what I truly love in my life. If had a second chance at life, how would I live it? What would I do? And what are the things I would want to achieve this time? Would I do the same things I did the first time? Or would there be a change?

These thoughts made me push my brain and think. Think hard. I listened to my heart then, and I discovered I wanted a few things to be different. I realized I had three big dreams that I have always been wanting to pursue, but I keep putting those thoughts off for reasons so insignificant, I can't even remember!

My first dream is to become a full time travel blogger. I already have a travel blog, but I hardly post an article in a month or two. Every time I write, I love that feeling! I feel like quitting my boring day job and becoming a full time travel blogger! I enjoy travelling more than any other form of entertainment or rejuvenation. I have never had the courage to quit my sedentary job for the fear of not having enough money. Travelling is an expensive affair at most times. But I have decided now that  I will not come up with any more excuses for not concentrating on an alternate career as a travel blogger.

My second wish is to get an MBA from Stanford. I always push aside that dream thinking of the huge financial cost that I and my family will incur. But I have faith in myself that I will be able to pay the student loan with my hard work and professional brilliance. I shall apply to my dream school next session!

The third of my desires is to write a full length novel and then, continue writing more titles. I always thought becoming an author was next to impossible for me. But a recent contest-win got me my confidence back. I will not procrastinate any more! I will work on a novel as soon as I have a great idea for the story!

Have you ever thought of the things you would do or how you would do them differently if you were blessed with a second chance? Give it a thought! You might realize that you can still do things the way you have always wanted to. Grab your dreams, my readers!

This post is part of the #SecondChance activity at BlogAdda in association with MaxLife Insurance.

Kurukshetra (The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 3) - Review

Krishna Udayasankar's third book in The Aryavarta Chronicles released last month and found its way into my hands last week. All three of her books have received the thumbs up from the press in India and Singapore. I haven't read the first two books in this series, but I figured I would be just fine. After all, she retells one of the most famous epics in Indian mythology - The Mahabharata!

Fast Facts:-

Title: Kurukshetra 

Author: Krishna Udayasankar

Genre: Mythology

Publisher: Hachette India

Pages: 427

Price: Rs.350 or SG$25 (Paperback)

Key Characters:-

1. Krishna: A cowherd turned crown prince of Dwarka who envisions a revolution for the people for Aryavarta
2. Panchali Draupadi: Empress of Aryavarta and wife to all of the Pandavas - the five sons of former King Pandu
3. Dharma Yudhisthir: Eldest of the Pandavas and rightful heir to the Aryavarta throne
4. Syoddhan Kauravya: Eldest son of King Dhritarastra and present ruler of Aryavarta

The Review:-

'Kurukshetra' is an interesting rendition of the Indian epic. This part of the chronicle mainly elaborates the famous war at Kurukshetra. The entire episode transpires in flashback and is discussed in a conclave of eminent sages in the second millennium BCE.

The story begins before the war as Krishna makes multiple offers of peace to Syoddhan to avert a major battle between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Syoddhan, however, rejects every such proposal on the advice of his dear uncle, Shakuni. Fearing an imminent war, Krishna endeavours to gather forces of loyal vassals and rulers of nearby lands.

Neither Dharma nor Syoddhan truly desire war, and keep hoping against hope that they will arrive at peace without the loss of precious lives. Krishna, however, tells Dharma it is best to be prepared for the war as although preparation will make the war seem inevitable, it is the only way to prevent it. His intention is to gather enough allegiance for the Pandavas so as to compel Syoddhan into agreeing to his peace-treaty. Krishna also urges the eldest Kaurava to annul the infamous game of dice between the Pandavas and the Kauravas in which Dharma wagered his kingdom and his wife, Panchali, and lost both. Krishna's plan is not to merely reinstate the righteous Dharma as the king of Aryavarta but also to bring about a revolution. He dreams of a world where every human is treated equally and the leader is chosen by the people.

The war that lasts 18 days finally takes place after Dharma rejects a final peace-brokerage effort from the Kauravas when the emissary mocks him. He understands that it is his duty to fight for justice and to give his people a peaceful life.

Throughout the book, Krishna reiterates his ideology and tries to convince multiple people of the world he wishes for his countrymen. But most listeners, especially Syoddhan and the dangerous Devala Asita of the Firewright clan, refuse to believe him. Krishna has a dubious reputation of tricking people with his fancy words and ideas. It is only Draupadi who trusts him without a shade of doubt. Partha, the skilled archer and third of the Pandavas, has immense faith in his friend, Krishna, but even his trust falters as he sees his own kith and kin die before him on the battlefield.

The novel has a surprise ending - one that we have never read or heard of before. There is also the mystery of the identity of the Secret Keeper of the Firewrights, which is not revealed until the very end of the book.

My Verdict:-

Krishna Udayasankar has a remarkable hold over the language she has used to vividly describe scenes and build conversations in her book. Every dialogue is powerful and every sentence is steeped in meaning. She has done a lot of research from several sources and her interpretation is different in the way that she has done away with all supernatural elements from the story. She saves herself the trouble of coming up with an original story altogether, but makes up for that with her novel motive that binds her version of the story together.

Many aspects in this book are different from what we have read/watched or learned of the traditional Mahabharata. Apart from the names (Arjun => Partha, Duryodhan => Syoddhan, etc.), the essence of the characters and some relationships also differ. Syoddhan is portrayed as good person overall, with a humane sense of right and wrong. His agony at having to wage a war against his cousins and put at stake the lives of many innocents is acutely conspicuous in the book. Also, the bond shared between Panchali and Krishna is shown as being very complex. It has no name, although the story tricks one into thinking there is more to their friendship than meets the eye.

What I absolutely love about this book is how lifelike every character is! Udayasankar shows how even good people lose their calm and succumb to the pressures of preserving self-worth and pride. Dharma's arrogance on certain days in the battle-command-tent and Abhimanyu's blood-lust (as he breaks into the wheel formation at the battle) that overtakes his ability to think logically, are some examples. But what redeems her literary work is her idea that there must have been a larger purpose behind the war of Kurukshetra. The idea of revolution, as expounded by Krishna, is uplifting, and lends the book a happy ending despite the grotesque killings, gut-wrenching blood loss and mindless destruction. The story is not all tragic and dispiriting, though. There are light and romantic moments too, especially between Uttara and Abhimanyu.

Kurukshetra gets a full rating of 10 on 10 from me for doing justice to the original masterpiece whilst erecting a strong message as the backbone of the story. The book makes for a great read and is undeniably interesting.

This review is part of the biggest Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

The Ghost from Mud Lake - Bonus Chapter

This is a special chapter with alternate endings to the short story. You might want to read Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV and Chapter V to make better sense of this.

1. Bollywood-Style Ending:-

...I felt tears knotting in my throat and a pain singeing my heart, but I gathered myself and walked out of the night club. It thundered outside but there still was no rain. I walked as fast as my legs would carry me while thick, fat tears rolled down my cheeks. And then it started raining, and I stopped. But the raindrops miraculously missed me. I looked up to find a dark green umbrella shielding me from the sky. Tushhar had left the club and come after me.

"Won't you hear my friend mix some numbers for you? She's one of the finest DJs here."

I turned my face away from him and discreetly wiped my tears. I had no answer, and certainly no strength to deliver if I had one. I looked ahead- the the road looked long, endless and dark. The rain fell mercilessly on the ground, dragged all the filth from the sidewalk with it and turned the street into a vast mud-lake. Tusshar and I stood alone, like two ghosts hiding from the light, on the pink pavement, protected by its elevation from the road, under the green umbrella that stopped not only the raindrops but also time.

And then, he took me by surprise by folding the umbrella close and placing it on the pavement. The night poured on us like there was no tomorrow. Tushhar gave me a determined smile and offered his right hand, "Can I have this dance?" My left hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it floated over to his outstretched palm. He lifted my left hand and placed it on his right shoulder as he held my right in his left. 

We danced to the music of the rain as it consumed us, body and soul. Tushhar tightened his grip on me as it got harder to dance on the wet sidewalk and he held me closer than he had ever done at the foxtrot class. Our clothes clung to our skin and outlined our shapes even in the dark of the night. We were ghosts no more; we had forms. Clear and distinct. We were alive.

~  ~  ~

2. Hollywood-Style Ending:-

Erm... my blog is only 3 years old. It's underage. I can't do adult content yet. :-P

3. My first choice for the ending:-

...Sunday morning brought with it some sunshine. I slid open the window of my bedroom. The air was fresh and the skies, clear. The rains last night had washed the entire city clean. I carried my broken heeled-shoes to the trash can. If only broken hearts were as easy to dispose. I brushed by teeth and had some coffee. Java Beans, the sachet said. I laughed a hollow laugh. The bananas in the fruit-basket were ripe and yellow. Why was I so blue? I tore a banana off the bunch and looked for my running shoes. I might as well grab a run while the sky looks so clean.

I was looking at a cloudless sky after a long time. It had exhausted all its waters last night, giving me company as I cried my heart out. I too had no tears left in my glands. Tushhar was a beautiful song in my musical that delighted me for a long while. But the song would have to end somewhere for the musical to proceed. This was that inevitable "change" that I would have to face some day. And that day was here. 

My lungs drew more air as I picked up my pace. I closed my eyes and let the wind brush against my face. I felt light. I felt strong. I was ready for my life to take a new turn. I opened my eyes, and smiled.

~  ~  ~

The Ghost from Mud Lake - Chapter V

This is the concluding chapter from the short story, and follows Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III and Chapter IV.

It was Saturday. And surprisingly calm and breezy. I finished pinning up my bouffant and twirled before the mirror. My midnight-blue evening dress went well with my sparkling black dancing shoes. I felt an immense sense of gratitude towards Ricardo, the dance-maestro, who taught me to turn with every few steps and unknowingly showed me how to turn my back on unpleasant feelings. He taught me that "change" was inevitable and I would have to learn to dance in every new situation in life. I was glad to have danced with all my fellow dance-partners who patiently matched their rhythm with mine, offered their shoulder and gestured "I've-got-your-back" every time I finished a turn. But most of all, I was thankful to Tushhar, who stirred my heart, brought a sparkle in my eyes and gently danced us out of our loneliness.

I beamed with happiness as I entered the club where the lights were dimmed. I joined some familiar faces on the dance floor with my eyes on the entrance. Tusshar entered, looking happier than I had ever seen him before. He held hands with a girl who smiled as she walked in. She flipped her long, black hair to reveal a white off-one shoulder satin dress that ended above her knees. I looked on helplessly as he led her to the bar after she whispered something in his ear.

I felt tears knotting in my throat and a pain singeing my heart, but I gathered myself and walked out of the night club. It thundered outside but there still was no rain. I walked as fast as my legs would carry me while thick, fat tears rolled down my cheeks. And then it rained, mercilessly. I did not reach for my umbrella. It was as if the sky felt my anguish and sent down a curtain of showers to hide my tears. My bouffant flattened in the downpour, the sidewalk turned muddy and my pencil-heeled shoes sank in the swampy ground. The road stretched like a large mud-lake and I hoped the waters would dissolve me if not my pain.

*  *  *

Sunday morning brought with it some sunshine. I slid open the window of my bedroom. The air was fresh and the skies, clear. The rains last night had washed the entire city clean. I boiled water in the saucepan for coffee and turned on my laptop. I took a deep breath and went to Tushhar's blog, for one last time. I was surprised to see a new post.

He wrote about a girl he met some months back, and how he ran into her time and again, but could make no conversation with her till a false fire-alarm woke him from his slumber. That night, he had followed her to a strange room full of music and waited forty minutes before being a man and stepping into the hall. And till date, he hasn't been fully able to come out of that room.

~  ~  ~

Secrets of the Story:-

This is my second short story on this blog. The first one can be found here. Many have asked me if this is a true story. This piece draws its elements from reality. The setting is real in most scenes. The emotions of the characters are very real. However, not every real story ends this way. Some end in tragedy and tears and some last many years. 

When I finished the first chapter, one of the first few readers asked me why I refer to the central male character as a "ghost". I hope he found his answer in the third chapter. But this final chapter makes us question whether it is really the guy who is the ghost in this story. 

There's also the mystery behind the "mud lake". Is it just the road that submerged in the downpour and dirt? Or is it a real place with a real name? To know the answers to these and other questions that you may have, please write to me by commenting under this post. 

And if you prod me a little more, I will reveal to you the alternate ending to this story that I initially had in mind. It is with that ending that I began writing this piece.

The Ghost from Mud Lake - Chapter III

This chapter from the short story follows Chapter I and Chapter II.

The next few months passed as swiftly as my pocket-money fled my wallet. I had survived the torturous exams and emerged a graduate. Farewells to homeward-bound friends and frenemies; interviews with IT giants and startups; and scrounging the internet for dirt-cheap vacation-packages kept my summer occupied. The sun was strong but not enough to penetrate my heart that stayed frozen on the words I had read a hundred days ago. It was late in June that a phone call made my heart thaw.

I was offered full-time employment at the firm I was longing to hear from. And the fact that my office was in the same building as his, worked like heat-therapy on a sprained muscle. The heavens pronounced their approval with a light drizzle the day I joined office. I was more nervous at the prospect of seeing him than I was about my first day at work. I had never been as alert in school as I was that day. I expected to see him around every corner. My breath stopped and ears pricked at every sound that floated by me. I was exhausted, despite having done no work, when I got back home. However, as luck would have it, I did not chance upon him.

My black and white story would have a few days of colour when I would catch him in the lift across mine. My eyes would stay transfixed on his for the entire duration of seven seconds that both the lift-doors stayed open, and I would not blink until the two stainless steel halves cut him off from my dazed self. I would also find him at the parking lot sometimes- lost, in a world so removed from the one we walked in, that it seemed impossible he'd ever come back. He was the ghost of the jilted lover, shrouded in the trauma that refused to leave him. Each time he passed by, the ripples of the his shock would reach me for reasons unbeknownst to me. I hadn't figured out my feelings for him but I knew he had sensed my presence at every chance encounter.

He had held my gaze each time with an unspoken purposefulness, as if asking for something indecipherable. I had tried many times to begin a conversation with him to break the eerie silence that would wrap the two of us every time we saw each other, but to no avail. My throat would go dry whenever I had the presence of mind to speak, and he would have long gone by the time I regained my voice. We would have gone on with our deaf-and-mute act had it not been for the divine intervention of Fate.

Our golden chance to break our silence came in the guise of a fire-drill. All the eight odd offices in our building were to participate in the drill that aimed to bring us out of our cubicles and into the fresh outdoors. The exercise was amusing, even if saving oneself from a life-threatening scenario could hardly be counted as a means of amusement. All the employees were made to stand in rows facing the security-expert as she explained the dos and don'ts in a fire-scenario. The corporate services team had the foresight to station water-coolers at the back of all the rows. I filled a paper cup with water that sparkled in the sun and turned to find Tushhar standing behind me.

I moved to the left to make way for him.

"Hi", he said as he pressed the blue lever for cold water. 

"Hello", I replied, glad my voice hadn't deserted me.

"I've seen you around. You must've joined a few weeks back." His cup was almost full now.

I looked up to make eye contact. "Yeah. It's been a couple of months since I started." He had brown eyes and his honey-coloured skin glowed in the sun. I sipped on my water as I noticed the skin around his eyes had caramelized into a darker shade of brown. Lack of sleep, I guessed.

"Do you live nearby?" Honey was not only the colour of his skin but also the texture of his voice.

"Yes. My place is not too far. You do too?" Well of course, he did! I wondered why I asked him that.

"Oh, my flat is 10 minutes from here!" He said with pride. I noticed how his pink lips turned thin as they curved into a smile.

"See you, then!" I finished the last drop off my cup and proceeded to rejoin my colleagues.

"Sure, Praneetee!" 

And yet again, he managed to make me go numb. How did he do that every single time? I didn't remember telling him my name! The fire-safety instructions were of no use to me when I was burning under his glare. I walked towards my row with a heart that threatened to break out of my rib-cage if I did not chain it right there.

The Ghost from Mud Lake - Chapter II

This chapter from the short story follows Chapter I.

My face was flushed from its prolonged exposure to the blazing sun. I had been standing at the bus stop for almost half an hour, waiting for a bus that would take me home. Neither the heat nor the wait bothered me. If I was restless it was only because I was going to meet him today!

I reached home at half past six and hit the shower. I stuffed a mini-granola bar into my mouth and tightened my shoelaces. I was all set to make my first appearance in front of him!

It was 7:30 when I reached the park just outside his office. He would leave at eight. The buildings had two exit gates, 20 metres apart. The only way to run into him was to keep running from one exit point to another. I took off my scrunchy and retied my hair. I did some stretches to warm up before the run that would last only God knew how long. I started running at 7:55. The sun had set by then, and this made my task of identifying him even more difficult. I ran faster as I saw the steady flow of office goers crowding up the street. It would be 8:30 in a few minutes and I’d miss him again! My pace dropped to a walk. And I screened every man that walked my way. It was 8:35. I felt defeated. I went tired to the park and sat on a green patch of grass. My white T-shirt was damp with my sweat, but I wouldn’t let my spirit be. I was going to try and find where he lived.

I knew where to start. I got up and started for Tipsy Feet. The doorman eyed me with contempt. I ignored him and climbed three flights of stairs, two steps at a time. I stopped before the ebony tinted glass door and had a good look at my reflection. Black ankle length socks peeped out of my white sneakers. My phone made the left pocket of my mustard shorts bulge out of proportion. White cords snaked across my white tee, split into two at my collar bone and culminated into a pair of earplugs that played Powerless by Nelly Furtado.

... this life is too short to live it just for you

I stepped into the pub. It was still too early for the regulars to come in.  There was only one group of three girls and two guys laughing at a corner table. I stood on my toes to see the faces of the guys. I could only manage to see the wild curls of the guy on the right. Nope, not him. And then, the guy on the left stood up.

... But when you feel so powerless what are you gonna do

Almost reflexively, I turned around and ran out of the bar with my heart thumping loudly. I did not stop till I reached home. I was too terrified of letting him see me to wait to identify him. I could only remember his dark hair and big forehead. Had I been running from a stranger? Or had I really seen him? I could not sleep that night despite the tossing and turning. I yielded and sat up on my bed. It was time to make use of my social engineering skills.

I booted my laptop and searched for Tushhar Naipaul. His LinkedIn profile led me to his blog on Tumblr. I wasn’t interested in the Harley-Davidsons that cluttered his page. I had to read his private pages. I would have to hack into his account. I asked my conscience to shut up and launched a series of attacks on his account. All the workshops on information security I had attended over the years finally paid off; and after 27 minutes of battling against digital protection, I discovered Tushhar was a tech-virgin. It wasn’t fair to label him so. After all, most of my professors at the university couldn’t hold their own against my hack-attacks. I only hoped his private posts would be worth my effort. My eyelids were heavy at 1:48 AM. My first lecture at college next morning was on Distributed Computing, scheduled for 9:15. I’d never make it in time if I went through the 18 hidden posts on his blog. I yawned loudly and decided to read anyway.

His writing was slow, smooth and engrossing... like a John Williams composition. His was a story of unrequited love. He had met his object of affection at Mandarin classes four years ago. He would sit next to her every afternoon on the wooden bench at the extreme right corner of the room and watch her practise the 20 new characters they’d learn each day. He would struggle with the nib of his ink pen and speak to her on the pretext of borrowing hers. The soft touch of her fingers as they brushed against his; the dewy look in her eyes as she pitied his ineptitude in Mandarin; her gentle smile as she offered her spare pen... these made it easy for him to sit through the two-hour class that put most students to sleep.

They spent an entire year learning Mandarin Level-1, during which they advanced from sitting beside each other to sharing smoothies, with two straws at first to only one by mid-year. They would look into each other’s eyes when Ms. Liu would screen a Chinese movie and ask the class to pay attention to the accent. He thought of her every time they made Chinese at the canteen, and also every time they didn’t. His mind drifted to thoughts of her every time he held anything that was made in China, and almost everything was.

It was on the day they passed their basic Mandarin test that he saw her kiss a guy who looked like he could be her boyfriend. He was shattered. He recounted the poignancy with no trace of bitterness for the girl. He told himself that it was an error of judgement on his part and the girl had never been at fault. He tried to forget everything but he could never forget how she had looked on Chinese New Year, in her red and gold qípáo made of silk.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks as I finished reading his last post. I had a done a terrible thing by hacking into his account.

The Ghost from Mud Lake

Proem

This is the first part of the latest short story that I am writing. I will post more entries as I finish writing them.

Melancholy Monday (Lessons from the Bong Bard #2)

You can read the first post in this series here.

I've been practising Rabindra Sangeet on and off for almost a fortnight now. I enjoy dabbling with the different raags (melodic modes) that my mum's been teaching me. Sadly, the technique seemed too mechanical to me and I would miserably fail to put any life to the music. That is, until last Monday when my misery brought me out of another.

I never feel the office blues. Never. It so happens that I love my work, the people I work with, the office premises, the stationery, the cafeteria food, the conference calls with my coworkers in London, the occasional chat with a colleague in Hong Kong, the townhalls, the free cappuccino, the open culture, the formal dress-code, the meetings, the fun events, the catch-up sessions with the HR and the big bosses, and even the walk back home. My life is perfect, you'd think. But when you weave a blanket of happiness based on past statistics, you start expecting a similar or better state of mind with every passing day. And when the circumstances don't meet your expectation, your blanket starts thinning and you spot holes in it.

I experienced my first Monday morning blues in a weather that was far from cold. Maybe, I had got off the wrong side of my bed. I kept to myself the whole day and tried to allay my dysphoria, in vain. Sometimes, you just cannot tell what makes you so melancholy. I was not my usual self even when I got home. I poked at the porridge I was supposed to eat. Under normal circumstances, I would be ready in my shorts & sneakers and be off for a quick jog. I flopped down on my bed and slept with my head buried in my pillow. I felt tired. Weak. Useless. Undesired. Incapable. I had lost all hope. And my mum asked me then to get my notebook and practise Raag Bhairav.

You know that condition when you know you are strong enough to hold back your tears as long as nobody makes you talk? It's that delicate balance your throat has with the tear glands. You break the dam (open your mouth) and the tears flood your eyes. I did not want to sing that day. I was sure my voice would crack and my mother would be disappointed at the weakling she had raised. Nevertheless, I gathered myself and repeated the musical notes after my mum.

Lesson - 2

Rabindra Sangeet, and every Indian classical music for that matter, has a multitude of ragas or melodic modes. Each raag is characterized by the combination of swaras (notes) it comprises. Some notes are shrill and some soft. Each raag is best appreciated at a certain time of the day and emphasizes a certain state of mind.

Raag Bhairav is a morning raag. It embodies the solemnity and strength that comes with peace. I sang with complete surrender. And the tune guided my voice to follow it note-by-note. I was surprised at my own attempt. I was improving. My quiet state of mind was helping my vocal chords. I transferred the pain in my heart to the sound that came from it. I noticed for the first time that my western voice was starting to take a classical Indian turn. I did not sing as loudly as I usually would, but I was certainly softer and more solemn. My mother and I explored Raag Bhairav that evening by elaborating every note that comes together to form it. We did a raag-vistaar, like she'd say. And then we sang a Hindustani classical song based on that raag.

I learnt that melancholy Monday that each new day is like a new raag. Some are celebratory, some serious, some make your mornings, and some your evenings. One can enjoy new experiences like new music by only exploring everyday like one would explore a raag.