Banana Experiments

What does the word banana remind you of? The soft sweet pulp? The slippery peel? Its perishable nature?

Well, let me tell you what banana brings to my mind. I once inadvertently happened to read a piece somewhere in some magazine, or perhaps elsewhere, that the banana activates the mind. Stimulates it, makes it work more efficiently. I tried it out a couple of times and could see that the author was good as his word, the banana speeding my mathematical calculations and increasing my attention span, not greatly but at least noticeably. Inevitably, this is what banana brings to my mind. 

But the foremost association my mind has formed with these yellow curled cylindrical fruits are their aid in digestion, more specifically, egestion. A biological term, which when translated to baby language reads potty. And in adult language reads bowel movement. Sometimes more explicit. A single banana, quite literally, greases your butt and lets the solid waste flow through like there was no tomorrow. Quite relieving. As long as its at the right time. 

I like the Hindu concept of Muhurta.There exists a right time, auspicious time for everything. And our natural calls are no exception. Especially with the conflicting effects of a banana in the alimentary canal. 

And there could be no wronger (I use the grammatically incorrect intentionally, for emphasis), time for it than during an exam. And I have unfortunately, though not unwittingly, been on the receiving end twice. 

With my unparalleled belief in the ability of the banana to enhance my cranial efficiency, I encouraged the efficiency of my digestive system. And before I knew it, my rectum was full, right while I was writing the exam. 

Here are a few things about having a full rectum. First and foremost, filling of the rectum empties the brain. The rest of the effects are trivial,and are experienced only if the outlet valve is not opened immediately. They include shivering, weakness all round, inability to decide on whether to sit or stand. 

life revolves around the several choices we make, weighing up the pros and the cons. The question that haunts me before every exam is not my preparedness, or my thoroughness with the content, but whether I should have a banana or not. I have risked it several times, managing to stay alive despite the heated assault of my underside. I have managed to literally, come out on top. 

Bowels vs Brain via Banana is how I would word this scenario. 

Walk In Thunder

To walk in the rain, let go all inhibition,

Walk in the downpour, of ambition

Walk in the rain, alone

Walk in the rain, even if there's nothing to moan

With every drop that lashes your face,

A tear drop too,

Silently, only for you.

Walk in the lightning,

The flash of earth's brilliance,

Transformation in resilience.

Walk in the lightning,

To see the sky lightening

If only for a second.

Walk in the rain,

Forget your sorrow.

In the pleasant pitter-patter of the rain drops

Trust me

Your troubles do seem hollow.

Every wish unfulfilled,

Every goal unconquered

Every path, traversed and failed

Seems golden

In the merry light of the rain.

The rain never ceases,

Nor the tears that pollute it

Every drop

like the cradle of your mother's arm

Hear the noise, the yell of nature

A billion drops, for every creature.

And then suddenly

Hear the thunder

All serenity and tranquility

In the noise

The distant rumble of satisfaction

To express your hearts elation

For walking in the rain

Forget all sorrow

Walk in the rain, even if there's nothing to moan

With every drop that lashes your face,

A tear drop too,

Silently, only for you.

Betrayal

 And as I continued to type meaningless words into the chat window, the guilty glance to the bottom right corner of the screen gave me a relief. 5:47 pm. Still far from six o clock, the self stipulated stipulated time for me to switch over, from the digital screen I am currently looking at to the fresh pages of my books that beckoned to me so lovingly and unceasingly. 13 more minutes to waste. I still am uncertain whether round figures really are an auspicious a time to start ones work as students make it out to be or it is simply a farce designed to fool the self into buying a few extra minutes without stinging too far into the conscience. And I will never know. Smoke screens to save yourself from the embarrassment of answering to your own mind are rarely blown that easily. 
A double standard you see. I know I need to study, I know I will eventually kick myself before sleeping for unnecessarily and so deceptively biding the hours in fruitless exercises. It is 7:08 pm right now for your information. I am not one to waste time. It was all planned, I blog till 7.30, and then get back to my books. The quest for a round number. 
If excuse making were a talent, we would all steal the prize for it. The biggest excuses in our lives are to ourselves. Procrastination is never unjustified to the self. In every instance of the postponement of a task, we serve to ourselves with an excuse. A so called reason for the absence of immediate action. What is to stop me, or all of us for that matter, to start jobs at odd times.Why do we set our alarms at round figures? Or at wacky times designed to wake us up at a round figure? Superstition? 
Round figures are a nice to way to get round things. I thought I shall start at 4, but since its already 3 minutes past 4, I might as well get done with this all important and crucial computer game and start at 4.15. And before you know it its 4.17. 
As humans, we always strive for the linear. The logical, the practical. We like cubes with six faces to decide money. Or coins with two sides to settle disputes. But the world is spherical, there is no face to it. Nature is never built in straight lines. Our obsession with round figures perhaps is something to do with that. The numbers repeat a zillion time over in tens. And two fives fit in neatly to make a ten. Human beings find comfort on the definite faces, the flat edges. It is not an inherent natural instinct. It is an acquired malady. Acquired over centuries of aiming for the linear. The perfect. 
And now the bottom right of my screen tells me it is 7:29. So I will cease to lengthen this post and give my books the pleasure of my company at an auspicious round figure. 

The Truth

As the blue coloured, rickety old BMTC bus snaked it's way through the heavy rush hour traffic, he thoughtfully gazed out of the window. Of course, he couldn't see that the bus was blue from inside but he had noticed it before getting on. He had never been to a city before, but he had been shown extensive videos of it. He remembered those videos, his training, his early life.
He was stopped short in his reverie as the bus jerked to a halt and a man took the seat next to him. He gazed at him, almost worshipful. He too was in his early twenties, he thought, as the man carelessly fiddled with his brand new touch-screen phone. He too had a similar device, though not a normal phone. They called it a satellite phone.
And their bag colour matched too, he noticed. The same tinge of gray. His was gray so it was not conspicuous, but the man's was so for he liked the colour. In it, the man had books. But in his own bag he had something else, not worth discussing. 
He suddenly shivered, which had nothing to do with the chill wind of the Bangalore December. His past gripped him, quite suddenly. Dashing him like a wave. He too could have been like the man seated next to him. Armed with education. With books in his bag, a normal mobile phone in his pocket. A bag of the colour he liked. A life of dignity, a future he could dream about. 
But now it was too late. A message on his "special" phone told him to get down. They were tracking him thoroughly. 
And his family too. It was ingenious indeed, he knew he wasn't supposed to know that bit. And so did his masters, but they made sure he knew it while knowing he wasn't supposed to know it. It really hit you hard, the fear, anxiety, that way. Cruelly, brutally, systematically, they had exploited him. His lack of purpose, lack of satisfaction. He had always wanted to make it big, be different. Well he certainly was different now. Wanting to be normal certainly was different, but not the kind of difference he had hoped for. 
Nothing kills you more than imminent death. And he had learnt that in the past hour or so. He recollected fondly, his growing days. His home village, when his mother would call him from play for the evening prayer. Back then too, he wanted to be different. Obsessed with prayer, he would rather pray than play. He had always been different. Now it certainly was different, but not what he wanted. They had misused his faith in God.
He stopped himself again, from thinking the same thing. He was entering the cycle of self-pity. It was an entirely new equation to actually do what he had been talking about, with a sense of foreboding, for about a month now. 
Without realising, he had just received a suitcase from a stranger, with the briefest of nods between them. His gray bag, again to be inconspicuous, was the sign. He had never seen him before, and he never would again. 
He waited, for long. He had clear instructions. He was to board the first, most crowded bus. The bus could be going anywhere, it didn't matter. He was going only one place, where eventually all those who were born would. It did not bother him to verify the contents of the suitcase. He knew them well.
And as he waited at the bus stand, ignorant of the local language, in an alien land, no one he could turn to for help, he felt lonely, desolate. He was in enemy territory.
A bus came and went, almost empty. It didn't serve his purpose. A bearded man in white, got off. He almost shouted for his father, but stopped himself. He turned away, trying to beat back the tears. Was he to give in after all that he had done? Were the tears a sign of his weakness or attachment he had promised to let go off? Had he forgotten this was not about him, but it was for an ideology, for his brothers and sisters? It was for humanity, and he was to be their martyr. 
He turned back. The bearded man was still there, but it certainly wasn't his father. But he looked like he was of the same blood, from the same land. And it gave him an uneasy security, to stare at the bearded man. He almost did smile, when a loud screech informed him of the bus. The bus was jam packed, like the bus from his village.
The mad rush allowed him to, for one last time, look at his father. Tears streamed readily now, though no one bothered to ask him why. Why should they?
In a rush, he felt his blood boil. He had been hood-winked, cheated, into believing all they fed him. And now as they happily gloated, the butcher was sharpening his knife for him. He was sharpening his own knife. It hit him hard, really did. 
All those days of battle training, ideological training, was a farce. He could have been like everyone. His choice was to be different. There was no reward for him, no immortal place in humanity for his act as they promised him, had him believe. Only a place in hell, not very different. He was just a guinea pig, not very different. 
His hands quivered, but never did he let go off his suitcase. Or his bag. He nearly fainted. The crowd pushed him up the bus. He was squeezed, amidst a sea of humanity. The people, who like him would soon move upward, forward in the cycle of life.
He wanted solace, rest, peace. Only the contents of the suitcase, ironically, could bring him that. And for one last time looked around, his lips moving in prayer. The same man with the phone and the gray bag tripped him up. 
He wanted to hug him, tell him how lucky he was. Inform him, what danger he was in. Ask him to run away. Ask him, how he could become like him. Something stopped him from pulling the wire. He knew exactly which wire was to be pulled. But couldn't do it. A message beeped on his phone. He threw it away.
He had to do it. His family, who though he betrayed he still loved, was in danger. But they were not worth so many innocent men, women and children. 
The heartlessness of it all crept under his skin. His family deserved it, simply for bringing up one like him. A voice screamed from within. Hug the man, he did. And how. He looked up for one last time, to God, before pulling the wire. And then he heard nothing. 
He would never be a martyr. Always be a rascal, in the eyes of the people, the millions. And a failure in the eyes of his "Masters". Not anymore were they his masters. 
They had always called Bangalore "The city that had never been bombed". Miraculously, until now it had escaped the true wrath of a bomb blast.
He didn't know where he was. Or what he was doing there. He lifted a paper, and looked at his eyes. They were closed, but yet happy. He preferred the Jail until his imminent death, over the training camps, where they filled your head with the bullshit, the rot. And he dropped off to sleep again, in paradise. 
Many stories would be told, of the apparent hero, who saw his actions and pulled his hand from his wire. How another clung onto his suitcase, threw it away. But only he knew the truth. 
The truth. Yes, that was what saved them. The truth took over him, his conscience, better sense, caused his hand to shiver, his legs to crumble under his own weight. The truth overpowered him, thrashed him up, left him beaten and bruised. The truth triumphed. Like the residents of this foreign land liked to believe. He was one of them.  
Bangalore would never be bombed. He somehow knew.

Sweltering Summers

Certain circumstances found me, around a month ago, at a temple near my house. And as I walked hither and thither, I quite by accident, overheard a rather small chap, 'bout three feet tall, happily announcing to his uncle (so I assumed) "My summer holidays have started".
The ever so slight and nearly undetectable smile that crossed my lips was involuntary. Not an accident though. His small sentence had taken me back, back to the days of greener pastures. Of unbridled joy that scarcely needed a reason. Excitement that hardly need a stimulant. Being a kid.
"Summer holidays" would be found under "archaic usage" section of my memory, something so long gone and forgotten that it has been perhaps a year since even the thought of it entered my upper storey. This upper storey has been kept busy, continuously receiving information, continuously reproducing gained data for academic purposes, in the name of a bright future. In striving to secure education at the best and most elite of institutions. In the quest of knowledge, which eventually, all of us hope, would replicate into wealth, which in turn we all hope, would replicate into comfort and luxury and security and everything else the government so blithely claims to be providing us. Which would in turn, again we hope, replicate into happiness. A pretty wife, a spacious home, filled with laughter and joy of children and grandparents alike. Lol happiness!! 20 years on? 50 years perhaps? Still hope. In hope we all live, success is when we cease to hope and begin to experience.
But even then, success, isn't by any means proximal to happiness. I'll tell you what happiness is.
Happiness is climbing up the tree of your neighbour's  mango tree simply to enjoy the view from the terrace. Happiness is completely screwing up your meal timings in the summer hoildays for you were playing outside the whole day and couldn't tell the east from the west. Or possibly you never bothered to study the sun's position. Not yet responsible enough in the eyes of your parents to sport a watch on your left wrist.
And let me not stop here, in the gay descriptions of summer holidays alone. Back then, when switch-boards were the only thing you reached for, even classes weren't monotonous.
Being gay meant only being happy, nothing in life was implied. A red-star meted out by the teacher next to thy holy name could make a day, a black dot at the same spot was the only sadness that existed. School bags didn't cause back-aches, friends didn't cause heart-aches.
Above all though, nothing failed to amaze. Nothing failed to awe. Hours and hours could be spent looking up at the fan and wondering about the mystic power that caused it to turn by the flick of a switch. Cars and trains weren't means of transportation, they were fantasy and magic. The world was still a nice place, full of nice people, only those who smiled. Only those who pampered. Those days when we knew nothing.
Innocence, that is happiness. When we know what we are truly after, only then will we know disappointment. Responsibility leads to guilt, failure leads to bitterness. Knowledge, eventually, leads to sadness. The more you know, the more you know how much you don't know.
When you don't know, you think you do. Everything is within your reach, everything is achievable. Weaknesses don't exist. There existed days, not in legends but when I was kid, when I thought I could sing and draw well. When I thought my father was the king of the world, my mother an angel. Not today.
Knowledge has let us down, shown us how bad we are.
Because, real happiness and contentment is impossible to achieve, and hence we are better of contented in ignorance of reality than dissatisfied in the perception of reality. No dream is too large, but no size is enough, when you know there exists something bigger.
Sugar sours in comparison with the juice of the cane, as do grapes beyond reach. A world where bitter is perceived as sweet, in the lack of knowledge, of existence of sugar, is the only world where everything is sweet. Where the neck aches to prevent you looking up at the grapes.
In the world of childhood. The world of happiness without success.

Jugaad

Ideas for my blog posts are not as few and far between as the posts actually published. The unpublished posts would themselves form quite a decent blog, though incomplete, fragmented.

And ideas which do make their way to the blog-site are usually derived from the radical, not from the subtle or the slight or the trifling, as the romantic of mind would like to think.

So picture me, walking around a compound, to reach the other side of a building, with the noon Bangalore sun beating on my back like a thousand hot iron knives, rendering even my faithful cap hopeless in the face of the heated onslaught.

It wasn't quite the distance that infuriated me, a mere half kilometre of excess walking made no difference to my youthful 16 (almost 17) year old body.

The building in question was my school. To give you a clear picture; the campus has a gate to the east, the beaten path, the side from where we students enter everyday in our hordes. And on the other side (the west obviously), there lie two grand gates, formidable, reminding late-comers (who are expected to enter from that side) what they are up against.

On working days, entering through the West Gate, or the front gate, is illegal, unless of course, you happen to be late.

With reason too. It helps to distinguish between the punctual and the not so punctual lot, makes it easier to pull them up, serve the consequences.

In the summer however, the school ceases to function, higher authorities occasionally dropping by. Only coaching classes conducted by another institution continue to function within the campus. A rather informal affair, with a handful of students, a couple of teachers who teach and nothing else, a soldier or two from the squadron of gardeners, watchmen and other miscellaneous workers.

The heavy traffic, which I mentioned above, forced me to come up on the school from the western side. The heat was blistering, and tiredness had begun to creep in. The paramount relief I experienced when I remembered that since coaching was no big deal to the school, assuming as I did that rules would be relaxed, I thought I could walk in through the "wrong" gate.

The watchman is precisely the chap you would imagine if the word "watchman" flashed in your mind. Sun-burnt skin, pot-belly, gruff voice, proud demeanour and all in all pretty much a bloke who would look dominating but whose reality was in stark contrast to his appearance. What he did possess though, was a real loyalty to his job, always on the watch.

And on seeing me enter the front gate, despite knowing full well, by recognition of my features as well as uniform that I belong to the school, he directed me to the eastern side, which left me seething.

And there was the basis of the idea of the blog. Rules!!

The whole idea behind rules is to make things easier without unduly inflicting harming on anyone in the process. Rules, on paper, always must have a sound logical backing. A time for usage, based on situation rather than applying them universally.

For a moment if we assumed that the stodgy watchman had let me pass, what would be the consequence. The "late-comer" rule applied for school hours, this was a completely different organisation. There would be no consequences by virtue of the more flexible rules of the coaching class.

Hence, the logical backing behind the rule broke down. And if viewed in a wider perspective, we must ask ourselves, must we always follow rules. Must we always follow the guidelines, idealistic ones at that which do not necessarily conform to all situations.

Undue, arduous processes often are undertaken simply for them to be in keeping with laws. The logic behind the rule breaking down is apparently not reason enough to by-pass rules.

Lets see it this way. Rules are guidelines, simply. A path, a route, by no means a destination. The objective is not, or rather, should never be, merely to follow rules. The task on hand, as I already stated, must be done as quickly, as effectively as possible, meting out the results and as far as possible without offending, injuring or endangering anyone.

With this basis I could quite grudgingly even admit that walking in lines on school corridors is indeed justifiable. But what about other rules, often unwritten but overstated. Societal norms. Quite obviously and glaringly illogical and unnecessary bureaucratic procedures. Can they be avoided.

Jugaad, is an over-used, sometimes abused Indian word. Jugaad is the art of being clever on the job, twisting boundaries, improvisations. Which usually do not end up causing harm to anything or anyone, helps in quicker completion of work, but often leads to a insignificant amount of flouting norms.

Wiki says "Jugaad colloquially means a creative idea, or a quick workaround to get through commercial, logistic or law issues. As such, the Jugaad movement has gathered a community of enthusiasts, believing it to be the proof of Indian bubbling creativity, or a cost-effective way to solve the issues of everyday life."

In a recent survey, 81% of Indian businessmen surveyed claimed that Jugaad is the key to their success.

Then as such, the undue importance placed on rules, regulations, is not really justified. It might be an emotional issue, sometimes we may not really know the reason behind the rule and blindly conform to it.

But logic, should in my opinion always reign supreme, with all due respect to all the conformists to society out there. If the least harmful and the most effective way is the illegal way, by slight twisting of regulations, by jugaad, then justified it should be.

But for now, I can only accept fate and walk an extra 500 yards. Until Jugaad can be legalised and well cataloged. When sanity rules over every situation rather than universal guidelines.

If rules were a path in the woods of human morality, then jugaad would be walking on the edge to minimise the distance through a curve. I would do it every time, if allowed.

The win feeling

Life as we accept is a whole of all the little things we see, sense and do. Integrating something drastic, something gargantuan straight into our lives can prove to be difficult.

When this something is drastically good, this difficulty is pleasant and innately satisfying.

For example, winning the 2nd place in an essay competition propelled my morale to never seen before heights. And while I seemed at ease basking in this supreme glory, the reality was quite contrasting.

Deep inside, I was yet to digest my victory, my mind struggling to grasp that which had just occurred.

Today however, smiling into the lens of the school camera, hardly needing my ever-loving favourite geography teacher to tell me to smile, it really sank in. Beaming, more than smiling, is what I was really upto, only the clips over my teeth preventing all my 32 from turning into a display unit along with the models of choppers, certificates, plaque and what-nots I was posing behind.

Several thoughts had flooded my mind until then. Mentally, I had owed the honour to my parents, teachers, siblings and friends. My mother, who made sure worming up on the couch with a book was my favourite pass-time while other kids were staring idle-minded at idiot boxes. It certainly paid off in the long run. My father gave me clarity of thought, something I rely greatly upon to write.

My good old geography teacher, affectionate and always encouraging my writing, as were (and still are) my english teachers. My two sisters, one taught how to put thoughts to paper and being level headed while thinking. The other taught me to be free, do as you feel, flow with your emotions. My friends, some who stand out, who enhanced my writing with their feedback, constructive comparisons and discussions.

Today's moment was however mine, wholly. And today, after a long time, the second place in a national level essay competition is a part of me, engraved deep into me. The victory is with me. The success finally feels like its mine.

The "win" feeling is here to stay.

And certainly, a hearty congratulation to the girl who bagged the first place, as well as the third place and the special prize.

Thank You to the Rotary Wing Society of India!

Redemption Time

The feeling that you feel when you feel that all your hard work has culminated in one supreme moment of success is second to none. Unfortunately, it's only a feeling.

Work is like the waves of the ocean. Just when you think you've ridden the last of them, another never fails to pop out of the surface and test your guts all over again. And the relief when one wave retreats is but temporary.

Picture an academic year. Say, 11th grade for example. All that work, home-work, class-work, record-work, revision, notes, projects etc.

And picture this guy in 11th grade. 16 years of age. Nearing the prime of his life. His last outing in an academic year ended in ultimate glory, a 10-point GPA in the board exams.

A year on, I'm afraid I should correct myself. I just felt it ended in ultimate glory. I just rode a routine wave which the meteorologist had wrongly called a tsunami. In 11th grade, I "feel", being too afraid to "know", that I've seen the real stuff. The first semester exam packed a punch larger than I could have imagined. And I just survived unto the last round. Not in grandeur like Muhammad Ali. But effectively enough to be able to tell the tale. And I rose again, only to be met by the site of yet another wave.

I must admit, I'm rather an expert when it comes to the tests, the small waves. Simply jumping at the right time, to avoid any major trauma. Just a slight wetting of the foot, some irritation perhaps while walking in the sand later.

In fact, the second time around after the first semester exam, I nearly aced the test. Ripping in all subjects, almost. And despite the best efforts of easily the best chemistry teacher I've ever learned from, organic chemistry was simply too hot to handle.

And so, when the dates for the final exam were announced, I sought redemption, not only for the abject organic chemistry performance, but for the whole year. Something to make all the strife and the struggle of the year gone by worth living. Handling a large wave after all that work would atleast make it feel worth facing all those small waves.

Much has changed in the intervening time. The exam is just two days away and here I am with red eyes, blogging about my pathetic situation.

And no, the red eyes are not from too much studying. In general due to the overuse of my eyes, be it watch a movie, play on the computer, just facebook or study.

No sign of any want of redemption. You see, when the schedule was announced, the time gap between myself and imminent doom was large. Indeed, there's a proverb in Kannada for just my situation. Dooradha beta noonige. (A distant mountain looks smooth). But as one nears this mountain, the treacherous slopes, the sheer climbs and the rocky faces do stand out.

Soon, all my enthusiasm was gone. Two days was all it took for me lose the will to fight. The "I'll study before the exam" feeling took over.

And now that "before the exam" has arrived, my mind is in no way prepared to study, even after much coaxing and insisting.

To be fair to myself, I do end up studying. My grades do contain alphabets you would be more likely to find at the very beginning of a dictionary. But 11th grade hasn't seen me scale the heights I once did in 10th.

For once the exams are here, the "before exam" time frame is taken up by the "been there, done that" feeling. Unfortunately, I have begun to find satisfaction in being intermediary between good and excellent. I find myself well settled, without inducing much wrath from others or working myself out to any large degree.

But in excess comfort lies an adversary- overconfidence. And the only way to extricate oneself from this fierce foe is to make occasional forays out of this comfort zone. To test yourself and find that your still not there, will really wake you up.

Which is why, for now I shall stop my hands from typing (with quite some will-power mind you) and cease to lengthen this post, say good night to my laptop and good morning to my books, who have never had the pleasure of my company in a cheerful mood. Perhaps it is my fault.

A Copy of the Essay

The Rotary Wing Society of India recently conducted an all India essay writing competition for 11th graders. The theme was "Helicopters are angles from the Sky".

So here's a copy of the essay which brought me the all India second place.

Sky angels

He sat tired at his verandah, the last rays of the setting sun creeping through the minute gap between the curtains and illuminating his face. Tired, worn out and sans inspiration it looked. And he felt the same too.

In fact, he had nearly made up his mind to quit his current job, find a new place of work, a new life, with half the work and twice the salary. A good deal indeed. And he was taking time this Friday evening to brood over this new offer. Ferrying passengers from the plains of The Ganges to the shrine of the Himalayas seemed a noble job. And much like the day outside, his career was in the twilight.

On second thought though, it wasn't as good as it looked. Ferrying people to see God would give satisfaction, but not quite as much as sometimes being seen as god yourself. He was interrupted by the door-bell. Most probably it would be his wife, back from a day's work. He had given her all the comforts in life, true. But never luxury. For his skill, his experience, he could offer her more. And the new job would give the much needed impetus to his bank balance, which again, was comfortable but by no means exorbitant. To his surprise, it was a man at the door - a postman. The merry nature of the envelope gave everything away. It was yet another meaningless letter, with a "Thank You", which was once said and forever forgotten.

The next morning, he awoke, more solemnly than zealously, and made his way to his office. He thought it would be yet another routine day. And he was right.

The same watchman hardly noticed him, the same boss passed without acknowledgement of his presence, the same colleague walked to him and told him a dozen or so helpless people were drowning off the coast. He went with the same co-pilot to pick up his flying suit.

Three hours later, he returned. He had to get his own coffee. but there was something different. He was visibly buoyed. It was a daring effort, swooping down in his chopper adorned with a red cross. He had lifted a whole crew, right from Yamaraj's backyard. And while he did it everyday, he knew today's was a special effort. The howling wind, the stormy weather and his performance against all odds, had rekindled the spirit in him. Brought back the feeling of pride, sense of satisfaction, he lived to experience as an air ambulance and rescue pilot. The stuff that had enthralled him as a child, the feeling he felt after his first rescue, it all came back to him. It vindicated this off-beat choice as a career.

And it was in high spirits that he returned home, gleefully accepting the coffee his wife gave him, proceeding to the same desk he had sat the previous evening. Among his unopened correspondence, was the previous evening's letter.

Dear Sir, (the letter said)

I write this letter, to thank you, to tell you how much it means to me that you have saved my brother from the jaws of death. It lifts me, drives me, when I know that we have men as committed as you, as selfless and as daring serving in our country's helicopter rescue services. I suspect that I am not the first, nor will I be the last to write to you a similar letter of thanks, of unbound gratitude, which knows no measure.

And I will not continue into how awed or amazed I was by your heroic feats, or how much it means to my family like everyone else, but I would like to impress upon you how fortunate you are, and how noble your business of flying is.

Indeed, a majority of the public have come to view flying as routine, recreational, non-essential. One look at you would suffice to put all these misconceptions to an end. The advantages of a helicopter are many. They are quick, affordable, maneuverable and can reach out to the remotest of regions, in the roughest of weather and the trickiest of terrains, the bloodiest of battlefields, at just the right time, to search, evict, evacuate, or simply to scan swathes of land. They can do so, stealthily, or by proclaiming their presence, driving fear into enemies hearts and hope into the hearts of the helpless. They can be as quick as lightning, or steadily proceed. In offense or in defense, in peace or war, on land or on sea, night or day, anytime, anyplace.

But to a man such as yourself, who has handled these winged beats for nearly a lifetime, these academic facets of a helicopter are, I presume, prerequisite and of least interest. Far more important, is that you know, realise, everything a common man should associate with a helicopter.

To the lonely man in the middle of the desert, the drowning woman in the ocean, the orphaned child in the murky waters of the flood, the adventurers tangled over rock faces, soldiers caught in sprays of bullets,helicopters are like angels, spiraling down to earth, with the rhythmic melody of the blades chopping through the air, intervening against fate herself. And to these helpless people, the men and women guiding the angel to earth with skill of the highest degree, nerves of steel and hearts of gold, are the gods of the modern world. Defying the odds, showing unparalleled bravery, courage, guts, commitment, selflessness. And all this, in the most trying of circumstances, challenging of flying conditions and in the most adverse of conditions.

And today sir, in my eyes, you are no lesser than a god. What these helpless, innocent and faultless men and women feel when they perceive your mighty birds, cutting through the air, coming to them, to quite literally, lift them out of their troubles, cannot be described in words. It would take them more than a lifetime to let you know, their ecstasy, their elation, how quickly their despair turned to delight. With their hands losing grip of their life, the soul about to depart, hungry, battered and bruised, they arise inspite of all their troubles, knowing that once within the confines of the chopper, they will be safe, from the hands of death, which ever so nearly grasped them. And filled with gratitude for the hand that pulled them out, your noble hand.

I implore you, my dear sir, to reflect upon all that I said, and if you were to ever feel dissatisfaction, monotony or a need for change in your job, remember that you are in a position where you save lives daily, touch hundreds of lives , winning millions of hearts. And please know, your work is never unrecognised. For it warms my heart at least.

Yours Gratefully

..........

So touched was he by the letter, by the words and the heart-felt gratitude flowing through them, he could hardly stand. His eyes were swimming in tears. And that the letter was anonymous seemed to add to the gravity of the feelings.

No, he wasn't a god. Yet, there was much truth in the man's words. (And when he came to think of it, woman's words). Yes, ferrying people to the Himalayan shrines would give him money. But here, in his office, never knowing when a soul in distress would need his aid, saving lives, extricating people from the thickest of soups, that was where his heart lay. It was nobler, gave him immense satisfaction. He was indeed fortunate. As the kind man had said.

And in all this life, it was the first letter of gratitude that actually told on him. It had come at the right time, just when he needed it. Like a helicopter, the letter had entered from nowhere, and he was trapped in its feeling, knowing he was safe, like a patient would feel inside his helicopter. He felt the same gratitude to the writer. He had evicted him from imminent sorrow. From a new job, where all his interests were only commercial, rarely human.

And here, he planned to stay until he could carry on. Commercial flying was tempting, it paid him more. But it was here, his heart lay. Being the God on the Angel of the Sky.

And for the first time in his career, he regretted that Sundays were holidays. He wanted to work. The zeal had returned.

Souls in a Hurry

Whether you believe in God or not, the sanctity of a temple is unquestionable. God as a concept is abstract, something impossible to define. It is difficult to picture God as a person. It would be impossible for a single person, even while possessing the capabilities of God, to possibly do all that stuff. God would have to be a lawyer, a judge, a chartered accountant, an engineer, a doctor, a banker and every other profession you can possibly come up with. The wildest I can is "travel blog writer" and here, God assumes the role, doing the rounds around the world, chronicling in his mind the deeds and the misdeeds of millions. He would also have to have atleast 20 sense organs instead of the customary 5.

Easier to comprehend would be God as a form of energy, something like Universe energy or some such "cool" term where the whole Universe is a single whole.

And the deeper we delve into the realms of spirituality, religion, and the fine lines that allegedly separate them, the more profound turn the paradoxes, the ambiguities and the stupidities.

No, I am not here to question God you see, for at the age of 16 I would much rather be rambling about Iran's foreign policy (which I find extremely awesome) or which chemical re-agent could possibly turn n-hexane into benzene.

And it is in the fear of these highly intimidating hexagonal molecules that I turn to God, confiding in him the irrationality of learning something I frankly don't give a damn about. And so, these complex emotions found me in the temple, seeking an answer without knowing what question, when I observed this lady.

Well, I call her a lady out of mere formality. "Girl" would be closer to reality. And boy, was she in a hurry, pushing aside any object that came in her way with supreme gusto, be it inanimate or living. All this in an effort to get to vantage point to view the idol and place her hand over the mangalaarthi and seek his blessings. I could give you a hundred, no a hundred and fifty reasons why her actions were downright foolish.

And while not knowing whether God is this very cool dude or simply an extrapolation of the self as some see it, I can assure you, one simply does not pray in a hurry. A temple is where you forego all your worries, where your boss's voice and all the world's evil is dimmed in the pristine peace that is supposed to exist. God resides everywhere. Hence, there's no need to be so anxious to view his mere idol. Or demand theertha with such urgency.

And having obtained this holy water, she spun gymnast style and fell down to a pseudo-namaskaara her nose losing and gaining Gravitational Potential Energy in a matter of seconds. How the temple was different from everything else for her, I couldn't see.

The rigidity of her muscles, the robotic nature of her movements and the sheer lack of any kind of peace or tranquility on her features would convince any observer (me included) that by this visit to the temple, she was out to prove something to the world, or to show how she was wronged.

No, I don't claim to be a saint of a higher order, a great spiritual thinker or anything close. I only say, that a temple is to loosen yourself, burden another with your troubles. And atleast believe they will be lightened. And if your lucky enough to have no troubles, pray that no one does you that unwanted favour of donating some of theirs.

And once within the precincts of a temple, it is imperative to stay calm, composed. Live it like leisure, for God is never in a hurry. And whoever, whatever he might be, you certainly don't have to be frantic to grab his attention. A silent, heart-felt "please" might just do the trick.

And if a temple doesn't make you feel better, or different, it's only because you are the same within a temple and without. Seeking to create a niche for God in your life which is like your life rather than his. You see, God has no cranky bosses, deadlines or time frames. Implies then, that when you seek anything from Him, you had better ask it his way. Less so for him to connect or make him understand better (he will understand anyway) but more so simply to soothe yourself and feel for yourself the change. For the difference is within us. Not within the temple.

And it's not about knowing what it is. It's simply about believing whatever it might be.

Silk Road

Oh yes!! The Silk Road. Conjuring images of treacherous paths, high up in the mountains. Rugged terrain, a dull sunlight powerless against the bitter driving wind, throwing up clouds of dust. Sheer rocks faces, boulders tumbling down the sides of mountains whose tops are shrouded in mist, invisible to the eye.

And oh yes, the traveler, alone in the mountains, his only companion-the faithful donkey, bearing his load on it's bare back, exposed to the freezing atmosphere, chilling man and beast alike to the very bone. And yet he traverses this path! Driven by hope, by far away dreams, instilling grit, resilience, the will to get through perhaps the most hostile landscapes on the face of the earth.

Never for a moment does the hope desert him. Never does failure tweak his mind. Never does he muse, what would happen should that mighty boulder decide to hurtle down towards his insignificant self. For in pursuit of his dream, he finds paradise. Much before the dream.

The journey greater than the destination. Not as smooth as the silk he carries. But he's lost in his admiration for these formidable mountains, lost, in awe of their breathtaking beauty. And soon he loses track of his destination. In the beauty of the journey, the path smoothens out, much like a cloth of silk does with wear.

In the beauty of the journey, he forgot his destination. The journey tamed him, detached him from his wild dreams. For the beauty of nature conquers all. The destination was what he wanted, the journey was what he needed.

Life, is not a destination. It's a journey. Enjoy the journey. For lost in the quest of your path, you might just miss the sights around.

The Silk Road was easily the toughest trading route. Yet men, women, children, rulers, common men, they all walked this path. Not for the dreams that lay across it, but for what it held within. Neither storm, nor snow, nor slide could deter them, those who, while believing in the beauty of their dreams, were gripped by the beauty of their reality.

The Silk Road is a paradox of life, a pun, a corollary.