Blogger's Block

Thoughts flash in and out. Some are rejected, some are stored, some referred to a higher compartment for approval. The hands itch to open Word, the fingers itch to traverse the keyboard. A brilliant spark is caught and examined. And thrown away. It shall remain just a spark. Brevity, they say is wit. Too much brevity, though and what we’ve got is not wit but Blogger’s Block. Why not? Genius begets gigantic goof-ups, mediocrity results in mediocre mishaps. If a genuine writer can have a block, why not a blogger? Downscale a writer’s block and what have you got? A very randomly mixed, preheated mixture of thoughts floating around in a soup made up of the need to write. Such are the times when readability is thrown to the winds. When Honesty rules one half of a kingdom, the other half ruled by Desire. You are now a visitor to the land in between – a land that exists due to these two halves, a land that exhibits neither of their qualities. The time is past midnight – that time of the night when most geniuses get their inspirations, when most bloggers, the insatiable desire to write. I knew it from the beginning. Knew the dangers of starting a blogspot. Meaningful articles followed by inspired ones followed by meaningless ones. The usual path, traversed by a person who fancies himself a writer, who discovers the difference between wanting to write and being able to. The result – a post from a blogger suffering his equivalent of what robs a columnist of his weekly trip to the movies. It’s a strange, dangerous, addictive thing, this blogging.

Chennai to Bangalore

I am one among the hordes of people who have moved to Bangalore upon graduation. Bangalore, being in close proximity to Chennai, makes it incumbent on me to duly travel home every weekend. I must impress upon my readers that these frequent trips home are solely because of the impassioned pleas of my family and friends and not due to home-sickness, loneliness, craving for home-food or a necessity to get my clothes ironed.

This post is about the people on the train home. They all fit into one type or the other. I shall now proceed to descibe the various types to you.

The IT Guy
This type of person, as you might have guessed, works in one of Bangalore's many software engineering firms. His main characteristic is the laptop which hangs from his left shoulder. A Deccan Airways tag will also faithfully adhere to his luggage. Every time he wants to visit the bathroom he will point at the laptop and say loudly"Please take care of my laptop, I will be back in a few minutes" This is in case he feels his fellow passengers have mistaken his laptop case for a shoe bag. This type of person also looks upon all non IT people as beneath contempt, unable to understand why someone would choose a profession that will not take them to the USA in three years of joining the company. When I inform him that I work in civil engineering, he expresses his condolences and sincerely hopes that I will be soon able to find an IT company to take me on.

The Maama/Maami
These are the standard issue elderly folk on the train. As soon as they enter the train, they request you for your lower berth. Upon the train leaving the station, they immediately open two Dabbas of curd rice which they then proceed to polish off with relish. Once this is done, they transfer their attention to me. Questions follow about my job, accomodation, salary, and address. All my answers will be compared with their son who usually is the above mentioned IT Guy, albeit living in the USA. When I tell them that I work in civil engineering they usually stop talking to me assuming that I did really badly in the Tamil Nadu State Board Examination.

The Babe with the Cellphone.
This type of person is female and is usually good looking. A boyfriend usually drops her off at the railway station and. Upon the train leaving, she calls him up again. The conversation then lasts long into the night, neither too loud so as to enable eavesdropping and neither is it too soft to ignore. If this person happens to occupy the berth adjacent to yours, any chance of sleep will be disrupted by continuous giggles (if the relationship is in its infancy) or snarls (if it is a few months old). Does not usually care if I work in civil engineering.

The New Parents
These type of people are a young couple with a baby in their arms. Their immediate task upon entering the train will be to close the windows so as to protect their precious baby's ears from the wind. They will then look at you expectantly, waiting for you to comment on the baby's intelligence/cuteness/smile. In case you do not oblige, (or in my case scowl violently) they will affix you with murderous stares and the mother will hug her baby closer to her breast, making you feel like a child molester.

The No Ticket Guy
This type of person is one who has ommitted to book his ticket prudently in advance. He will give you a sycophantic smile and sit half his butt on your seat. He will then glance up and down the corridor nervously in anticipation of the ticket examiner. Upon the TE's arrival he will start talking to him in hushed tones, maintaining the oily grin with considerable difficulty. In case he is lucky, the TE will give him a seat. Once this happens he drops the grin immediately, becomes brusquely irritated with his fellow passengers and puts his feet up on his allotted seat and hums a tune.

These are the most common of the train travelling types on he Bangalore-Chennai route. More on living in Bangalore in further posts. Stay on the edge of your seats, readers.

When…

Random thoughts that resulted in a poem promptly penned down are herewith attached...
Comments and criticism appreciated - as always! :)

When the revving of a bike
Makes you yearn for that wind on your face
When the greening trees against a grey sky
Remind you of the view from your high terrace
When a ride in an intercity train brings back
Memories of all that noise, dust and those rust-brown tracks
When a foreign tongue starts sounding like a known dialect
And strange faces do familiar memories resurrect…

When the waves themselves seem to break
With a message from distant shores, hidden in a poem,
When an esoteric dish with some masala, does a familiar delicacy make
When Roman architecture brings to mind an Indo-Saracenic dome…
Then my friend, realize - and make no mistake -
That you must delay no more for sanity’s sake -
‘Tis time to pack your bags and Go Home.

One of His masterpieces...

First of all, Thanks to Him who put them up there. Second thanks to my "Northern Lights friend," simply, for sharing it with me. And third, thanks to Jiann Chyuan who unknowingly inspired me to write about something that deserves to be described.

It was a cold, clear night - In Norway the nights are mostly cold and the clearer they are, the colder they are - and we were both feeling a little bored and energetic -a perfect combination for going out for a walk...and so we did. We set off, on our usual trek route behind our flats in Steinan, up the narrow ice-covered trail to the power plant. It was a weekday and was therefore relatively quiet. With only the occasional rustle of a light breeze through the corn fields and the inky star-spangled canvass above we climbed up to the plant, planning to go on afterwards to our usual look-out post atop the hill. It was a lovely night and we were entranced, as we usually are, by the special beauty of this place that says so much, so simply, so silently. Nowhere else would I have dared to walk through a forest at 12 at night - but here...here it was different. Our only companions were the bushes and the trees and they did not seem to resent our intrusion too much! As we kept walking, we noticed, but chose to ignore for a while, a strange greyish-green cloud that had mysteriously appeared above us. When we reached the plant, however, we turned around and looked up...and were transfixed.

Imagine a dragon...a dragon of green that leaps across the sky, looking for all the world like a rainbow, that suddenly ducks and turns and tries to catch its own tail...all these maneouvres executed with a grace that defied the imagination. Imagine two more dragons like that appearing out of nowhere...chasing each other across the black canvass, appearing to flow from one brilliant star cluster to another and then just as mysteriously disappearing, only to reappear a few seconds later from the other direction as if having forgotten to visit a star! Yes...we were witnessing a masterpiece...created by an artist whose imagination knows no bounds and whose canvass is the very sky itself - the Aurora Borealis, commonly known as the Northern Lights.

We stood there, completely oblivious to the crick in our necks...and in those couple of minutes, I felt I could reach out and touch that dragon's head, thank it for having put on this show for me. As soon as we perceived a break in this phenomenal exhibition we hurried on to our look-out post and were just in time to catch the sight of a rainbow of green arching across the black fjord, across the town that in itself looked like the sky turned upside down, above our heads, and into the hills beyond. I tried to imagine what the first Vikings would have felt...knowing as they did, absolutely nothing about ions or any of the details that created these supernatural fireworks...and I am sure this indescribably beautiful work of art contributed, atleast partly, to their decision to settle down here in such inhospitable climes!

A Windswept Piece of Land

Readers of this blog - if such a class of people does exist - You're lucky! :-D

Here's my latest, a write-up on my trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau in Poland. A statutory warning: some descriptions may be quite graphic, though in this case, I could not help that!

Read on...

A Windswept Piece of Land

The bus was jam-packed, filled with tourists of all imaginable colours, sizes and shapes, chattering away merrily as they rode the three kilometres to this remote piece of land in the very heart of Europe…a piece of land with innumerable stories to tell.

“Here we are, please form groups of six or seven and follow your tour guides. The tour will last approximately half an hour. This place is a historic heritage site. We request you to please therefore, observe the rules posted. Photography is not permitted inside the cabins. The bus will leave from here in 45 minutes, so, at 16:00 hrs. Make sure you are not…..”

By this time, all conversation had died down and though the well trained guide finished her speech, she had lost her audience – lost it to that white ice-covered, windy piece of land and its frost laden pine trees that shouted out, for anyone who would care to listen, one of the most compelling tales ever told.

We trooped in through the main gates, not at all prepared for what we would experience. I felt a shiver run down my spine and a lead ball settle in my stomach at the sight of those tracks. Three sets of rail tracks led straight from the entrance right through the fenced-off area to where the chambers had once stood – the biggest of World War II, the gas chambers of Auschwitz-Birkenau, the world’s largest concentration camp.

The pictures came unbidden playing like a movie reel inside the head, with the slightly hushed voice of the guide providing a cruelly graphic narrative as past atrocities came alive and the very sanctity of the human mind was called into question. I saw the prisoners being bundled out of the coal-carts, bewildered and confused, clutching their possessions as they looked around for their promised accommodation. Nothing would have met their eyes but the two bleak buildings, meant for them, built by their predecessors. More than half of the prisoners were then marched into a huge hall where they were asked to undress, leave their belongings and step into a shower room for “desanitisation.” Little did they know that those innocent looking shower heads were designed not for water, but for lethal gas that in the space of a few breaths took their very lives away - a punishment for having been born into a certain community.

The ground crunched under our shoes as we walked around, as we started realizing how lucky we were, simply, to be alive. The wind picked up, howling through the rows of low brick-cabins in the adjacent complex, leaving our hands and feet benumbed by the piercing cold, our minds benumbed by a horrific past relived. Cameras clicked away mechanically as the more sturdy of us filed the moment away in digital memories. We entered the huts where the prisoners were kept…and this part of the story was no better.

Each brick in these huts was put in place by the prisoners themselves. Each hut housing around 600 to 800, the prisoners found themselves sharing a single 2ft by 6ft bed with 6 others. A single row of toilets ran across the middle, serving all 800 and the walls and the floors, till today, bear the stains of innumerable struggles as a million incarcerated souls fought over basic needs that we now consider our birth-rights. Our tour guide then presented to us an irony so grim it was an effort to even imagine it;
The most coveted job in the camp was the cleaning of those choked, overflowing toilets. The soldiers in charge of picking prisoners for execution would reportedly not go anywhere near these people filthy as they were and thus this was the only job that offered a guarantee against execution. The full horror of the situation hit us like a sledgehammer and our stomachs churned at the thought of what the world had allowed to happen.

We walked out in a daze, by now too nauseated by what we had seen to absorb anything else. The guide, seasoned as she was, had a quaver in her voice as she pointed out the tower over the entrance from where soldiers would snipe at unsuspecting prisoners…for sport. What’s more, these prisoners were made to work in driving winds and snow and sub-zero temperatures wearing a single shirt and trousers, 12 hours a day, with nothing to go back to-no warm home, no family, no soft bed-nothing but a cold, dank hell-hole of a cabin.

As we left those fences behind, whatever else we may have felt in our lives, on this day we felt lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky to be living in a time of relative peace and comfort, to be able to take for granted what some people had to fight with their lives for – lucky beyond measure. And whatever else we may come across in Life, whatever else we may forget…we must not and can not forget this.

On Pedestrianism and Kerala

Due to the mysterious absence of my fellow blog-mate and my not-so-mysterious lethargy...this blog has been dumped by the roadside for a while. I'm therefore attempting to redeem it, with an article I wrote ages ago, which is, hopefully, still relevant today. Here goes...and please let me know if the situation has changed, for the better or the worse. :)

Chennai, it is said, has given the world two famous dance-forms. One of them is Bharatanatyam, the other Pedestrianism. And Bharathanatyam is by far the more esoteric of the two. Any thing, man or beast that spends more than half an hour on Chennai’s roads finds itself performing a most complex tap dance that would put the world’s best flamenco artists to shame. Undecided cyclists, people in a hurry, autorickshaws on the prey, well-aimed projectiles of spit and the vagaries of the road itself all form part of a list of obstacles that meet a normal living being who erred in one thing before setting out – trusting its own two… or four legs, as the case may be. For all that, however, just as a hunter thrills in the excitement of the chase, just as a warrior is exhilarated by blood-lust, so does the average chennaiite love to “walk.”

Till he visits small, unassuming, quiet, green, deadly Kerala. Every hunter, every warrior and every Pedestrian (yes, it is spelt with a capital P) has his limit. For the Pedestrian it is Kerala. It is in Kerala that the fine line between an art-form and a suicide attempt is crossed. It is here that the Pedestrian meets, or rather, comes in contact with his match. Uncontrolled, they roam the streets at will tearing limbs and hearts asunder without the slightest respect for the laws that form the bulwark of a society. These monsters that do not even merit a mention in the tourist guides under the heading “Dangerous Creatures and Life Hazards” are but the ubiquitous Buses of Kerala. Yes, this too shall be spelt with a capital B. One accords his opponents the merit they deserve.

They bear down upon you without a toot and by the time you’ve recovered sufficiently enough to realize that you are Providence’s favourite child, the next one is upon you. Providence is a mighty fickle parent. When posed this problem, one Pedestrian survivor remarked pithily, “You learn to live with it.” And so one learns to live life on the edge, with the Devil on the one hand and the Deep Sea on the other – no kidding – Kerala’s got a long coast. Worse off are the poor folks who still cling on to the interiors… getting caught between the Devil and a barbed wire fence isn’t exactly my idea of a peaceful evening stroll.

That however, is only till you get into the Bus…if you can survive that long. Once in, the ride of your life awaits you. Never was a roller-coaster ride obtained cheaper. Never was the transition from victim to murder-accomplice so smooth. Small wonder then, that almost all the famous martial art forms originated here – martial arts are mostly about reflexes and balance…right? With a National Highway the width of my corridor with plants butting in on either side, it isn’t surprising that the Bus assumes right of way…on a single lane road.

“What about Lane Discipline?” the cry goes around ¬– one does not get a meaningful phrase by putting together two non-existent ones.

“Give us a plus-point!” begs the adamant cry – you get to see Kerala as you would never have seen otherwise.

To sum up - if questioned about it, one could say, “Life in Kerala is like Life in slow-motion - It’s beautiful. Death however, travels pretty fast.”

How to survive the British

I think it is now an appropriate time for the mysterious second owner to make an appearance on this newly launched blog. Thanks are due, to my literary partner(currently in Norway on holiday for a couple of years) for taking the initiative and transferring this blog from our imaginations to the virtual world.

I have just found my way back home after a trip to the British Isles and have decided to share my recently gained knowledge on how to survive in England, for your benefit. To make easy reading I have posted the following in bullet points.

• Talk about the weather.

If you ever find yourself in a situation where you are introduced to a Britisher and then left alone, do not panic if you have nothing to say. Look out of the window and gaze at the sky with a contemplative expression. Rub your chin if necessary. Then say "Hmmm, looks like it might turn to rain soon." Your companion's eyes will immediately sparkle and there will follow a lengthy and informative discourse on the climatic conditions of the area for the past eight weeks. At the end of it, you will find yourself being showered with invitiations to the pub and would have made a friend for life.

• Never accept a compliment gracefully.

If your British boss praises your work, never take credit for it. Become embarrassed, shuffle your feet, turn red in the face and look at the floor. Say it was nothing, cite the circumstances being extremely favourable and play down your achievement. This will please him immensley and you will soon be first in line for that promotion.

• Talk about the Empire benefitting your nation.

Say this in a tone of admiration"Oh British rule was the best thing that could ever have happened to our country. Of course, all our money drained to Britain, our industries died, people were killed and the Kohinoor diamond was stolen. But does all that really matter when the British gave us railways? What an amazing country!" Before you know it, you will be plied with beer and surrounded by friendly English faces nodding and smiling in agreement.

• Comment on how expensive things are in England.

Verbally abuse the government in power and blame it for the high cost of living in the country. Then hold your audience spellbound with tales of how cheap things are in India. Exaggerate as much as possible. "I can't believe this pair of shoes costs 50 pounds. In India three pairs will only cost me 7 pence" Their wonder and amazement will be a constant source of merriment and entertainment for the remainder of your stay.

• Make fun of the French.

Make up jokes involving the French President/ football team/rugby team/citizens/landmarks/language/cities/appearance/etc. This will elevate you to iconic status amongst your British peers.

Upon religiously following the above guidelines you will find yourself much liked and extremely popular with your British colleagues and will have an exceedingly pleasant stay.

Until next time, Cheerio.