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 The unpublished posts would themselves form quite a decent blog, though incomplete, fragmented.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 angels 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.

Fear

And so as we went up the long stairway to hell's kitchen in the pleasant warmth of the feeble winter sun in the midst of the misty air with a full stomach, I really felt it. That pang of fear deep in there, right in your heart. Friday Afternoon's were the same. The food I had just consumed would soon be digested, very quickly.
As I trudged, I mechanically took out a white coat, popularly called lab coat, a hopelessly incomplete, abnormally large book, known as record, and a few rough sheets, also known as observation book, albeit temporarily.
I walked in. Phew, lack of observation book not noticed!!!
I picked up my salts, my nose slowly adjusting to the rather nauseating smell of the chemistry lab and eyes doing likewise to the formidable appearance of a chemistry teacher.
Ten minutes later, we were all at work. Test tubes were frothing, gases were fuming, though the chemistry teacher was doing it the most. And right in the midst of it all, "All of you! Stop whatever you are doing and come here" she boomed.
We herded like sheep, literally stopping everything we were doing, breathing included. Someone had messed, royally judging by her voice.
And as the poor student recited his tragedy of events, we all shuddered. We were no different. We had each done the same mistake, most of us atleast.
And after the poor guy recites his story, of failure to add the right chemical at the right time, she turns around, looks each one of us in the eye, and asks, "He is a STUPID fellow. Why?"
PIN. DROP. SILENCE!!!!
One brave smart ass answers, Ma'am, he didn't add this at this time blah blah. We nod vaguely. Bravery is not so contagious.
LOUDLY. I WANT THE ANSWER. WHAT HAS HE DONE WRONG.
"He had to add this at this time to get this colour blah blah........" Phew, the smart ass had done it. And as he was profusely thanked by her, we would convey our gratitude in while.
SO, she boomed suddenly, cutting short our reverie, IF I CALL YOU TO MY HOUSE FOR DINNER AND GIVE YOU ONLY RICE FOR DINNER, WILL YOU EAT?? "WILL YOU EAT?"
Phew, this question was easier. "No ma'am" we answered in unison.
So, if you show me the experiment without adding HNO3 and heating, how can I accept it??
Madness you might think, but it isn't. It's how we are taught. And curiously enough, we remember fondly these moments in the chemistry lab. The equations, the reactions, the colours of precipitates, maybe forgotten a week later, you maybe the next victim. But you can never forget those precious memories she has given you.
And yes, I have previously put her in bad light, called her, to quote myself "the monster class teacher". But to be completely true to myself, I must recall my words, for while my fear of her remains the same, my love for her increases with each passing moment. Amidst all her scoldings, screamings, blastings and glares, you can feel the genuine love and concern she disguises. You know she cares, and you do likewise.
And through her chemistry, through her daily rantings, she teaches us life, which is all that we have to learn, of which I am proud to say, I have learned a small bit from her. And boy, will I never forget it!!!!
And the bell rang, we sighed in relief. But it was all to happen the next week. "Thank you ma'am", we sang in unison. Rightly so.

Power-nap

Aaah!! Sleep, that time cum boredom eating, phenomenon of paradise which leaves you cocained, overwhelmed and consumed. Refreshing and delightful, it is nature's remedy for the tired soul, as Jeeves of P G Wodehouse fame or some other bird caged in the ocean of literature I have immersed in says.
My sleeping habits are well documented, somewhat reflecting my view in life, "All or nothing" (This surely stolen from Alexander Dumas's "Three Musketeers"). The bed is a temple they say, and I, am an extremely loyal devotee of the lord of the bed. Sleep is something that doesn't come easily to me, but once there, my body greets it akin to how the evil Duryodhana took to Karna. As a corollary, my sleep is as legendary as their never dying friendship. And when this love story looked like it could go on forever, the relationship began to see a few tiffs. A new concept slowly captured the lions share of my imagination. And the infidel that I am, I actually began a relationship anew, and how I am reveling in this new matrimonial alliance. For my nights sleep I am loyal to good old sleep but my infrequent afternoon naps follow the new "Power nap" route. Key to this is another love affair.
Aaah!! Radio. The beginning of all love affairs. How romantic a concept to simply listen in to songs, romantic songs. My old sound system, the entire music system, straight out of a fairy-tale from the 90s, the kind a shy newly married couple would pose with for an advertisement against a black and white background. This particular sound system in question is ancient, perhaps costing a fortune in its prime and tragically forced to check out from my aunt's house when they decided to give their house a new look. And through natural inheritance, the beauty made its way into my room after a brief stay in my sister's room, where it had problems with the host. Equipped with something as ancient as a cassette player, there was something mythical and spiritual about it, it's music my only companion as I studied into the wee hours of the mornings in preparation for my board exams, and certainly the silent music emanating from "Radio Mirchi - 98.3 FM, Sakkath Hot Maga" played a huge part in me securing a 10 point in my board exam.
Ironically, a 10 point grade prompted my parents to buy me a "Sony Walkman", an MP3 player, state of the art, latest, and most importantly, with FM radio facility as well.
It was only in the start that I was loyal to radio. My infidelity came to the fore again, storing all the songs I ever heard for the past three years, incorporating them all into my so small and sleek yet efficient MP3 player. Earphones gave me the luxury of sleeping with the music ringing in my ears, the music of my choice that too. So I didn't have to pray for my favourite song to come along, or stay up to switch off the radio, my sister did not have to listen to my music, which could additionally be altered to match my mood.
I do miss the joy of anticipation, of not knowing which song was next, the delight of the co-incidental matching of radio jockey's choice of song and my own mood but no sir, thank you very much. I would prefer my own music please. And now with a rather complete collection of around 120 songs, radio feels like a long lost lover. MP3 generation is taking over. Atleast, MP3 has taken over me.
So, now the short nap, the kind of nap which will drive me for another hour and then allow sleep to slowly and ever so gently take over, is what I call a power nap. With a large collection of songs, slow, melodramatic songs, usually from desolate lovers announcing their plight to the world, of the girl who ran away, or the girl he loves, is what evokes the lullaby feeling in me, putting behind the miseries of the day. These ever so sad songs come in three varieties, Kannada, English and Hindi, and Kannada ranks first in the priorities.
And a few verses from this pitiably desolate lover puts me in a trance, a half asleep stage, from which you can choose to rise, like a phoenix out of the ashes, and conquer all, or choose not to resist sleep which slowly yet surely takes over. And so, when you give sleep just a glance, a peep, into your inner soul only to shun her away when satisfied, you have just had your power nap. And oh, how it rejuvenates you, how it fills you with the lost energy, just when you need it.
Picture this, you return tired after more than 12 hours in a school, your brain at full capacity attempting to assimilate all it has received on the day. You put a couple of ear-phones a millimetre from you ear drum and just let nature take her course.
You wouldn't view my infidelity too harshly would you. I'm sure you wouldn't. Thank you