Too Busy to Mail

"Do you ever realize that you never take the initiative to write to me?" emailed my second cousin. It was only then that I came to grips with the reality of this modern convenience called email.

In the days of yore – that is, less than 10 years ago – we used to write letters. I can remember my grandmother writing letters to her sister. She used to sit and write laboriously in Bangla because she wrote only on rare occasions and her control over the involuntary jerks of her hand was not perfect. She used to write long letters filled with affection and emotion, and ended by loudly proclaiming her lingering doubts of whether the hour's labour would be proportionately rewarded by the unreliable postal system. It never failed to amuse me to watch her write so passionately, and like all grandsons I used to tease her.

On one of those occasions, annoyed by my teasing, my grandmother considered it appropriate to enlighten me of the more illiterate ways of living, which to this day are prevalent in rural places. She narrated the tale of a friend who was not as fortunate as her to have enjoyed schooling, which, then, used to be a luxury for girls. Her friend, according to her, would visit her not very often. But when she did visit, my grandmother knew that she had come for a letter to be written. They both would sit and gossip, and invariably she would ask Grandma if she could spare a few moments to write to her eldest brother who was on his death-bed or her once-a-neighbour who had been blessed with a new grand-daughter.

Two generations. Indeed it is a gap too big to bridge considering all the technological advancements that have been transformed from luxuries to necessities in life. Yet, it is not uncommon to see in Bollywood movies a mother asking the postman with unabashed enthusiasm to read the letter that her long-lost doctor-son has written from the city. No, I am not writing this to address the issue of illiteracy, which is far more serious than the topic at hand, and is being attended to in haste and in indifference by supposedly responsible organizations.

If my opening sentence did not make it clear, I proclaim now, I am writing this to make you write to your second cousin who thinks you don't think of her unless her email knocks at your inbox.

The past generation used to – and still does – take a lot of effort to write letters or make their friends write for them, and to read or make postmen read for them. Why, many a youth would agree that they get excited when they see their fathers handing over covers saying, "Beta, you've got a letter." I also have many a friend sitting before the computer moaning, "Nobody writes to me these days."

Why then do we not show the same enthusiasm in taking the initiative to write? I will leave that question for you to think over and analyze, for lack of time is not a satisfactory answer.

Anyway, times have changed. Now the keyboard replaces the pen, and email has made letters redundant. Still, has the situation changed?

Last week, when we struck upon the topic of emails, my friend confessed that he only replies and never once writes afresh. I nodded. I truly understood and empathized with him for I had developed that habit too. If email had died between the two of us, the only other decent means of communication would be the telephone. But then on the phone you have no control over the length and content of the discussion, leave alone the propriety in terms of time, location, and actions of your friend.

Even now I am baffled by the speed, accuracy, and efficiency of the email, not to mention the disuse of sticky and relatively expensive stamps. No more leaky pens, no more blotches on paper, no more licking covers, no more accumulating stamps, no more walking to the post office in the rain. Just the click of a button and you can rest assured that your message has gone to the right person unless you get an instantaneous reply from the daemon. What more can you ask for, other than voicemail, which already exists!

Such comfort and luxury. But to what end? There are still many like me who are lazy to the bone. Of late, my laziness had gone to the extent of just reading emails and even procrastinating writing replies. But one day I resolved. I resolved to at least reply to the emails as and when I read them. And I have kept up my resolution. That is, unless some overenthusiastic friend replies to my replies with such haste that it is annoying to keep writing to the same person over and over again on the same day.

One day I should also resolve to start 'composing' emails instead of merely 'replying'.

Consider the number of emails in your inbox and the number of persons who have emailed you. Pick your top ten buddies from them. Remember that all of these friends would treasure a short personal email that originates from you in a way incomparable to a 'thanks-for-reminding-me-of-you' reply. Now, would you wait for the next email from them so that you can press the 'reply' button and write? Or would you rather press the 'compose' button right now and start typing away?

To My Valentine

"Kabhi to ki hogi suraj ne chand
se mohabbat
Tabhi to chand mein daag hai,
Mumkin hai ki chand ne ki
hogi bewafai
Tabhi to suraj mein aag hai."

Most of the times in this world very small and inordinate thing give the spark to the mundane-ness of life. I was in standard 11, when it all started. I was doing my studies from JPBS School – an all boy’s school. The libido of adolescence and the fun of being part of the Gen-X were so thrilling. I went to another college fresher party (Obviously uninvited officially but still could manage a pass from some CONTACTS). We had been part of lots of fun, each member were tagged and given a number. Then came the special moment, we were being sited opposite the girls. The rule of the game was that the anchor will call out numbers at random, one from the boys’ gallery and another from the girls’ gallery. Then the candidates will be asked to perform something based on a draw. I was wearing number 5, astrologically perfect according to the numerologists as I was born on the same date. The game progressed and I gradually became very conscious of the “what if!” factor. When things had to go wrong they will always go wrong. I heard the announcement: “Number 5 and Number 3”.

I skipped a bit, I raised my hand for clarification but to my horror it was my number which was called. Why should I be scared! This is my moment of Glory… Come-on Sam, pump yourself. But the mere thought of trespassing in an alien college was enough to give butterflies in my tummy.

As if the surprises kept on coming, some days are just like that. I was told to perform a ball dance with number 3. “Who the hell is number 3”? I kept gazing in the direction of the girls’ row. I saw a girl wearing a blue kurti with properly made hairs and beautiful eyes (just that I’m sharing this with you don’t tell it to anyone, she has the best and most kissable lips that I have ever seen) rose.

Voila! It’s just my day. All of a sudden I could feel the devil and the angel inside me singing the same tune. “It’s your day Sam.”

She was very apprehensive. The noises and the cheers and the Oh-So-Obvious looks are filling up the room. She is just 2 feet away from me. I was lost. Her eyes kept me distracting, my brain was running riot and it seemed that someone has pulled the cell out of a clock. A couple of footsteps and we are in arms distance.

The noise receded and the titanic tune started filling the air. I looked sidewise only to find people putting their thumb up, in a sign to boost my ego. I was apprehensive of one thing that I don’t belong to that college and I’m a trespasser. I came close to the girl and whispered at her ears, “I’m not from this college, so please don’t mind and please try to understand my situation”.

I don’t know whether that was foolish enough or brave enough on my part. Just that I was honest and I value that. I hold her waist, just before dancing she told me “Hey Mr.5 thanks for telling me the truth, actually I’m also not from this college, just a trespasser”.

Thanks for trespassing Number 3. Love you and happy Valentines Day from Number 5.

F.E.A.R F.A.C.T.O.R

Man has searched for his soul, since he has been man. So much confusion to explain something immortal, through mortal eyes. Something nonphysical, through physical thoughts. Conjecture and hypothesis, from the learned and the not. Where does it exist? Can we measure it?

Such folly. Love is your answer, and a simple one at that.

When we fear, do we not-fear death? Fear pain? Fear ridicule? Fear aloneness? But when we love, A TRUE PURE LOVE- do we fear death do we fear pain do we fear ridicule do we fear being alone This is when these mortal, physical beings briefly touch their own soul. Only through pure undiluted love, completely free of fear. Then, and only then, can we see with clear eyes, the answers for which we have so desperately searched.

Fear drives us from love, goads us into complacency, it destroys, it creates a distance between humanity, fear is mortality. Love is comfort, it does not recognize time, it has no bias, and it never started, and will never end. We do not have to create love, for it has always been there, only remove fear, for it is man made. Then we can see our soul without any fear.

Wishing all readers and contributors of this blog a very happy new year. Its been a pleasure Walking with you and i hope the new year will affirm this relation. God bless you.

Sex In Democracy II

Just tie their balls with a string and make a circus out if it. Where names like Prathibha, Snigdha, Megha et al. comes in line of a same tune, one feels ashamed. Ashamed of our identity, ashamed of our society and ashamed of ourselves. These are not the sporadic events that fill the page of newspaper. They are the hues of our system, our democracy and most importantly our identity as humans. In a country which boasts of a billion of population, a workforce that will eventually take over the world and more importantly when we are doing all sorts of tricks to show off the culture and heritage of this great nation. I still look in disdain.

In this great country when we talk about double-digit growth and reaching the ultimate sanctum of United Nation Security Council, somewhere we still find a girl being molested, a beggar still begging for his life, a girl child is still being aborted. Humans are so wretched. This is circle of life. A circle of life, in boarder perspective. The white feet have changed to brown ones but it still tramples the normal human being. It still creates fences not only in the real world but also dugs dip into the psycho of an individual.

Just a month ago there was news. Obviously every news is reported with an intention. To seek justice. And the Goddess of justice still has her eyes covered. And as long as the eyes of the perpetrator are open, felony is bound to happen. Let me come back to the story when a poor girl was raped in Mumbai, the financial capital of India. Hardly big deal, some may point out when we have a rape every 36 minutes in a country where does the names like Prathibha, Snigdha, Megha stand out. But this news is amazing not in terms of the coverage but in terms of the audacity of a person who is bestowed to protect the basic civil rite. A constable on a morning walk in the beach happens to find his prey. Just that the prey was a 16-year-old girl and was struggling hard to meet her end. Just that the ends met her. There was a huge cry all over the nation. The cop was suspended and internal enquiry was set up. About a fortnight later the girl was forced to take back the complaint and the constable was released and still goes out on a morning work. The libido of an animal always gets along its prey.

Couple of weeks back when a call center girl was raped and then murdered by the cab driver of her company everyone shuddered. The instances are countless and at the end of each year these names are pinned in the register of the police department. Names are marked by numbers and numbers keeps stacking in files.

We talk of giving exemplary punishment; we talk of making an instance so that the crimes can be deterred. At the end we eventually end up mocking the entire system. It’s contemptuous to the fabric of democracy, which can’t guarantee the basic right of human freedom. Forget about freedom of expression.

Its high time that we realize severity of punishment should be revisited with the notion of consistency of punishment. A person who is jailed for 14 years and then hanged might make us proud of the system. But even he had his mother and father crying in front of temple to save him. Human life is precious. And severity of punishment is not an instance to anything its just the consistency of it. Lets not revisit the barbaric ways of ending life. Lets talk of ways towards freedom. Freedom from the clutches of the system.

If at all we have to go to barbaric ways then just tie their balls with a string and make a circus out if it.

SEX in Democracy - I

The premise of premarital sex is not a just a substantiation of the west mindedness. It’s not something that has epitomized the 21^st century. In fact it’s a conjunct of mind over matter, the libidos that drive a species called Homo sapiens. So, when one gushes through the issue of premarital sex, I look in disdain.

While checking with the dates we forget the most obvious part of it, checking the year. In a democracy the voice of opposition is the fundamental pillar. As Mahatma once said, “ Freedom is not worth having if it does not connote freedom to err”. We live every day with our values and beliefs, and if we are challenged we cry out. We take cover of society, cover of caste, cover of religion of the things that we find hard to digest. At the end of the day the moral stick is based on the norm of bully ness. We all live in an imperfect system, just that it is imperfect it is still running. So what if an actress or may be a star tennis player talks about what we call taboo. We have the answer, they should not have expressed their views and we are shocked and outraged. Going by Freud’s term every person is unique in his or her own respect. Are we too week as an individual? Are we too scared to be swayed with what some celebrities say? Rather the issue should be based on what we believe in. Its always is easy to shout at the neighbor rather than keeping ones own house in order. I’m not going to the merit of the discussion, what I intend to say is we obviously have every rite to show our disapproval on what we perceive offensive. But we must understand that in a democracy everyone has a view. Even a guy who scuffs at the Chief minister and leaves the portfolio is made the CM after 9 years that too in a state where since 25 years communism has survived. Its truly amazing to be in a country called India.

Wilfred Owen's Contempt for War

Torture and Misery in the Name of Freedom

By HAROLD PINTER

The following remarks were adapted during Mr. Pinter's acceptance speech on winning the Wilfred Owen Award earlier this year.

The great poet Wilfred Owen articulated the tragedy, the horror--and indeed the pity--of war in a way no other poet has. Yet we have learnt nothing. Nearly 100 years after his death the world has become more savage, more brutal, more pitiless.

But the "free world" we are told, as embodied in the United States and Great Britain, is different to the rest of the world since our actions are dictated and sanctioned by a moral authority and a moral passion condoned by someone called God. Some people may find this difficult to comprehend but Osama Bin Laden finds it easy.

What would Wilfred Owen make of the invasion of Iraq? A bandit act, an act of blatant state terrorism, demonstrating absolute contempt for the concept of International Law. An arbitrary military action inspired by a series of lies upon lies and gross manipulation of the media and therefore of the public. An act intended to consolidate American military and economic control of the Middle East masquerading--as a last resort (all other justifications having failed to justify themselves)--as liberation. A formidable assertion of military force responsible for the death and mutilation of thousands upon thousands of innocent people.

An independent and totally objective account of the Iraqi civilian dead in the medical magazine The Lancet estimates that the figure approaches 100,000. But neither the US or the UK bother to count the Iraqi dead. As General Tommy Franks of US Central Command memorably said: "We don't do body counts".

We have brought torture, cluster bombs, depleted uranium, innumerable acts of random murder, misery and degradation to the Iraqi people and call it " bringing freedom and democracy to the Middle East". But, as we all know, we have not been welcomed with the predicted flowers. What we have unleashed is a ferocious and unremitting resistance, mayhem and chaos.

You may say at this point: what about the Iraqi elections? Well, President Bush himself answered this question when he said: "We cannot accept that there can be free democratic elections in a country under foreign military occupation". I had to read that statement twice before I realised that he was talking about Lebanon and Syria.

What do Bush and Blair actually see when they look at themselves in the mirror?

I believe Wilfred Owen would share our contempt, our revulsion, our nausea and our shame at both the language and the actions of the American and British governments.

Harold Pinter recently won the 2005 Nobel Prize for Literature.

Sweet October

As the traffic light turned red, two auto rickshaws pulled up next to each other. And sitting in one of them, I could only see a pair of hands holding a bouquet of red roses in the other auto. They were the sort of hands that unleashed a desire to discover the face. But their delicate geography offered clues to the owner's history.

A diamond ring clinging possessively to one of the fingers meant they were reasonably rich hands. And those flamboyant roses further testified that. Those hands were born to enjoy the comforts of an air-conditioned car. What were they doing in a rundown three-wheeler getting mauled by the city's savage heat?

With every passing second, a yearning to see the owner of those tender, touch-me-not hands grew inside me like a giant bubble. The woman's concealed face was teasing and tormenting him. I would have liked the driver to steer the vehicle a little ahead. But that wasn't possible.

The auto was inches behind an Opel Astra. In desperation, I even wanted to get down, walk a few paces and steal a shameless glance or two in between. But I couldn't. I also considered asking the driver, positioned at a far more vantage point, if he could tell him how the passenger sitting in the other auto looked like.

But I was aware that wouldn't be of much help either. I knew that every narrative between two individuals was marked by an absence, a void no word could ever fill. By this time, the bubble was almost choking me. I felt at war with myself.

In the past, I had always stayed clear from every crooked line for the tried and tested path of the predictable. And, had always stifled every reckless urge and allowed moments with infinite possibilities slip away like water running through fingers.

With only 10 seconds left before the light turned green, I could hear a chorus of violent voices inside commanding me to seize the moment. It was now or never. So I got down, walked to the flanking auto, looked inside and said, "Excuse me, do you have the time?"