A pinch of Uttarakhand: Kumaon

Having already written an ode to the most beautiful place on earth (jealously guarded opinion) i.e. Nainital, this time I wish to go beyond and step into the hills and vales of the beautiful land that is Kumaon -my homeland

Mere words are unjust, I hear the songs fall short,

As they recount the beauty of the land - Kumaon.

Young mountains strive to best their own,

Hidden from sight, valleys and creeks swarm below.

I look further, like majestic turrets of a fort,

Carry caps of snow and glisten gold.

Ponds, lakes and waterfalls too,

Marks of beauty in hues of green and blue.

Smudges of clouds painted above,

Affectionately placed by the Creator with love.

Hush, the scenery lies, a hum is heard,

Nestled in the flora, a beautiful bird.

I stand rooted as into the unknown, it takes off. 

Mesmerised by the beauty of the Abode of the Gods.

Reflections from the Naini Lake

A view of the Snow-capped Himalayas from Ranikhet - Almora Road

An inscription kept outside a Hotel in Almora

View from Dolma, Almora

All photos taken on the trip home, to Ranikhet-Almora-Nainital

My Love of Reading : 10 books For the Top Shelf by the Fireplace

Apart from oft quoted lines that liken the 'book' to the doorway or portal to another realm, to a different conscience, to dreams and nightmares alike - I take the liberty to add my definition regarding them - ' Books are nothing but manifestations of our deepest unspoken desires, for what cannot be said can be scribbled in a shaded corner and still be professed' 

Here is a list of some books whose words have stayed with me long after I had perused the book. Some because, they represent movements and creations unprecedented and some plainly because they leave subtle messages entangled in their stories.

1.  Long Walk to Freedom. One of the most moving narratives of the anti-apartheid movement. As I have said earlier, I do not regard this text to be an autobiography of an individual, rather, it represents the struggle as a whole often sidelining the protagonist. It has important lessons to teach - some which come to us naturally and others which are hard to justify till one has experienced them individually.
2. The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. This book though small in length tells the extraordinary journey of one of the most brilliant men in history. His life as a writer, inventor, politician, planner, diplomat among others is narrated in his own words. Ben Franklin sets an example to the enormous possibilities of accomplishments and achievements that one can aspire for in this short span of mortal existence.
3. Shantaram. A radical departure from all such tales ever told. I remember being stuck to the book for hours. (Considering the length they were plenty). A masterpiece of a tale.
4. Unbroken. The heroic tale of an Olympian who served in the War and later suffered as a POW in Japan. The tale is more touching because of the careful listing of individual feelings and thoughts of each person involved, even the camp officer who reserved the protagonist as a special outlet for his hate.
5. Train to Pakistan. We won our independence but at costs much greater than could have been imagined at the time. The tales of horror and of inhuman actions are scars that are still fresh in our hearts as a nation. This book departed from the traditional political reporting to touch upon the lives of the lakhs that were slaughtered in the name of nation and religion.
6. Three Men in a Boat. Some may wonder that this book is in striking contrast with its predecessors on the list. But, I shall be too reserved in the matter and take immediate offence as this text happens to be my favorite and has been ever since I read a small piece of it in my literature classes in school. The piece was titled " Uncle Podger Hangs a Picture". The comic narrative that it turns out to be is unmatched even by the likes of Wodehouse. This ladies and gentlemen is a masterpiece.
7. Ajaya-I. Having completed this book only recently in the summers, I have come to realize that there is a completely different way to approach the Great Epics. In deeper sense, it takes a crack at the rigid caste system deeply rooted in Indian society of ancient times (And as is prevalent in the modern era). It is a personal recommendation to all who come by it.
8. LOTR Trilogy + The Hobbit. There isn't much to say. The magical world of the middle-earth is more than a fantasy. It is by far the finest creation in the world of fiction and fantasy and a tale that inspires courage, determination and brotherhood. To get so much from a piece that was written as one for fantasy is an achievement that has no contenders.
9. Strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. A timeless classic. 
10. A Christmas Carol. The story of Ebenzer Scrooge is one of the most popular tales narrated in times of Christmas. It embodies the importance of sharing and compassion. A soft story with a long message.

There are many others that I would recommend to readers like The Godfather, A Thousand Splendid Suns, The Kite Runner, Harry Potter series, A Prisoner of Birth, Murder on the Orient Express, The Mousetrap among tens of others. These are some names that I could remember and have hence mentioned.

Looking forward to continuing with my journey of the Russian Classics, of which I have completed but one small leg in the form of Anna Karenina. Going back to Karamazov Brothers now!

A fight for humanity : Long Walk to Freedom

I believe that if and when a person is asked as to "what is our greatest inheritance?", the perfect response would be "it is the written content" - the books containing prose and poetry of long gone generations which give flight to our imagination as we walk the footsteps of our ancestors. By ancestors, I do not wish to limit myself to the narrow definition of a blood family but the entire human race. For we are one big family surviving on an infinitesimal grain of dust in the vastness of the universe.

From this family, I have discovered yet another gem in the annals of history - Long Walk To Freedom. To say it is Nelson Mandela's autobiography is an understatement. The book is a document of the aspirations and the struggles of the peoples of South Africa. True, it is written by Mandela. But, strikingly in contrast and  in similarity with other such texts, the book tends to detail the sacrifices not only of the protagonist but the entire nation - from the hinterland to the largest cities. South Africa has come a long way since then. The days of the cruellest of social segregation schemes in modern history - apartheid are long gone. But, this transformation wasn't achieved in a single battle or war. It came as the result of a protracted struggle by the oppressed to show the oppressor the wrong of his ways. The severe repression of the non-white majority in their own native land by a foreign settled people was something the African people had fought for since the early years of the twentieth century and change could only be brought about in the last decade of the same. It was not a set of concessions by the government that finally culminated in the abolition of apartheid, but a prolonged delay, denial and extreme suppression by the state authorities of the people who never stopped fighting for what is right. I salute the anti-apartheid fighters of that era, ones who helped create a new nation and a more humane world.

Being an autobiography,surprisingly it focussed a lot on other characters of the movement - all ANC leaders especially Walter Sisulu, Oliver Tambo, Chief Luthili among others. I believe that it wasn't a deliberate attempt by the protagonist to seem modest. For, in his own words, the life of a freedom fighter is not his own but of the struggle and the people. It recounted ANC meetings, discussions with its leaders, his wife who herself was a freedom fighter and many such political events and instances. The account that is most moving is from the time spent in Robben Island prison wherein the prisoners were able to retain and continue some form of struggle against the authorities and apartheid.

One essential learning that I personally take away from the text is that determination and faith in the cause/goal is the most important thing that a person must have to succeed. Mandela had to spend 27 years in prison following his arrest and trial for high treason. It was the same man that walked out and began negotiations with the government. His demands , and that of the entire movement, hadn't changed and stayed the same till the goal was realized in 1994. Very few people in history have shown such resilience in the face of exploitation and persecution.

While Mandela now rests in his eternal abode, his teachings in the form of his life experiences continue to remain with all of us to this day and ahead.

I look forward to more inspiring words and lessons from my next read, The Autobiography of Martin Luther King Jr. , I go now reminiscing my experiences from this moving tale.

Long Walk To Freedom

Pic courtesy : @NelsonMandela : Officer Twitter Account

To Read Or Not To Read : A Battle Between Print and Machine

The big procrastinating machine that I am, I seem to have arrived a tad too late with my opinion on the ‘print vs. e-reader’ debate. Without much ado, I will proceed to lay my views on the same.

After having acquired a Kindle Paperwhite (try saying that with an air of boastfulness!) in June, I have had to question my own beliefs regarding the sanctity of printed books. The PW (as it shall be addressed hereafter) has surprisingly been a good substitute to books. Statistically, my average of books/month has again picked up considerably after the arrival of the PW. To top it off, I have even set a personal goal of completing 50 books in the year of 2014 (or I might have just accepted it out of curiosity and competitiveness on Goodreads). Anyway, I am not advertising for PW, so I’ll get straight to my opinion on the advantages (I wish Amazon pays me something for this advertisement). Well, here goes:

1. When I have to carry a laptop, other gadgets and loads of books in my backpack, the use of an e-reader sheds tons off my back earning me blessings from the upper torso. More than a 1000 books for 300 gms – the PW weighs 206 gms (approx.) This I feel is the best trade-off.
2. For the die-hard print fans, trust me with better technologies, the feel is closer to pages. The only downside being that there is no ‘fresh-smell of the pages’ that readers want. Considering how user friendly Amazon is (just a few hundred dollars), I bet they’ll introduce the ‘smell/fragrance’ in the next version of Amazon PW
3. Additional features like the backlight! I remember holding a torch in my mouth or balancing it on the bed to read books in the dead of the night. The technology of today eliminates all the troubles.
4. While I agree, that a bookstore is a beautiful sight for the eyes, travelling to and fro from one takes a lot of time and infinitely more effort. For the ideal procrastinator, an online store, like Amazon with direct delivery to the device is in simple words, heaven.
5. As far as pocket economics is concerned, while the e-reader eats into the weekly dinner expenditure, the books are cheaper and if you keep the e-reader in good condition (treasure it as if you would a puppy) I bet it will prove to be a comfort to the ol' money bin! For example, I compared the prices of the books I have on Kindle to the same editions (or cheaper ones!) in print and the price difference was staggering. For the 37 books on my PW the Kindle edition cost INR 5493.95 while the same in print would have been more than twice the paid amount at INR 11789.5! At this rate I will have recovered the cost of the Kindle by the turn of the year.
6. Personally, the best thing about the e-reader is that there is no print material involved (d’uh!). I have spent hours in agony, crying over books that have been returned to me with twisted ends, folded pages, torn pages and other malaises. To me, it has always marked the end of the book (not that I disown it!). The e-reader bypasses all such torturous inflictions and keeps my heart and mind at peace.

The writer has opined. You are free to follow your own thoughts (and wallets) in decisions in this war. To me the PW has proved to be a good option to change my loyalties (I am a heartless b*****d). Will you follow next?

Post Script : In light of the above discussion, I should thank N. on whose advice I got a Kindle PW. I had initially been planning to get a 'Dremel which costs about 8K INR. But I guess the PW has been a good bargain and that the Dremel can wait!

Losing Verses!

My first attempt at fictional short stories. This piece was published in the e-magazine Inkblots! @ http://inkblotsmagazine.blogspot.in/2014/03/losing-verses.html

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The drone from the vehicles plying on the highway was a persistent source of irritation. Ravi scratched his forehead. The pad before him lay blank. His pencil, a red one with the chewed end, had fallen on the bench. The pencil had tasted funny, Ravi wondered. Maybe, he should consider a change in location and move to another bench. After all, even the Sun had receded well below the treeline and the glowing fiery ghost of the evening adorned a rare few spots in the park. Throwing the pad and pencil in his satchel, he picked up the near-empty water bottle and wandered to the nearest warm spot.

This will do! He sighed and then settled on the grass below. His watch indicated that it was five and this meant that he had three hours to deadline. His ineptitude was now slowly pulling in a cloud of despair. Soon, he knew, panic would begin. Cold bolts of dread would shoot through his neurons and the drums of chaos thunder in his temples. He would brave the panic, he thought. Brave it and then succeed. The pad on his lap suggested otherwise.

The page is still blank. In a rare event, you might begin, but you shall never finish. It seemed to say in a cruel cold-hearted tone.

Looking around for inspiration, he chewed on the pencil. The taste was actually appalling. He spat on the grass beside and dragged his hand to the pad. It wouldn’t move.

Start writing! and DO NOT CHEW on ME! The pencil warned.

A few children were playing tag in the clearing beside him. They ran around bubbling with laughter. A tall one was ‘it’. He was slow and had been trying to tag someone for quite some time. The others laughed at him, sneering at his failed attempts to catch them.

So be it, I am going to write a poem on youth and happiness thought Ravi with a thankful sigh. I should title it ‘The Joy of Youth’. Excellent! He murmured.

Excitedly, he penned the title ending the ‘h’ in a flourish and then got down to business.

Youth, he thought, the time of our life when we are most active, Yes! Active and joyful too. The pains and sorrows of reality lie far away in the distant future. His brain was abuzz with millions of thoughts running across and he could almost picture each word as it went past. We have no wars to fight, only games to play; no bills to lose head over, no worldly truths to face, just peace and fun! Living without caring was what it is all about! Fantastic! 

This was going to be perfect. He believed that the end was in sight. The subject had been decided, the content was in there (prodding his forehead) the little formality of putting pencil to paper remained.  A smile grew on his face. He watched the kids play with glowing satisfaction.

The editor, his editor Mr. Subramaniam would finally be happy. He might even get a pay raise. Maybe, even get promoted to do some real writing and not just fill ups. Talented - the word that mother had used to describe him, and he was as capable as the next poet/writer.  This would be his lucky break.

Spring , bubbly and chirrupy

The youth of one’s life…..

The beginning was good. He had to continue. What should the next line be? Should he continue and glorify youth or run comparisons with adulthood? He stopped and drew a deep breath chewing on the pencil again.

Didn’t I tell you NOT to chew on me? The pencil cried. Dunderhead! Put pressure on your brain, eating me won’t give a solution to your writing problems.

A time of wonder, in moments

Magical, dreams come to life….

Life? Hadn’t the word already appeared in the second line? What rhymes with life? Wife, knife, strife,…. . I cannot think of any more! He erased the last line of the poem.  Pondering over the issue, he decided that he couldn’t frame the poem in this style; a change in the rhyme was needed.

The barely used page was torn and thrown into the fancy penguin-shaped dustbin with USE ME in bold styled onto its belly.  A fresh start! He thought and focussed his attention to the fresh page below.

Something new was needed.

As the bubbling brook flows yonder

The spring, in full cheer adorned

Gaiety and sunshine …..

Gaiety and sunshine…. What?!  There he was stuck again!

Arrgh! With despair on the horizon, even the frustration was slowly slinking away. He needed to wriggle out of this labyrinth of failure soon or he would have to quit. This wasn’t an option and not because he wasn’t a quitter. The payments on the rooms he rented were long overdue and not a night went when he would expect his land lord to throw him out on the streets to take shelter among the homeless. He couldn’t give up for he could do nothing else. He couldn’t even wait tables; an unsuccessful experiment in the form of a part time job at the local restaurant had all but ended his efforts. Even though the income of a writer was meagre, it was all he could do to keep two ends together.

Maybe, you have writer’s block? The satchel bumped him out of his reverie.   Why don’t you attempt something simpler – write a poem on nature perhaps? Or, since the winds have already signalled a change in seasons, the coming of autumn would be an easier tackle.

The orange sky had given way to the evening blue as it darkened with each passing moment.  The dial on the watch now read quarter to seven. He wiped the beads of sweat that had formed on his brow and tried to concentrate on the pad below.

I’ll wager you a hundred bucks that he shall not be able to finish the pad said scornfully to the pencil.

Chuckling, the pencil replied. Only a fool would take you up on that!

SHUT UP! Ravi started loudly. The children stopped their game and stared at him. He waved them to continue. But, the little faces were too apprehensive and they moved away quietly probably thinking him to be unfit on the higher levels.

He cursed in a low tone and decided that like the children even he needed a variation in scenery. Resting on one arm he pushed himself off the ground and collected his belongings. He trudged to the end opposite. There was a small clearing near the big lights. He would need some light now, the darkness had spread across the sky and the moon peered through the branches of the old banyan nearby.

The temple bells signalled the end of the evening aarti. He jumped to the ground and pulled the pad out of the satchel.

Easy boy! Or you’ll ruin my perfectly smooth surface! The pad reacted angrily. He is going to do it anyway came a snide comment from the pencil as it too was tightly gripped by the nervous hand of the now beyond-panic-and-despair poet.

A small man lay on the bench across the jogging track. Tattered clothes hung from his dilapidated frame even as he lay on his side. His skinny body a cloth hanger merely. He fixed his eyes on our protagonist as soon as he entered his field of view and his gaze stayed transfixed on him since.

Ravi stared back for a few moments before returning to his pad. Maybe he was focussing at the wrong end of the social spectrum. Happiness wasn’t everything or everywhere. There was fear, pain, despair and much more negativity in the society than was required to upset the balance. Now, look at the poor man lying on the bench. He looks so troubled and helpless. He doesn’t have a home. See his clothes, poor soul. Life hadn’t been easy on him. There was suffering with each step that he took. Why had he been chosen to be born into such a life of misery? Why had society pushed him to these depths of despair and shame? Was life always so unfair?

Stop thinking, start working! The lamp-post egged him on.

Cruel Life! This would be the title of his poem.

To enter the world on a leaf of gold

The choice of a petty few

Millions live, no – survive

Each day counting their due.

The first four lines had been pretty easy to get by. They had set the tone for the things to follow. He could follow a hundred paths as he wrote this poem. A hundred paths! Nice expression! He thought and pushed it to the back of his mind as a reserve.

The lines above reminded him of the Live Aid concert he had read about in the news back when he was a kid. Father had explained what a deeply significant event it had been. Having raised more than a billion dollars for kids in Africa, it showed the greatness of human nature. That was an event which show cased that man could indeed look out for another man, be it family or a stranger.

There goes another poem! the pencil seemed to shake its head (it might have moved a fraction of a nanometre, but since our visual perceptive abilities are limited so I’ll just leave this to your imagination).

No! thought Ravi and started the next verse of the poem. But, it was already too late. His train of thoughts had driven him so far away from the last topic that he found it difficult to come up with the next word!

DAMN! ^%#&@ me!

He picked up a pebble and threw it far off in anger cursing at the same time.

Seeing the subject of his interest behave in such a manner, the man on the bench approached him with caution and curiosity.

“What is the matter, brother?” he asked in a soft tone.

“Nothing!” Ravi replied in a voice as would have been possessed by Tom each time Jerry got the better of him, if by a miracle, Tom could speak.

“You seem troubled. Do you need help, brother?” said the thin fellow, his voice soft and sweet as before.

“No! Please go away” came the reply.

“Let me help brother” he persisted in a calm voice. “To share one’s pain and hardships is a balm for the soul”

Another topic for failed poetry! Said the satchel as the pad and the pencil burst out laughing.

SHUT – UP! Ravi cried, hurriedly adding “Not you, brother.” turning to address the stranger.

“I am sorry for my rude behaviour.” He apologized. “Please let me be.”

The stranger sat down beside him with folded legs and introduced himself. “I am Shashi” he said extending his hand. Ravi shook his hand. “I am Ravi” he said.

“It looks to me that you could do with some sharing, brother. Do feel free to speak your heart.” Shashi said kindly.

Ravi looked at this sympathetic stranger. He seemed nice. Feeling a need to share, Ravi began narrating his sorry tale. “I am a writer by profession. I have a piece of poetry due in forty five minutes and my job….” He felt a hand grab his collar from behind; an alarm began to build up in his temple. Suddenly a silvery metal flashed before him and before he knew it, Shashi was holding a knife to his neck.

“Quick brother, hand me your valuables and I’ll go away quietly.” Shashi whispered into his ear.

Oops! Talk about hard luck, this is as bad as it can get said the pencil in a pitiful tone.

“But..” Ravi could only stammer “How…who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter, brother. I am but another child of God like yourself. Give me all your valuables and I’ll let you go” Shashi remained calm.

“HELP! HELP! “ Ravi began shouting abruptly.

Bringing his fist to meet Ravi’s jaw, Shashi slammed him backwards and quickly emptying the man’s pockets took to his heels.

No help arrived. Ravi lay on the ground, his jaw bleeding. He spat blood. A tooth was missing and so was the phone and his wallet.

Not making any efforts to raise himself, Ravi lay on the grass not knowing what emotion to display. His piece was now almost overdue. He lifted his hand to look at the wristwatch. Thankfully, the scoundrel had left his precious watch behind. It was seven-bloody-thirty. He was sniggering. He began laughing. The thief wouldn’t get much out of his wallet- just bills and a few pieces of paper plus ten rupees, his fare home. He had involuntarily tricked the rogue. He continued chuckling for a long time.

The man is nuts the pencil seemed to say. Definitely crazy the pen and satchel agreed.

Ha! Curse the man who yields the knife, this here man is experiencing trauma! The lamp-post cut in.

Trauma! Bleh! The pencil retorted. He is totally off his knocker, I say. Why would a man who has just been robbed laugh? He is insane. Just look at his antics of the evening past. He needs medical attention, I say.

Aye! The pen added in support.

Finally, Ravi picked himself up. The bleeding had stopped. On close inspection, even the broken tooth was found idling on the grass beside. He picked up his belongings and packed everything up in the satchel. He looked at his watch again – five minutes to eight. He smiled. The day was over. His job at the magazine house too was done for.

All of a sudden, a strange thought gripped his mind. He looked for the nearest pot-bellied penguin. There it was nestled between the shrubs. He took the satchel off his shoulder and curled it into a roll. At the bin, he looked left and right and then quickly threw the satchel through the mouth of the penguin smothering the cries of the three helpless, lifeless beings. He smiled.

His days as a poet were over. Time to look for something new in life, he thought as he walked to the park exit. But first he must lodge a complaint at the nearest police station. He couldn’t go to the dentist, he had no money. The tooth would have to wait.

Life had always been cruel to him. Be it his struggle through school and college or his efforts through professional life, all had led to dead ends. He had graduated an engineer, yet, he had failed to secure a job as one. A non-existent personal life and an equally awkward social life had been the description of twenty five years of his life. He had still managed. He would continue to do so in the future. Change was near, he could feel it, but today wasn’t the day he thought as he massaged his jaw. He shook his head and continued.

As he walked along the pavement in search of a policeman a few lines began to take shape in his mind,

Cruel is the soul that picks life

Yearning no peace or serenity

It descends to mortal place and tries

To labour for eternal happiness; as humanity

Drags it to pieces, binds it to chains

Runs it through sins, harm and pains

It lives, no – it survives; ordeals of another

Ignorant, that hell was carved here on earth

It continues to strive rescued by the forsaken brother

In time, the end comes to birth

It is broken and it is bent

Into a blistering forge, sent

Yet, a beautiful charm pulls it to pick again

It returns to cycle through

Experiences the joy, the love, sparkling rain

Cries of laughter, the drops of fresh dew

The magic amidst the tribulations and strife

The most enchanted gift called life.

“Eh?” He paused then shook his head deleting the verses forever and walked on into the night.