When you're feeling fine, you sometimes wish you were sick, so you could relax while the world works.

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.

Hear that whooshing sound? My birthday going by...:)

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 :)

I'm almost (gasp!) 28 years old... Kya kiya re life mein :) ! Birthday coming up tomorrow. No plans yet on how to celebrate. Come to think of it, no plans yet on whether to celebrate or not.

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. :).

Here's one of the stand-alone stories...I'd started this before I left, but finished it on the train. Kinda inspired by Stephen King's stye of writing:

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.
* * *

Finally, home again. The trip to Himachal Pradesh was wonderful, got 3 kg off my spare tyre, gave me a bunch of silly stories to regale friends with, and memories of some beautiful moments. What more could a guy want from a vacation?

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...

Hmm. Install still not finished. Time to add another entry.

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.

It has been more than two weeks now since this blog got updated (if you dont count me 'fixing' the archives). What newsworthy stuff has happened since then? Hmm...

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?)
Is she a dream ? Is she real? Or a story?
Look, this crazy girl hasnt changed a bit
She's just the same maniac she was...

Well? mail me when you get it. sudarshan_purohit, at hotmail.

Interesting quote, off Slashdot (made by Pike65) :

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...

Ouch. Seems the Archives arent working. Something to do with how I edited the entries after i added them; the archives only show the first cut. I'll have to be more careful.

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 :)

I'm looking forward to cracking this one : (and hoping my intended target hasnt read my blog)

"Kya yaar, tune bahut dino se koi PJ nahi maara?"

"Nahi, mai ab ahimsa mein vishwas rakhta hoon, kuch bhi nahi maaroonga."

:) I know I'd hate to hear that.

Finally...Here we are with Chapter 5. Whopper, even if I say so myself.

Chapter 5 : Pawar Guest House

Though I don't know it, what I hear today is going to shake me to the core. It starts off normally enough, with me walking to the Guest House and seeing her on the balcony; her seeing me and escorting me upstairs as usual. It is later than the other times; the huts on the grounds are closed and dark by the time I arrive, and hardly any vehicles ply the roads as we talk. The radio is playing Bela ke Phool instead of Hawa Mahal; but she's still there listening to it, as if expecting me to arrive today.

We talk a bit, about the weather, about some new guests here at the guest house, about how quiet it seems now that it is so late. All along, simmering on both our minds, are the stories, waiting to be told. I wanted to try something different today, and inwardly I'm itching to get on with it. Finally, the topic veers around to the story.

I say,” I don't really have a story to tell today. I do have something else, though. This was an evening I spent in Pune, a long time ago…”

- - -

I couldn't do any more work. The significance of the deadlines, of the work that had to be finished that day, had paled before the fact that Ila wasn't there. The fact of her absence sapped all my will, left me idling for hours before I realized that there was no point in staying in the office.

Mumbling my goodbyes, I left the office. Down in the parking lot, I was about the start up my motorcycle when I realized that there was no reason to go to my room. It was too early for dinner; besides, Ila's memory would be overpowering if I went home.

I drove around aimlessly for a while. I thought about that day – Was it only a few days back? - When Ila had left. Her train was at six in the evening… I'd told her I would try to make it there to see her off. But I hadn't any hopes myself, there was too much work. I'd fought through all of that day, tearing through documents and rushing meetings. There had been still more work left then (just as it'd been, today) but I'd somehow managed to break free. Driving down, I'd felt like a prisoner who'd escaped and was now greedily enjoying his precious few moments of freedom.

I'd reached the station just a few minutes before six. Her brother had left already… she'd probably assured him she would be fine and he needn't stay till the end. She had taken a seat by the window, and she brightened when she saw me coming down the stairs of the station. Her face was the brightest of all, and her smile made me forget I had just a temporary reprieve. I reached her and just looked at her. “Its only for a few days,” she’d said. “I'll be back before you know it.”

“Take care of yourself,” I'd whispered, as I stood by her window. The whistle blew just then, and the train had begun to pull away from the platform. My hand had been on the window sill, just an inch from hers. As the train began to move she'd shifted her hand ever so slightly, still looking at me, so that it touched mine. It said more than any words could have. Even today, if I think about it, I can feel the tingle on my hand, where she'd touched it.

I kept waving for as long as I could see the train. Only for a few days, she’d said, and yet…

And today, again, I was thinking of her. If she had come back she would have told me so. But somehow, I hoped she'd returned and forgotten to call, or was too busy, maybe. That would mean she was here, somewhere in Pune, and I might bump into her anywhere.

I suddenly realized I was crossing the Balgandharv Theatre. I turned the bike around and drove into the parking lot. Parked in the far corner (just like I had the other day), and walked to the entrance to the stairwell. There was a sign about a new exhibition of sculpture on at the multipurpose hall on the first floor of the theatre. We'd argued that day, right here. I'd wanted to eat first, she was afraid the exhibition would be closed for the night by the time we got back. She'd won, of course.

I went up.

Wandered through the exhibits… looked less at them, more at the people seeing the exhibition. Once I saw her favorite orange jacket in a crowd…but it turned out to be someone else. She wouldn't have liked these new sculptures - they were too small and besides she liked those black metal types better, forgot what she called them.

I walked down and went to the ticket window of the theatre. They had a comedy playing. Laxmikant Berde was in it. I'd probably have persuaded her into seeing this one.

I left my bike in the lot and walked down Jangli Maharaj Road. I didn't stop at the pavement booksellers even though Ila wasn't there to pull me away.

Dusk. The street lights were on but as yet not doing anything. A lot of people walked along this road in the evenings. Most of them weren't alone. A light breeze ruffled shop awnings and brought forth whispers from the trees.

I found myself falling into a trance, walking on the orange and brown tiles of the pavement, looking down to make sure my feet were stepping two files forward at a time. I stopped once to look at the crowd around a flower seller, who'd set up his rack of bouquets under a big old mango tree. Most of his customers were young college-age boys. He was advising those who asked about good bouquets for birthdays, parties, 'just-like-that's, and marriages. As usual, he was out of deep red roses early.

Reaching the next junction, I decided on having dinner at the Chinese food vendors who'd set up their little stalls along the road. Each had their few tables and chairs in front, on the pavement, with customers' favourites painted on little tin circles festooning the stalls. “Chow Mein”, “Hakka Noodles”, “Chiken Manchurien”, “Sweet Corn Soup”, they all advertised in English and Marathi.

I ordered Sweet corn soup, Noodles, and Vegetable Manchurien at the first stall that had seating space free. Idly I watched the vendor make my dinner… The familiar smells were comforting. I wondered if he would ask me why I was alone today. He wouldn't, probably; couples were transitory here, on this road next to Fergusson College.

I ate quickly, while deciding what to do next. M. G. Road would be a good place to go to now.

It was dark by the time I walked back to where my bike was parked. The lot was crowded, the show with Laxmikant Berde seemed to be doing well.

I parked in front of Manney's Book Shop. I could see very few people in there; the stores were all about to close anyway. The crowds on the street were at their peak, though.

There was hardly any traffic on M.G. Road, the whole road was full of groups of people walking. Balloon vendors were selling heart-shaped balloons and doing brisk business. The couple in front of me was walking hand in hand, and swinging their hands in time to the music playing loudly from various shops.

I looked around for a place to sit as I walked. The steps in front of most shops were occupied already. Groups of people perched here and there on the two-wheelers parked along the road. I passed one such group playing at Dumb Charades. “Govinda? A Govinda Movie? SCS? Haseena Maan Jayegi? Oh, an older one… Dariya Dil?…”

There was a huge crowd in front of Marz-O-Rin. I walked into there, hoping their Softy hadn't sold out. I was just in time. I got the Chocolate, and walked upstairs to where they had just added more tables. It was strange – there was enough space to sit upstairs, but people insisted on standing outside on the sidewalk to eat and drink. Upstairs, Marz-O-Rin had a long balcony with little tables set up all along it. I walked along to the last-but-one table. We'd wanted to sit at the last table, but that had been occupied that day. Ila had finished her Pineapple Juice quickly and I’d gotten her a pastry… We'd looked at the two girls at the last table, they'd moved their chairs right up to the railings in the balcony… The one with her back to us was mostly quiet, if anything, she seemed to be consoling the other. It was noisy that day, too. We couldn't make out the words they spoke. But I remember the face of the girl who sat facing us… She was haunted, by I don’t know what. Her hairstyle was kind of like Alisha Chinai's; she wore a denim jacket and jeans. She would have been in her early teens. I noticed her first when I saw something glittering, out of the corner of my eye. It was a tear, sliding down her cheek. She hadn't noticed it, apparently. Her companion spoke after a moment. The girl started, nodded, and passed a brusque hand over her cheek. She shifted position, tilted her head and rested it on the parapet. The two were still sitting there when we left about an hour later.

Today there was a middle-aged couple sitting at the last table. I was probably the only one here sitting by himself.

From up here, the yellow light of the streetlamps imparted a nostalgic feel to the whole scene below. The crowd and the noise reminded one of a college carnival.

I felt…

- - -

I am silent. Then I say,”I cant really go on with this. There’s no way to tell what it felt like, back there. How can you express what it feels like to long for someone, to know that you're truly, madly in love with her? What they talk about in the movies, in songs, that's just the surface of what it feels like. You're almost paralysed with happiness, you can feel something huge inside that really fills you up. You close your eyes for a moment and it's like her face, as it looked in the train window just before it left, is clear in your mind - clear as if you're seeing it now. And the fact that she's possibly thinking about you makes the feeling even stronger.

“Oh, there isn't any way to express it. Unless you've actually felt it.”

- - -

What else? I sat there and finished my ice cream. After a while I walked back to my bike and drove home.

I did say that this isn't a story, it's just an evening I spent. I don’t think I managed to express exactly what I wanted to. But… there it is. One evening I'll remember for a long time.

- - -

She is listening intently, eyes focused on something far away. When I stop she stays that way for a while, then abruptly seems to realize that I'm done. It seems my story went down well.

She says, “You know, that reminds me of something. Especially that last part, when you were having trouble expressing yourself. Sooner or later everyone hits that wall, and everyone deals with it in his own way. Hmm… wait here a minute. I want to show you something.”

She gets up and walks off into the corridor behind us. I sit back and listen to the radio. She's gone for a while, about two or three songs have gone by on the radio in the meantime.

When she comes back, she's dusting off an old rexine-bound diary. Sitting down, she explains, “ Hadn't thought about this one in a long time. A boy who stayed here a long time ago left this when he left. He left really suddenly, actually. Was there one evening, gone in the morning. Left most of his luggage behind. Always was a sensitive sort, he was. Anyway, what I want you to look at is… let's see, where is it…” She flips through the book… “There isn't enough light here to read this thing. Can you reach up and turn on that switch over there?” The switch in question is an old fashioned, black plastic knob set in a round case. I pull it down, weak, incandescent light washes over us. It is barely better than a candle; but she seems to have no trouble now. She's looking through the diary, stopping every now and then to read a few lines. “It was nearly at the end of what he wrote… The entries after that are really simple, appointments and accounts, mostly…ah, here we are!”

She hands me the diary, open to a page that’s torn off a little at one corner. “Read it aloud, if you want.” Her movement of leaning forward is duplicated in her huge shadow from the bulb moving down on the sidewalk. Ours seems to be the only light on the road now, apart from the streetlights.

Though the diary looks really old, it reads a date from not too long ago.

- - -

1 June

I've never kept a diary before. Never had the patience. So all I'm going to do is to write what I feel about Laxmi today, before the memory I have fades away. Later ( I hope) she'll be closer to me and may not look so magical. This is for me to remember her as she looked today when we talked for the first time.

Her eyes are this deep 'surprise brown’, which look black until you look closely. When she's looking at you, you feel she's actually seeing you as you are - not as you appear. And her smile is knowing yet playful. When she talks, you can tell she is glad to do so - otherwise you'd just be another piece of scenery to her. Unlike some girls I know, she doesnt wave her hands around or shift her feet while talking. All her attention, her whole body, is intent on speaking and listening to you. Sometimes there's that sharp twinkle in her eyes that tells you that a sudden thought, which she probably wont tell you, has occurred to her. And what thoughts! To talk to her and understand what she's saying you need to be really well read. I mean, I thought I was well-read, but when was the last time you talked to someone who's understood both Kautilya and Sartre? I'm going to need to learn a lot more just to keep up with her. Not to mention understanding atleast something about Bharatnatyam - she's learning that too. And the Harmonium. And computers.

Sheesh!

2 June

I really shouldn't be leaving this book around for idle friends to read. Praveen reads through that page I wrote yesterday and goes," Who’s this girl? Uske chasmey ke number kya hai? Sounds like a South Indian to me. Knowing you, any fat black philosophy student would fascinate you...Arrey yaar, atleast if you want to remember her, write what she looks like, not this vague 'twinkle-in-eye' stuff!"

Praveen is one of these idiots who'd fall in love with any girl who laughs at their jokes and stays fashionable.

2 June (later)

I looked through that first entry again - without thinking about Laxmi at the time. I mean, as someone who only reads the words. In fact, as anyone else but me would. They do sound vague and zabardasti ka highfunda. I guess I could have another try. Hmmm.

Laxmi is not very tall, maybe about 5'3", but looks perfectly made. Her smallish round face really sets off her curly hair. Her fingers are rather long and delicate, though her figure is

What the heck is this? Hurray, I've just begun a Mills and Boon novel starring Laxmi Pandya. I'm sure Praveen would love this sort of description, if I could ever bring myself to show it to him. Whereas this description is actually worse than the earlier one.

3 June

The first one is better, if I don't read only the words. If I remember the feelings I had while writing those words, I really love the description.

So my words are just placeholders for the feelings I have in me? They don't really express what I'm feeling?

Stupid theory.

4 June

Funny how vague ideas stick to you. I couldnt help thinking about the 'words as placeholders' thing all today. I thought about how I liked so many books I read...If those words were just placeholders for the feelings which the writers had, what am I feeling?

Obvious hai. It's like the shayari stuff which I could never understand, even when Ashish explained the meaning of the words. Never could understand all that 'dard' and 'mohabbat' stuff, until Aditi went away...suddenly I found I liked them. When I had some feelings to put in the placeholders, I understood them...

All these feelings I had while reading, they were in me already...So me finding the book good just meant I was able to put really powerful experiences in the 'placeholders' the writer put.

Interesting.

4 June (later)

But that just means, if I remember my experiences while reading books, others must be remembering their own experiences.

You mean everyone sees something different when reading? Everyone has different experiences in life...

5 June

So is that why Praveen didnt like my description? OK - He has no idea of what I mean by saying 'Surprise Brown'. It would help if I told him that its a colour of the eye which looks black from afar and brown only when you look into her eyes close up.

No, it probably wouldn't. Unless he's actually had the experience of seeing a girl's eyes change like that (Aditi's eyes did). He wouldnt appreciate it.

So if I write something like "her lips were as delicately coloured as a shoeflower".., only someone who knows what a shoeflower is would understand...the others would think of vague things like, say, shoes!

6 June

Felt rather depressed today. Started out feeling great about the great insight I had into writing. But I tried explaining it to Praveen and Sandhya, and they didnt get it. I mean, they got what I was saying, but it didnt seem to affect them. They couldnt feel the enormity of the idea. Funny, that. They themselves hadn't come up against a block like this, so they couldnt put their experiences into the words I was saying. Their not understanding proved what I was saying, but it didnt make me feel any better.

Reminded me of asking my mom what a backache felt like. She'd answered, "Tu jab bada hoga tab tujhe maloom padega".

More and more of this sort of thing came to me all of today. "Ek baar awashya taste kijiye." "Maa Bahen nahi hai kya?" "Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swad?" "Bhagwan ki bhakti bataayi nahi jaa sakti, sirf mahsoos kar sakte hai." "No one can explain to you what the Matrix is."

Isnt there any way of conveying a new experience to someone? All that words can do is to either try to break it up into prior experience or tell you how to experience it yourself.

7 June

I'm trapped. Trapped. Heh. This wouldnt mean anyting to someone who's never been trapped before, never felt like this. I tried telling Laxmi what I felt about her today. Couldnt. Every word I spoke sounded like some sort of compromise. I couldnt help stripping it of the meaning, the experience I attached to it and looking at it naked. Alone it seemed so pitiful, so inadequate. 'Pitiful'. What does that mean to someone who hasnt felt pity, hasnt been pitied?

It isnt just words. It's pictures, drawings, music, dance, facial expressions, whatever silly ways we've devised to try to express ourselves. Placeholders all of them, meaning nothing by themselves. Tell me frankly, ever understood what they mean when they say there's something odd about the Mona Lisa's smile? Not unless you've seen someone else smile like that, whom you knew more about. Try showing the photographs of the beach you took, to someone who's never been to the beach. He'll ask you why you all look so happy just splashing about - The photos cant show the joy of being there.

15 June

This past week was horrible. I felt totally inadequate in expressing myself. Praveen asked me why I was so down. I'd told him before, so there was no point in explaining. I sent my diary so far, as a story, to some friends, and it came back with comments like "Amazing story!", and "It was cute", and "I laughed at the funny parts". (that was the worst...WHAT FUNNY PARTS?) I'd asked for suggestions for completing the story. No one had anything reasonable.

So it's up to me - I opened up this can of worms and I must deal with it. No one else can see the trouble. Even if they could, no one else could solve it for me. instead of letting the thing pull me under, I need to name it, file the problem neatly away under all my other big problems like "Not having musical talent", and "unable to help the starving people of Orissa". Most of all, I need some plan of action.

16 June

So what is the problem, as such? Basically, I've discovered that my words, my representation of my experiences, cannot replicate my experiences for other people. Nor can their words replicate their experiences to me. Put that way, it sounds reasonable. Silly, even.

The implications are the bad part - that everyone's experiences will always be their own, cannot be shared or explained.

A solution occurred to me today. Try to live your life as full as you can, so as to have common experiences with many people. Then with these people you will have that common ground to communicate. Of course, the problem with that stupid solution is that you will also have even more of life that you dont share with each other person. The proportion of common to unshared remains the same.

17 June

Why do I want to be able to share all my life and thoughts with everyone in the world, anyway?

Who you? You who? I noticed I've always been writing as if I'm speaking to someone. Never really thought about who that is.

I was going to make a vague-ish stage&audience reference here, but I am struck by a memory...

This is somewhere in my third year in college. That year we had what turned out to be the last really big college festival (the princi changed after that year, so...). This was huge by Indori standards. [See, now I'm assuming that You know I went to college in Indore]. Spread over a week, the festival took place in the ground next to our college building. Tamboo/shamboo gadhaa kar. We invited other colleges to take part in the competitions on the last day, and I, Swapnil and Mukul lost the Dumb charades by a whisker that day. But back to the topic....

I was 'helping' out with the Fish Pond, which was supposed to be read out on stage by another guy every hour or so during the entire week. Eventually I ended up doing nothing beyond getting the 'dabba' for the messages, and getting some prizes sponsored by some bookshop for the best messages. I'd been to said bookshop the previous weekend, and the other guy (who was to read out the messages) did not know yet that I had a bunch of discount coupons as prizes from them. He liked the idea and I went along with him when he was to announce this. What I wasnt expecting, of course, was for him to speak into the mike,"Sudarshan has an announcement!" and step back, looking at me expectantly.

Err...Mmm...I told them about the coupons okay enough. I was just about to tell them about which messages would get the prize ( whichever ones *we* thought were good, basically), when I spotted her.

I'll call her A. I'd been noticing her for a while now, she was doing the management course that ran in parallel to my computer course, and she was different from the rest. She'd grown up in Zambia, she'd grown up in Gaya, she'd grown up in Delhi, everyone I'd asked had a different story. Of course I was too scared to talk to her directly [How that happened is another story] and ask her. Anyway, she was there in the audience. What was a large audience of 300 people, in front of whom I could have sang, danced, joked, turned into one attentive girl and 299 eavesdroppers. Seeing her looking at me threw my vocal facilities into roughly the same level of competence as a 6-month-old.

I dont remember exactly what I said then; I let autopilot carry me, until i noticed the guy standing next to me shift restlessly.

This brings forth many more memories; I'll write about some of them later. For now, I guess the lesson to be learnt is this:

Part of the reason I'm able to write here is that I'm talking to you, you who are an undefined audience who listens attentively to all I say. I dont see you shifting restlessly, I dont notice if you join in midway or leave in disgust. Sometime flashes light up people in the audience and i recognize them from elsewhere..I recognized Ramanand (http://quatrainman.blogspot.com) the other day. Other people I have myself invited..Dinker and Snehal and Srivats and George and many others...but I dont know if they are in the audience even now. Does it matter? I cant let it. You, the dark auditorium, is there, listening attentively. If I write for any one person I'll be tonguetied.

It would be interesting to know how others perceive their readers. Do they have anyone in mind when they write ?

It's a nice feeling...hearing a song you've heard any number of times before, and suddenly noticing some words out of it are really good, wondering why you'd never heard those words before...and rewinding your winamp just a little to hear that stanza again....Lifts your spirits even in the middle of these hectic code drops (in case you're wondering why all I've been talking about is songs, and why I havent worked on Pawar Guest House. :) ).

Sample of nice lyrics I heard recently :

Tell me what I see
When I look in your eyes
Is it you, baby,
Or just a brilliant disguise?
---

Likhte rahein tumhe roz hi magar
Khwahishon ke Khat kabhi bheje hi nahi

Listening to that terrific Louis Armstrong song "We have all the time in the world"...it's probably my favourite of all his songs, except maybe Now You Has Jazz, or High Society. But this one particularly heartbreaking because of the James Bond connection. This one's on the soundtrack of On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Havent seen the movie, but read the book. I'm pretty sure where this track comes up - it's right after Bond gets married, and they're driving away to their honeymoon. Bond whispers to her (Tricia? Teresa ? something with T for sure) "We have all the time in the world..." just before goons drive alongside and shoot her dead.

Read this in a jokes list :

At least wrinkles don't hurt (Graffiti: Gene Mora)

Wonder why that made it into a jokes list...It sounded like something serious to me. And it sounds wrong. Wrinkles *do* hurt. All the wrinkles that your experiences leave on your mind, on your face. Sometimes you try to separate the ones that hurt by calling them scars. But there's no teling when a harmless-feeling wrinkle turns into a scar, for no apparent reason.

Hearing some new music, after a very long time...This is Dr. Hook, the best of. Cute stuff...but somehow it feels small-minded...elements of jealousy, idleness, that sort of thing...But of course these guys are no Gulzar :)

BTW, Dinker's book is now available in stores...search for "Murmurs of the Dawn" on amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, etc..

Finished typing in the subtitles for 'Aap Ke Saath', a cheesy 80's movie...mom does most of the translation, I do the typing. So if you buy that movie and have a crib about the english subtitles, you know whom to blame :)

Pretty much done with the fifth story. But the funny thing is, I went back to the British Library and re-read that Iris Murdoch chapter I was going to base this on. And there are already many differences...I still liked her ending better, though.

And now, beginning to see the real direction in which this book is heading. The old "Hopeful young man" versus "Cynical old woman" did seem a bit artificial to me... We're almost where I want to start writing again....And right after the fifth is where 'Quiet Diary' fits in. That is the story I want to elaborate on, the one I've wanted to write on all this time.

Has all this time passing helped me decide where that story goes? Cant say...it's only given me more pithy phrases to add to the core. But the suggestions I got from all the people who read it, atleast those that struck a chord, are what I'm trying to stem the tide of my own thoughts with.

Just so's I dont forget : here is the sequence as it stands : An Evening in Pune, Quiet Diary, Old man at Khajarana, Sadhu Baba who knows people are lost. We're already heading for the breakdown right there....

Currently working on the fifth story...and man, is it turning out difficult, or what! This is going to take a while.

I was inspired by that "looking for Anna" wala chapter in "Under the net", by Iris Murdoch...Wouldnt call the book a classic (or maybe i didnt read it carefully enough). But that chapter is too, too good. Thats what stays in your mind after you're done with the book.

Trying to do something similar with this chapter...only it's much closer to my own experience. Would have preferred setting the story in Indore, but Pune seems a better setting for this sort of stuff somehow.

Chapter 4

"Your turn now," I say.

She is leaning back in her chair, eyes closed. Without changing position, she begins. "This story happened, perhaps..."

* * * *

By late summer, loadshedding would be in full force. A few shops around us had generators to light up their shops. The rest of us bought candles by the dozen from the mandai. Joshi saeb sold them for five paisa each to the lodgers. I think he made a bit of profit, too. None of the lodgers minded, since they were too caught up in their jobs and exams and packing and unpacking to go buy them from outside.

Akash was one of these. He'd looked around for cheaper board when he was new to the city. But his job in the factory took up too much time and he was soon too exhausted to search further. Whatever spare time he had he spent with the friends he'd made in the factory.

They generally liked him. He had the same tastes as them, he enjoyed the same sort of cheap desi daru they did, he shared his beedis and occasional cigarettes with them. He too never felt the need to change his job or move on to 'better things'. From experience they knew that those sorts soon started avoiding them. Akash of course didnt. Initially they had been bothered a bit by his seeming more intelligent than usual. But once he was caught up in the full time occupation of living he never had use for thinking too much and became more and more like them.

There was this time he came home only slightly drunk, and forgot that the candle in his room was almost finished. Halfway up the stairs he remembered...he patted his pocket to make sure he still had the matchbox. Since he was just going to sleep, that would be enough.

The room was pitch dark. It was later than usual, so the building was very quiet, too.

After he got into the room, he pulled out a match and lit it. He was looking for his change of clothes when -

Imagine what it feels like. You're alone in the pitch dark, expecting nothing but to go to sleep in a few minutes. You wave your match around your mostly empty room. You locate your old shirt. You blow out the match (you don't need it now) and are on the point of picking up the shirt when a hand grasps your shoulder .

Akash would have fainted if he hadnt been drunk. Instead, he said in a quavering voice," Who's that?"

A quiet, confident voice answered," Your conscience."

"Eh? What?"

"Your antaratmaa. Your inner voice. Your soul. Call me what you want."

Akash could either accept this without argument or go mad. He accepted it. Trying to calm his voice, he asked," What do you want?"

A chuckle. "Nothing much. I just thought I'd pay you a visit. Arent you excited?"

"Um...yes. I am." He tried to turn a little, to look around him.

"Do you want to see me?" the voice asked. "Then why dont you just light a match?"

Something in that voice - a hint of mockery, perhaps - gave Akash pause. He hesitantly said," No...no. I dont really want to see you. Not now."

The voice laughed, freely, like a child. Yet the tone made Akash shiver slightly.

"When, then? When do you want to see me?" It asked.

Akash tried to think of a safe enough time...a month? That seemed far enough to be safe. He felt that asking for more time than that would be dangerous. "One month?" He volunteered. "Can we meet in one month?"

The pressure on his shoulder eased. "One month? Why so long? Surely you cant be... afraid of me? Oh well, as you wish. I don't know how I'll be able to wait a whole month. But since you command it..."

The voice was fading all this time, and Akash wasn't sure if he actually heard the last few words, or if they were just echoes in his mind.

After a few minutes, Akash picked up the courage to light a match. The room was empty except for him.

He considered leaving the place. He could just go now to his native town. But he had the feeling that his conscience would have no trouble at all following him anywhere.

No, there was nothing to be done except get ready for it.

Akash's friends were quite disappointed with him in the days after that. He stopped talking to them. He spent more hours than ever in the factory, but he never seemed to have money when they wanted to buy a bottle and enjoy the evening. One of them saw him praying at a temple once. As if that wasn't enough, another saw him actually giving away his hard earned money to a home for orphaned brats near the factory. He'd turned into just the opposite of what he used to be. They wondered what had happened. Was he trying to snare some high class girl?

For Akash, the month went by in a daze. He kept trying harder and harder, making sure he left nothing unsavoury in his life. As the fateful evening approached, he felt the time he'd asked hadn't been enough. He wondered if he could get any more time. He'd worked in the factory all that day and was bone tired. He hoped he could go to his room and just fall asleep before anything happened. Wouldn't happen, of course.

Loadshedding time again, when he went back to the guest house. In a few weeks, the rains would be here and there would be electricity. For now, everything was dark, just like it had been a month ago. He'd bought a candle the day before, and he was prepared to face whatever it was he would see.

He unlocked his door with trembling fingers. He took two steps into the room. He turned around to close the door, and the voice said, "Hello."

"H-hello. Is that you?"

"Who else could it be. Are you ready?"

Akash mentally squared his shoulders. "Yes." He said as confidently as he could.

"Good! Go ahead, light your candle, then."

He struck the match, cupped it with both hands to make sure it lit properly. Touched it to the candle. Picked up the candle (the flame shivered ever so slightly in his hands), and walked toward the voice. The first thing he saw was a pair of brightly polished leather shoes. Somehow their neatness heartened him. He walked closer. The trousers were clean, ironed and new. The belt buckle gleamed faintly. The shirt was blue with the checks he remembered so well. It had been his favourite shirt in college. He couldn't make out the hands, they were in shadow. And he walked closer, close enough to see his conscience's face.

Suppose a child dies. Suppose that even after he's dead he somehow keeps growing. Suppose his face rots away but keeps growing, until he's old enough to live by himself in a guest house and work in a factory. Then his face would look, somewhat, like the apparition sitting on Akash's bed.

Just before the candle dropped from Akash's fingers, just before the room plunged back into darkness and he fell senseless, he heard the voice say, "Thanks for the new clothes..."

* * * *

And now, time for the Conscience story. This is probably the last of the backlog of stories I'm clearing up. After this I'll be able to write the newer ones that are still in the original shape - not being rewritten, like these current ones.

I'm currently reading Kafka's The Castle right now. No doubt this is going to have an effect on the stuff I write, over the next week.