But the past changes us. What the past did to us determins the decisions we will take, one way or the other. It puts signboards of upcoming goals and diversions on our otherwise eventless road of life. what happened yesterday helps us decide how we are doing today. Whether we agree or disagree with the decsions we made yesterday, we cannot be indifferent to them. When we think we're planning for the future, we're really reacting to the past. We like new friends if they look like old friends, we make new enemies if they behave like old enemies. My decisions in the past have put me where I am now, for better or for worse. There is no such thing as starting afresh - as long as you are in the new life you're imagining, it will extend from the old life you're living. And realizing this is not the same as learning to live with it.
Monday, December 08, 2003
Monday, October 27, 2003
Spiders remember childhood friends! Is one of the wierdest stories I've read in a long time. Not only for the fact which they've 'discovered, but for the tacit assumption they started with, that spiders and suchlike dont remember other creatures of their kind. I get the feeling that Indians don't have this assumption - or do they ? A lot of fairy stories imply that the little critters do remember, of course. I find myself unable to remember what I believed before reading this article... one more thing to think about.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Single screening theatres plan indefinite strike
The interesting part is that, Multiplexes are completely exempt from Entertainment tax - while normal theatres arent. That means the multiplexes, which charge about a hundred bucks a ticket, are pocketing ALL of it for themsleves...makes me feel bad about ever having gone to those places. Consdering that you dont get any special advantages at a multiplex (being able to pay 40 bucks for a burger during the interval is NOT an advantage)...Yeh koi tareeka hua! Me, I opt for the older theatres every time.
Which reminds me, I saw Samay a couple of days back (at a single-screen theatre). Very neatly done movie, even if the ending is copied from Seven. No useless songs (except for one 'item number', which can be forgiven, I guess), no Johnny Lever, and no romantic hero for the heroine. I noticed it was produced by iDream - These guys are definitely doing good work. All the movies they produce (like, 16th December, Jajantaram Mamataram, Mitr, the upcoming Rudraksh) are off the beaten track, generally low-budget, but technically well done.
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Adbhut | Science Fiction and Fantasy | An Indian Experience
This is a magazine my friend Dinker is starting up. And if I know my friends right, this is going to be something worth looking at pretty soon.
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Also, a couple of days back, saw Mulholland Drive. One wierd movie, that one is. You need to either see it three or four times, or see summaries on the net(like I did) to make sense of the whole movie. Not to mention that I found the thing to be quite creepy. Of course, seeing it alone at 3 in the night may be part of the reason for that!
Friday, September 05, 2003
18. All quiet on the western front - Erich Remarque
19. If you could see me now - Peter Straub
20. A kiss before dying - Ira Levin
Note the very high percentage of books either on the top 100 lists or written by authors on the list. Havent started on any of this lot yet. I'm currently finishing Wizard and Glass by Stephen King and On the Road by Jack Kerouac. On the Road is highly, highly recommended for its writing technique. Amazing book! Fully deserves to be so famous, unlike some of the real duds on that #$@ top 100 list.
Went out last evening with Samrat to see Bad Boys 2. It has been many years since I watched an action movie in the theatre (and I refuse to count Chura Liya Hai Tumne as action). Fun stunts, some very funny comedy sequences, and the added sparkle of having got the tickets free (prize from the Quiz we won). Added up to an enjoyable evening.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
I am now going to imitate George's (sometimes irritating) habit of gloating over my current haul:
1. The Moviegoer - Walker Percy
2. The Confessions of Nat Turner - William Styron
3. The Day of the Locust - Nathaniel West
4. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers
5. The Moon is a Harsh Mistress - Robert Heinlein
6. Stranger in a Strange Land - Robert Heinlein
7. We the Living - Ayn Rand
8. Journeys to the Twilight Zone - short stories ed. by Rod Serling's wife (whoever that was)
9. The Glass Key - Dashiell Hammett
10. The Belljar - Sylvia Plath
11. The Plague Dogs - Richard Adams
12. Our Town - Thornton Wilder
13. Sein Language - Jerry Seinfield
14. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - E. L. Konigsburg
15. A Wrinkle in Time - Madeleine D'Engle
16. Welcome to the Monkey House - Kurt Vonnegut
17. Martin the Warrior - Brian Jacques
18.
OH - MY - GOD! I really cannot remember the remaining 3 books I bought just two days back! Either I'm buying too many books or my memory is fading. I am dumping this onto the blog and adding stuff as and when I remember it (or look it up).
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Chapter 6
It is now nearly a week since I read the diary, here at the Pawar Guest House. In the days that passed I struggled to come to terms with the diary’s contents, and even now, have not quite accepted the idea they lay out. Admittedly, this cannot be a new idea; browsing through any good public library will give me the technical word for it, will give me accounts of people faced with this problem, and how they dealt with it.
But… as the diary itself says, there’s no way my experience can be exactly the same as that of those other writers, or even of the person who wrote that diary. So that, even in this, my account of the conversations I had with the old lady, I cannot be sure that you are actually reading what I mean to write.
That evening after I returned, I had just the strength to copy down the contents of the diary, which she’d lent me. What we talked about after that, I felt, there was no point writing. Fortunately, the feeling has passed somewhat now, though it touches everything I say and write. Whatever twisted meaning it may convey to a reader, it should, hopefully, remind me of what actually happened afterwards.
- - -
I finished reading the diary, flipped through the remaining entries ( Bread – 8 Rs., Lunch – 20 Rs. … ) and closed the diary. My thoughts were in a jumble, somehow the diary had awakened the one demon I’d always fought against – the fear of not being understood – and proclaimed it victorious without a doubt.
She said,” You’ll probably not believe it, but I know what you’re feeling. You’ll get over it, in time. But this feeling, this idea is going to colour your thoughts and stories for a long, long time.”
I got up abruptly. “It’s…getting late. I need to get back.”
“Yes, of course you must. Come back only when you want to. I’d like to hear what you think about the diary, after you’ve had the time to mull it over.”
I walked back, through the deserted, sodium-vapour-lit streets, lost in my thoughts. She had been right. All the stories I’d remembered, all the tales I’d planned to tell, now seemed so useless against the one big cancer of an idea that kept pulling me in. I was alone, so alone forever, as alone as every other person I’d ever met. Just like every other person.
- - -
I don’t know why today, I’ve come back to the Guest House. Certainly, if she asks me, I have nothing to tell. Perhaps it is inertia, or perhaps some subconscious hope of finding some distraction from my thoughts.
Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to expect anything from me, either. As soon as I sit down, she says,” I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to tell today. So for today, we’ll do what you originally wanted when you came here. I’ll tell the stories.
“Let me start with the reason why I came here. I’m not originally from here, I was born in Himachal Pradesh, among the hills…”
- - - - - -
It took a while before anyone recognized Anand. After all, he hadn’t been back to the village for nearly twenty years. He just stood there, where he’d gotten off the bus, as it rolled on, leaving a pall of dust and smoke. As the dust settled, Anand looked around him. Memories stirred in him as he recognized places, things, that hadn’t changed since he’d left this place.
He came out of his reverie with a jerk. Two old men in the dhaba opposite were looking at him curiously. The one with the red turban had a strange, doubtful look on his face. Anand picked up his traveling bag and walked across the road to the dhaba. He went up to the old men and said to the red-turbanned one,” Namaste, Ishwar Kaka. Remember me?”
Ishwar Kaka’s face cleared. He said,” Anand beta, it is you, then? I wasn’t… sure!” And a laugh broke free from him and he stood up clumsily to embrace the lost son of the village.
Anand asked him,” Is the old room by the temple still there? Is Ramdhari Kaka still the priest?” The old man looked at him, averted his face. “Why do you want to go there, beta? Come to my home, I’ve got a pucca home now. Why not stay with me?” But Anand was already shaking his head. “No, Kaka… next time, I’ll definitely stay with you. For tonight, let me go to the temple.”
“Then… you are only here for a day?”
“Yes, Kaka.”
“But… your land? I thought you’d come to sell off your land, or to till it?”
A faint smile crossed Anand’s face. “Some other time, Kaka. This time I’m just here to remember.” And he set off on the strange yet familiar path to the temple.
Ramdhari Kaka still was the priest, and he, of course, remembered Anand. The room was much smaller than he remembered it, and dustier. But it was empty, and Anand didn’t mind the dust. He bought a chatai from the Kirana shop and pread it out in its usual corner under the window. He rested there for a while, waiting for the evening.
Meanwhile the news of his arrival had spread like wildfire. Everyone, from Darbari Seth, the owner of the Chamunda lodge, to mad old Babu, cavorting in the freezing river water, knew Anand was back.
Evening is a very long period in the Himachal villages. The sun goes down below the mountains very early, but darkness arrives only when it is well and truly gone. People stop working in the tarraced fields, shops start closing, and only the groups of children scamper about on the streets. Their parents are too busy gossiping in the fading light at the village chaupal, or in the temple courtyard. Today, for some reason, the chaupal was deserted, and everyone seemed to converge on the temple courtyard for their gossip. People stole glances through the open door by the temple’s side, where they could just make out Anand’s feet in the gloom, and see him occasionally turn to his side.
He finally got up and came out of the room yawning. He didn’t seem surprised to see the people sitting in the courtyard, but walked over to the pot of water by the wall, drank from it, and sat down leaning against a pillar by the gate. The murmur of discussion rose up again, but hesitantly.
Finally, one old lady asked Anand,” How have you been, beta? We never heard from you after you left.”
“I’ve been alright, Kaki. I found some work in the city and studied through college. Now I have a job in the government.”
Anand felt like a liar, even though it was the truth he’d said. But how could he describe that he hadn’t been all right, that he’d starved so often to pay his fees, how he;d studied under street lamps, how he’d vended tea even after getting his degree, how he’d struggled to get his job. He could still taste the dust in his mouth from the day he’d left the village, in the early morning bus, hiding from everyone, hoping that the bus driver didn’t know who he was. He remembered living in fear, even in the city, fear that someone would recognize him, would take him back.
The old lady said,” I remember the time when you used to help out Vaidji in his work, you’d even made a kaadhaa for me once when I had a fever.”
Though controlling his voice took an effort, Anand spoke pleasantly enough.
“Yes, Kaki. I remember. Of course, Pitaji couldn’t teach me his craft for long. Darbari Seth took care of that.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Darbari Seth hadn’t come to the courtyard (perhaps he’d gone to the chaupal) but his wife was here. Almost everyone present knew Vaidji’s gambling habits, how he’d lost his house and land to Darbari Seth in a long night of drunk gambling. Anand, of course, remembered being woken from his sleep, early in the morning, by a goon, and being dragged out of the house by one arm. He remembered his mother weeping, assuring the goons that they would repay in full, if only they could stay here for a few more days…
Anand continued,” Of course, Ramdhari Kaka let us stay in this room for as long as we needed.”
The listeners shifted uneasily. Most of them could remember shutting out Vaidji ( who was, after all, a southerner, not a Himachali like themselves). Each had told himself that someone else would take these people in, ignoring the pleas audible from outside their doors, over the next few days after Vaidji had lost his home. They had snuggled inside, safe from the freezing cold of the winter.
“But beta, you were all quite comfortable here, and we… we would all have helped you if you’d had any problem.”
Anand’s voice remained calm as he said,” May I ask you a question, Kaki?”
Pausing a moment, he continued,” Does anyone remember the time at which Pitaji died?”
No one answered.
“Of course, no one remembers. No one even knows the time. It took me nearly half the day to get people to take him to the ghat. And no one wanted to do even that. Were you all so afraid of Pneumonia, that you were afraid of touching his body?”
Some of the villagers looked like they wished they handt come here. Morbid curiosity held the rest in a thrall. Even though Anand’s voice was calm, it was clear that he was accusing them, holding them all responsible.
One person stood up. Anand’s voice rang out after him, in the gloom.
“Thakur chacha, how come you’re in such a hurry? Arent you proud of the honour of being the first?”
“The first?” Thakur said roughly, drawn in, in spite of himself. “The first what?”
”The first to call me a ‘kalmunha’ to my face? The first to come with a crowd, to my mother and me, to demand the debts my father had left behind? The first person for whom I worked in the fields, trying to stay alive and repay my debts? You were an inspiration, Chacha, you were an inspiration to so many others who wanted their debts paid!”
Anand’s mind flashed back to his life as it had seemed to be to his ten-year-old mind then…an endless series of fields to be ploughed, grain to be threshed; as a labourer, bound to this village and its people forever… alone except for his mother, who was slowly but surely losing her mind…
She had still had phases of clear thought, and in one of these, late at night, she had woken him up frantically from a deep sleep. She’d stolen some money from a shop that day, and she told him about it as she thrust it into his pocket.
“Run, beta, run away. Don’t worry about me, I am going to die soon. Take the bus that goes to the city, early in the morning. Never come back, beta, never come back…”
He had started to protest, but she had pulled him up and stodd him straight by then. Even before he was fully awake, she was pushing him out of the door. Something struck her then, as she watched him framed against the night of stars, with the silent, sleeping village below it. She grabbed up a small pot of water and handed it to him. “Here, take this. Keep it with you in the bus. I don’t know where you will eat, beta, but atleast you will be free. Now go! Go!” And she had turned him around, towards the road, and slammed the door shut behind him.
He’d stood for a moment, listening to her weeping from behind the door. Then, as if still in a dream, he’d started walking.
Slowly at first, then almost running, he’d walked to the bus stop and hid behind a tree, clutching the unwieldy pot of water to him, jumping at every sound, suspecting every noise was a footfall, expecting a rough hand on his shoulder any minute…
Anand said, “ None of you know this, but the only thing I took from your village was a pot of water.” No one protested at his use of “your village”.
“And, of course, Thakur chacha had already discovered that I was a ‘kalmunha’. I’ve today to fulfil that prophecy, and to repay my debt.”
There was a stir at these words. No one, however, asked him to explain.
“All my life, I’ve been laughing at those stories about kind-hearted villagers helping strangers. All my life, I have had that pot of water, the only thing I got from here, on my mind. Perhaps that pot was what shaped my career.
“I’ve told you that I work for the government. Let me explain what work I do. I work for the Himachal Hydel Power Corporation, and I work for the Survey department. We look for suitable sites to set up Hydel projects – that means dams, Thakur chacha.
“I’m here to announce formally to the village that a big project is going to be set up in this valley.”
“But… that means…”
“Yes.” Anand said. Those close to him could have sworn he was smiling. This village is going to be submerged in a new lake of water in the valley. The government will of course give you suitable replacement homes and land… as it usually does. I’ll be in charge of that as well.”
- - - -
Monday, July 28, 2003
But this long absence wasnt a total waste....I managed to get one more story in the Pawar Guest House series completed. This is probably the quickest of the lot, counting the time from inception to execution... one month! Will dump it here as soon as I get it typed.
Not much else to report... a huge number of things happened on this recently concluded trip...most of which are still too 'daanwadol' to tell now. The trip will be described on this blog in excruciating detail, someday.
Which reminds me of the promised account of my Himachal trip... Of yes, that one is over a dozen pages long and still only half done! Working on it, working on it...hang on :)
Thursday, June 26, 2003
Of course, fall ill with a terrible cold, fever, and bodyache and you find you dont mind working at all in exchange for feeling good again. :)
Which is probably why I enjoyed working today: I've been down for about 4 days. Worst cold I ever had.
Plus they fiddled around with the setup here at my company and now i cant access the net (aka blog while code is compiling) while I'm logged on to our client's network. will need to figure a way out of that one.
Thought up this one today, and already cracked it, so you're free to reuse it if you want:
"Tumne khoob teensti nibhaayi"
"Teensti? Woh kya hai?"
"Yahan apan teen log hai na, isliye. Do hotey to dosti bolta tha"
And btw...something's wrong with my old comments tag as well...probably because they changed the blogger stuff....will work that out. mail me, whoever it was that posted the comment, please? thanks.
Thursday, June 19, 2003
I remembered another story about birthdays : about my Dad and Dev Anand. Will elaborate today.
This post is mainly to test out the comments thingy i just added. So everyone who sees this, please try it out. Or you'll never hear about the Dev Anand story :)
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
It might be worthwhile to dredge up some birthday-related anecdote here. Hmm...let's see...here's the standard story I tell:
When I was a kid, living in Trivandrum, my school opened on the 20th of June. Since we spent the summer vacations in Indore and Surat (paternal and maternal grandparents' places respectively), we'd generally be in the train back to Trivandrum on the 18th. Always got me irritated. :).
Thursday, June 12, 2003
There was a cool breeze that night
The first thing he noticed was the cool breeze on his upturned face. It smelled sweet, and fresh, and had the tastte of spring on it. He sniffed appreciatively, savouring the breeze, feeling ecstatic for being able to feel it.
He looked around. It was sometime very late at night. The road was deserted. He didnt recognize it; he had no idea where he was. It didnt matter. Just to be alive again was enough. The road was lit by strange yellow lights. He hadnt seen that sort before. There was a high wall on the other side of the road, with jagged pieces of glass along the top. Wires sang their monotonous tune, high above his head, as they passed through a power pylon.
He was sitting on a pile of earth. Behind him, there was a pit within which he could make out thick insulated cable. The pit and the accompanying piles of earth continued on both sides of him along the road as far as he could see. Behind that was a barbed wire fence bordering an open ground. He suddenly recognised the place. The open ground was an NCC training ground, it had an obstacle course they used. Beyond that would be the hill... he looked up, and there it was. It had many more lights at the top than he remembered.
So a long time had passed, since he was last aware of himself. Vaguely, he could remember the period in between. How people had given him a wide berth as he'd staggered down the street, muttering. He remembered a couple of kind-eyed beggar children who'd given him a roti, backing off as soon as he'd taken it. One strange memory of him being a lion, and a watchman chasing him in disgust, not realising that he was a fearsome beast. A few snatches of a nurse holding him down while a doctor gave him an injection (the world blacked out after that). And sevral faded feelings of being hungry, being thirsty, feeling pain, feeling a strange sense of loss...
But all that, it seemed, was in the past. He was sane again, and aware of the cool breeze blowing against his face. Able to think of what to do next, able to put his past behind him and decide how to get on with living.
He'd done it before. He could remember how he'd started from nothing - that assortment of wooden planks, aluminium roofing and cardboard that had been his house in the slum. How it had been just him and his father, both starving half the time and fighting each other the rest of it. The long journey from there to a job, Maya, and their flat. And from there to Vakil Bhai, a simple loan at first, then bigger and bigger, until those men had burst into their home to collect or else...
But that was long gone, God knows how many months or years ago. He'd start again.
He looked around again, watched a lone motorcyclist speed by. He lifted up a hand to scratch his cheek, then noticed how thin and wrinkled his fingers were. Somewhat alarmed, he looked down at himself. He was old, and worn out. He must be about sixty-five or seventy years old. He had very little time left, then. He had to make something of himself, and quickly. He would start by -
Eh? Why had he stumbled? Was he so far gone that he couldnt even walk? He tried again and nearly fell down. His left hand instinctively reached out, and he realised why he hadnt been able to get up. There was an old twisted branch with a small slab of wook nailed across one end. Rough, for sure, but a crutch nevertheless... his left foot was gone.
He hoisted himself to his feet, using the crutch as support. It didnt matter, really. He'd done it before and could do it again. He mumbled a bit as he made his plans, hobbling down the road, the cool breeze of the night ruffling his thin white hair.
* * *
Photos are at my yahoo account.
The stories from the trip will come out slower, they need to identified as such; split up into nice bite size chunks. The "proper" short stories that I thought up during the trip will get dumped here as I type them in...sadly, just one of them is a chapter of Pawar Guest House. Oh well...
One of the 'monthly forecasts' for my sign tells me that my writing phase ends on the 15th June. ;). Hope I dont have any incomplete stories then...
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
I read an interesting article a long time back, in which some guy was doing research on babies' brains. Rather, what kinds of logic they are capable of. What he did was, had a large, attention-attracting object move slowly through the baby's field of vision. Then he had something blocking the way, so the moving object was obscured. He checked the direction in which the baby was looking. Sure enough, the little geniuses continued to turn their heads and eyes in the direction the object had been moving, and they would lock on to it again when it became visible. He concluded that humans are born with this basic logic inbuilt.
Writing this above reminded me of the 'blind spot' in our eyes - that place where the optic nerve connects to the eye and there arent any sensor cells. No one ever complained of that one.
Why am I thinking of these things? Extrapolation, or the creation of pattern, is what I'm coming to. Even without having to think about it, people do believe (or 'have faith in') the idea that their action has a result, and every result has a cause. It struck me today that this impulse must be really burnt deep into our brains. Essential survival instinct, I bet. And take a society that keeps asking "why?" to every question, a society where you have a bunch of people who are free to do just this, for many generations, and you get a system of thought like hinduism.
I took part in a quiz competition almost by mistake and got runners-up prize.
The pi-laaan for my trip to Himachal Pradesh got finalised - me leaving on 23rd May. Taking my digital camera along this time, so my photos will hopefully come up here on this page.
Scratched half my hair out trying to find the right counter attack to the 'Quiet Diary' story. Why O why didnt I make that one the last story in the book? But no, that would have been running away - I need the answer to that situation myself. Finally found one that isnt either of the two obvious choices ( ignoring it entirely, as most people do in life, or trying to add more context into everything, as much as one can stand). I'll have the HP trip to compose and work out the next chapter.
Mom wrote the Gujarati subtitles to Chura Liya Hai Tumne (Mohabbat mirchi che :D ), Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Ghum, and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. Since the English stuff was already done I didnt have any stuff to do there besides setting up stuff, and mailing finished files to C-DAC. The next movie, which she'll take on after I get back, will have both the English and Gujrarati subtitles to do. Hmm...here's a thought exercise - can anyone make out what the Hindi for this is?
This girl is very unknowing (innocent, maybe?)
Well? mail me when you get it. sudarshan_purohit, at hotmail.
Monday, May 05, 2003
A quick trudge of any *shudder* blog site is more than enough to convince me that everyone else leads a life as boring as mine.
Of course, it may just be that the people with interesting lives are out living them. Now there's a thought . . .
Links to the Quiet Diary idea all right...
It's interesting how, when you think about it, the various 'smart' ideas you've had over the years are linked closely. How they all mark out your 'mental space', as Hofstadter put it. Like, Quiet Diary links to the Foreigner, links to that whole 'Nothing has meaning without context' idea that blew me away a couple of years ago.
I'm reading some of these ideas in the spiritual books I use for bedtime reading these days... What I used to call 'the Universal Set by definition' they call the 'Truth'. They use another word for 'Context', as I used it in 'Nothing has meaning without context', and 'Words have no meaning without the context we associate with them'. I forgot what the word is, but Context seems a better word than the one they use...
Friday, May 02, 2003
George wanted to know about the "Subtitles" entry on Apr 15th. Explanation :
C-DAC has a subtitling cell, which takes on work to subtitle movies in various Indian languages. They get contracts from several different groups, leading to really varied work. This work is executed by various freelancers who get paid by the job.
Mom is one of these. I help her out when I get time and when the work's interesting enough. We've done everything from translating mobile phone error messages into Hindi, to subtitling episodes of Shree Ganesh, that TV serial on Sony, in English. That last one was kind of fun..."Lord Shiva, it is time for me to be born as your child."/"Yes, Shri Maha Ganesh, your will alone is the mightiest in the universe." :)
Anyway...the majority of the work is adding English subtitles for Hindi movies, or Hindi subtitles for regional movies. Everything from Muqaddar ka Sikandar (King of Fate :) ) to Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham.
Aap ke Saath was the movie I wrote the subtitles for recently. Assuming that the guy who gave us the contract sells these subtitled DVDs/CDs in the general market, unfortunate souls who see that movie could be reading our translations :)