Thought Detonation #20 – And he moved out

“How many times have I asked you not to shut the door? Idiot!” yelled his father as he banged the door Sudhakar had locked from inside. Sudhakar opened the door halfway, “What is it now?”

“You heard what your son has just said? You hear him, don’t you?”Grinded his father at top of his voice so his mother could hear.

“What is it father? I am working. Why don’t you go and watch TV? Please let me be at peace.”

“Shut up you fool. Ever looked at what other guys your age are doing? It’s time for admissions. The university cut-off will be out in a few days. Doesn’t that bother you? Name a single good college you have enquired about. Is it my job to get you admission as well? Eh?”

“I will let you know when I find a college. I am working now, please” and the door was shut and locked simultaneously.

Sudhakar was back to his imagination, the sparkling light blue pattern that swirled like a fisherman’s net paused in air, the way he used dark shades with yellow to add depth to its shadow, something like northern lights. He dipped his fingers in paint and rubbed them on canvas. The light colour was soft, used in a deliberate manner like the falling feather of dove. He put grey colour on his palm and splashed it on canvas and rubbed the tip of his fingers all over. So one could see dark grey shade so surplus, but between the slight gaps that the layer had, one could also see light shades, with their lucid shadows. A feeling of something real and sound yet hidden propagated as one looked at the canvas. He stood there watching the shades flow (yes he could, more importantly, only he could). It was his eighth canvas in series. It was like playing music, high and low notes simultaneously.  Sudhakar was a master of contrasting layers. The emotions of his canvas went pass through him like spring breeze. There was a deep dark grey splash on top trying to capture the free and flying blue air beneath, exactly like jail bars trying to capture a soul. The onlooker would see the terrible grey splash first which would let him know the pain of being hidden, like a diamond which always remained buried. Yet one can see how the lighter shades beneath pierce out the greys to symbolize optimism, like a sprout raising its head from the soil. This was Sudhakar’s finest work, which brilliantly conveyed the iron will he had. There were grave grey problems which encircled him, but he was like the sky blue shade beneath. His art was subtle and soft. He carried his passion like the wind would carry a leave in autumn. He stood there looking at the master piece he had just created. He took the wiping cloth in his hands, unlocked the door he had closed and started moving towards the drawing room.

“Found yourself a good college? Phaw! Stupid guy, I am not paying for framing what you just scribbled. You get that? You and your ugly paintings!”

And next day, he just moved out.

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Thought Detonation #19 - Pain

Is it like being rowed up by the deathly harrow,

Something sharp, maybe like guillotine?

Is it like apple of Adam surfaces and dips to swallow,

Something burning, maybe like kerosene?

Is it sharp metal edge that can cut,

Kill with one strike, maybe like lightning?

Is it flash from a glock with Teflon butt,

Soul shattering sound, maybe like followed striking?

Is it like the rain drops falls and eat through like acid,

Gulp in all and just leave teeth behind, maybe like tooth fairies?

Is it like it could rip stillness of placid,                                                  

Which is sweet but kills, maybe like poisoned cherries?                   

Is it too thick to flow and viscous,

Hard to digest, maybe like betrayal of beloved?

Is it appalling and painful to fall on,

Planar and flat, maybe like a cemented floor?

Is it like the wind from dessert so scotching,

Dry as buried bone, maybe like a heat stroke?

Is it like stiff cold mummy dead of freezing,

Or deep red in colour, maybe like warm blood?

Is it like corner of the brick that hit you,

It hurts not because it was, but maybe because it did?

Is it like a rock climber fell from the Egyptian tombstones,

Kind of sarcastic, maybe he ends like its owner did?

With all these dark imageries I associate with Pain, I hope someday new leaf buds open and the dry weather passes away.

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Apologies for no post today.

Apology to my readers for not posting today. I am battling against food poisoning and have just come to my consciousness. Hope all my readers understand.
Apologies again.

Thought Detonation #18 - The going got tough and tough couldn't get going

He threw his hands back in air and they slammed the Monitor top as they came back. “Fu*k you dumb box! I hate it when you do this.” The whole workplace turned at him while they still murmured a number of things in their headphones. So basically you could just hear a hummmm…, apart from the bash his hands just created. He was Sameer, a 24 year old working in a call centre. He wanted to be an air traffic controller, but the job just didn’t want him. So he ended up here. He restarted his PC which had just hung and put back his head phones. His job was simple. People called him from Canada and US, and he trouble-shot their problems like…

 “I cannot hear any volume in my speakers.”

“Maam’ are you sure you have connected the green jack in its port behind the PC?”

“Oh no my son removed it last night, am I supposed to put it back in? Will I get volume then?”

… He couldn’t take it. Actually, nobody in his call centre could. People replied all doors were closed when asked if any ‘window’ was open, and then Bill Gates is also in US. People tore their hair out at this kind of intelligence of their customers. Everyone wanted to just run away from their lives. Sameer didn’t find a single person who wished to work there. Everybody was just stuck because they had nothing else to do. A few people had left to look for better, a few had started their business, a few tried share markets and basically everyone tried something before ending up there, but all of them came back, some on same wages and others on lower. Sameer had moved from his hometown a long time ago. He aspired to be a pilot then, but never cleared PABT of the IAF. He had some problem with his hand angles, so he was always rooted out in medicals. Then he did engineering and tried to become an air traffic controller. He was quiet intelligent and, no doubt, talented. He had made himself a Ham-radio at age of nine. He knew how the technology worked. He had an appreciable GPA in his college. But he never got what he wanted. He wanted to take a drop and try again, but circumstances didn’t want him to. So again he never got what he wanted.

Thought Detonation #17 - Great Expectations

The voltage fluctuated and the refrigerator made sounds. Mrs. Gupta said in an annoying tone, “I am fed up with this now. We urgently need a stabilizer or fridge would just blow up some day and take me with it as well.” Mr. Gupta laughed and nodded in assurance. He had a comfortable job now. He was just back from Qatar after his training and was expecting an appointment letter soon. He was a prematurely retired railway engineer. His work in Railways was tiresome and he was just paid 30,000 for that. All his three children were grown up and both daughters were to be married. Their son wished to do B.Tech. The kind of salary he was getting in railways, frankly speaking, couldn’t meet all of that. Moreover they didn’t have a voltage stabilizer. Mrs. Gupta needed a washing machine, her wrinkled palms did, but she never asked for one. Mr. Mehta had a scooter. When the whole family wanted to go for shopping to Sarojini Market, Mr. and Mrs. Gupta would invite their youngest daughter, who was 18, to accompany them on scooter. To which she would just agree by silence. Their son and other daughter would board the metro train. The special thing about this family was that no one ever complained about all this. They always switched on the old fan when they couldn’t take the silence. Their daughters rarely talked to the colony guys or to each other, its generally rich sisters who gossip and discuss their crush. They just wished to be married off somewhere while still clean. Their son desperately wanted to complete his B.Tech and engage himself in some job. A 2,00,000 rank in AIEEE did assure him of a 15,000 .p.m job after four years. This was a mild family, who preferred yellow light bulbs over CFLs.

Thought Detonation #16 - Water puddle days

It has been a heavy downpour at my place since yesterday and Indian roads are so filled with emotions towards the first shower of the season. They won’t allow a single drop off to the channels. India is so full of love. It’s a lovely land. In this lovely land, and the lovely love between roads and first shower, there is another lovely thing as well, a little boy with plaited hair. He is bright white in colour and is extremely happy for something I don’t know. He is accompanied by his mother who cannot run as fast as he can and he is extremely charged up by evading pursuit. Now how can a celebration of a 4 year old on a rainy day, with roads loving the showered water, and on a beautiful garam pakode wali evening be if I can’t see splashes? And here he goes *splash* *splash* He kept jumping in those water puddles, till he was as wet as the road, and even he was loving the first shower exactly like the road. Everything thing about splashing water from a puddle is so good when you are 4 year old, except one. You actually cannot run while jumping in puddles. So your mom, who can’t run as fast as you can, can always catch you when you keep jumping at one place. Seems that kid didn’t know that. His mom came running with an umbrella in her left hand and slapped him twice with her right. He stood still. No one is loving the rain now. I just watch this happen and I want to say something. Something like, “Please let him play; he is having the time of his life. Once he grows up he may write about jumping in a puddle but never feel it again. He is loving what he is doing, which he rarely will after growing up. Please let him do what he loves.” but I couldn’t. “How many times have I told you not to do this? For whose sake have I brought this Umbrella? Don’t you know what can happen to you if you keep splashing this dirty water?” said she and pulled him by arm and dragged him out of my sight. I wonder if he ever asked his mom to carry that umbrella for him. I saw he was so thrilled getting wet in rain. I wonder if he ever wanted to know what will happen if he splashed dirty water that way. He just wanted to jump in those puddles. It were his ‘water puddle days’. He was allowed to have an umbrella, which he never wanted. He was made to know the potential threats of jumping in dirty puddles, which he never wished to learn. He just wanted to jump in those puddles, which he wasn’t allowed to do. He earned two slaps for following what his heart said.

Thought Detonation #15 – It’s faith

When people read my work like this one or this one, they ask me how I speak so openly about beauty and whether it affects my personal relationships with “people”. To this I reply straight, “I have a girlfriend who trusts me”. When I say this I feel pity for the kind of amazement these folks show me. So in my way, I have a story to show them how blind trust could be.

…It was three in the afternoon when Vinay ringed the door bell of his house and his girlfriend open to him. It had been 6 months since he was on tour and was just back home. Life of a Naval IT Engineer is sort of exhausting. Ankita, his beloved girl, knew he was arriving which made he do funny things like washing her hair, applying lip paint when in her house, spraying over two bottles of air freshener and a million other crazy things. She made sure that the bathroom was at its best and nothing was short there. She had set up the DVD player and had lined nearly 4 movies to watch back to back. But as for now, she just clung to him tight and pushed her nails deep in his back. There was a desperate hug of two hearts wanting to meet. Vinay closed the door behind them as Ankita came to her consciousness. It has been six months since they had seen each other. Both were in a live-in relationship. Their parents didn’t know about that. But they had let them know that they were dating each other. So it was a half clean and half hidden sort of a relationship. Vinay worked as a Marine IT expert while Ankita was perusing her Master’s degree. They made a cute couple, a rare couple in which the girl is duskier than the guy. Both had been loving each other for last 7 years and living together for two. The kind of faith they had in each other was unshakable.

Thought Detonation #14 - Just Stay Happy Fella

…Today I am so messed up. Have been really frustrated and dipped in anger all day. Nah, don’t ask me the reasons. Dipped enough to forget writing the blog as well! So you see I am really preoccupied. When it comes to me, being preoccupied can just mean thinking, and being even more preoccupied, even more thinking. I am a thoughtful fool as many folks consider. Since I was so in filth, the thought was also about being messed up. I guess I have found a new caption for Sallu Bhai. We must replace “Being Human” to “Being Messed Up”. It’s a lot more apt that way. I am so head-cracked and nobody cares, you see that eh? Nobody cares….

…Since the thought on being messed up was a lot messed up itself, and of which, I don’t remember a single point, I will just tell you what I came up with. Even if you are all messed, just stay happy; at least pretend that you are happy. Now come on, how? I don’t know. Just stay happy and wear that smile eh. Just let people keep trying to make out from that smile if you want to bash them or hug them. Keep fooling yourself and pretend to yourself that even if you are robbed off your car or left roofless, god will have better plans for you. You see God? He actually doesn’t have much work and he is so vella that he starts to come up with good plans for everybody in universe! That is roughly 6,775,235,700 people; and he has a better plan for each one of them! WOW, efficient working han? Just if my state’s Police were quarter that efficient, trust me I really wouldn’t have needed your better plans Mr. God.

Thought Detonation #13 – Real Beauty

You know I was thinking to write something about beauty today. To my greatest surprise, I wasn’t able to “judge” what beauty is! Trying to write about real beauty, when you don’t know what beauty is in the first place, is actually something dumb. There were a few things that I could associate with beauty; like mother’s love, selfless and tender and white in colour. It is beautiful.  Or a walk in dark as the night sky is illuminated by a million stars, without caring of what was back home or what you have to do tomorrow, when you actually live that moment and look at the stillness of moon. This ,surely, would be beautiful. How about sitting ashore a long lonely stretch of coastline, watching the sun dip behind waves, with orange sky and red horizons, as the sea sings you a constant tune and steady hush. How would it feel to reduce the tempo of your thoughts to the rhythm of hushhhhh…Beautiful. What about being a three year old as you see you daddy bring home ice cream. Even more beautiful. How about watching your three year old eat the ice cream you bought? How about finding the girl who just teased me and went away that day? I would get me mad, beautiful. How about sitting in garden early morning as you watch the bees collecting nectar from you flowers, and you let them steal it without slightest of reconsideration, without a phone or a reminder to disturb you, so you could just sit and ponder upon what beauty was. How about revisiting the time you first touched a girl? Feel again what you felt when lips touched? Ah..Heavens. Does it really matter to know what beauty is? I am still not able to generalize what beauty is, would it be objective? Can a person declare that a thing is absolute beauty? I don’t know, and I am no body to declare what beauty is. But this doesn’t stop me from recognizing things that are beautiful. It’s like I don’t how to fix an engine but I know how to drive. I don’t know what beauty is, but I know my bike and me on a lonely highway is beautiful, I know memories of youth with a pal who got shot down in riots are beautiful. These might not be “beauty” themselves, but they are full of beauty,”beauty-ful”.

Thought Detonation #12 - Something for those eyes

I was hot under my collar today morning as I saw the feedback my blog was getting. Statistics didn’t impress me much but it was the reader feedback that was making me proud. I was on a verge of getting over confident. This happens to be one of my weaknesses and I try hard to keep it under a check. I was just surfing across a couple of blogs when I found this (http://joshidaniel.com/). This guy has beautiful photography skills. I just love the way a few of his pics speak for themselves. What specifically caught my attention was this (http://joshidaniel.com/2011/05/08/137/)

(Image courtesy: Joshi Daniel)

“In these eyes so helpless
What I see is depth

Questions eco in those little ears
“Why am I here”, yes I can hear

Something for the pain, that he doesn’t ‘know’
May be he wasn’t ever happy, or never showed
What those frozen lips might utter, when curtains of dumbness slide across
If they knew a little of how to express, that soul wants a flight of albatross

This world must be fake, or blinded by the bling
But I do care, and I think”

Thought Detonation #11 - When three friends part

Today I was again at Central Market, but not like that day. It was three of us – Mehroz, Pulkit and me. After mad fun ranging from Nehru Place to Lajpat nagar, it was time to part. It wasn’t a “see you tomorrow bro” kind of parting. We all would be leaving to different places after today. So technically we were meeting for the last time. It truly was a different kind of parting. We all had known each other last two years and our knowing of each other was subject to what we call friendship. I never thought these two years would be so swift when it came to slipping away. It’s like we remember the first day we met, so clear and vivid. It was nasty jokes and loud music when Mehroz came to drop us at the Lajpat Nagar metro. We had different ways to go from there, we technically had. Pulkit would go towards Badarpur end while I would go to Central Secretariat, opposite sides you see? While mehroz would just go perpendicular to both of us!! It was making us laugh, it still does. Too much of drama right? There was elaborate hugging, elaborate enough to get us noticed to the passing crowd. “Gentlemen, it is nothing the way it looks like” cracked Pulkit at the gentlemen.

Thought Detonation #10 - The Way She Went

IMPORTANT: The following is a work of art, and by no means a cheap erotic story. If you don’t understand the difference between the two, please feel free to switch to other posts. Though this material is moderate, I still recommend readers below 14 years of age not to go through it. Not to mention, the following is a work of fiction.

I at times feel that the fairer sex get an undue advantage of us males. If a lady is young, beautiful and cute; we males just give in to whatever she says, and why not? A woman has a bonus when compared to men, the only bonus, that she’s a woman. *Smiles*. How they reap the most strangest of benefits from a man; and them being addictive, they can keep doing so. This makes me recollect a little incidence at Lajpat Nagar Central Market. Go ahead read it as I put it down for you all.

Thought Detonation #9 - Ringing laugh

It has been nearly 6 months since I have been editing Rajinikanth Joke Books ; I am remarked for a characteristic subtle humor and my mobile phone is full of joke SMS right now. I read them, assess them whether classic or OK or PJ, and then delete them. I may like them of course, but they never make me laugh. You know life of a teenager trying to make something out of his life, it is kind of stressful, especially when people call you talented and expect a blast every time. Keeping up with expectations all the time squeezes each drop of you and it is then that your smiles don’t last longer than half a second. 

I was just about to leave for a meeting. Dressed all in formals, I sat in my balcony, polishing my leather shoes and making a strategy for the day. I was nearly 9: AM. I was thinking of making a few more reference eBooks for my other website, I had to write a review, call up Anuj in evening, and tell Pulkit of the new hosting that we were going to use. I was trying to fix my schedule. I hate doing it. A guy can plan his life, have a time-table, monitor his progress, have goals, check success rate or just key his bike and go on an early morning ride to somewhere far between the hills and across the rivers. I am naturally of the later type, but I am acting to be former. You know we all need to do it right?

Thought Detonation #8 - A Phone Call

Even our firm belief in someone is shaken by petite things. The strongest of bonds are broken over smallest of issues. When faith becomes too finished, with no rough edges in a relation, like still water, and then; a small scratch is enough to dismiss the whole finished art, a slight ripple is like a tempest.

It’s like a dusty road may lead you to the same destination like a marble road would, thought with lesser comfort. But the dusty road is less prone to damages than the marble road. While on a dusty road, you would never care of a new puddle. A new puddle would never be significant in the journey. You would reach the destination as usual and will not notice new damages. Even if you do, would wouldn’t care about them. On the contrary, if you travel on a marble road, each small puddle will be noticed, each small bump would hurt, this journey would be opposite to earlier ones, you would not get the comfort you were used to and expectations would be hurt.
It’s like you don’t bash a mate for forgetting your birthday but breakup with a fiancée for it!!

This short story of mine tells you how little influence mixed with high expectations, can shatter a flawless relation. The more you expect a thing to be perfect, more imperfect it seems.

Thought Detonation #7 - Fakers in Saffron

Today I was a little worried you know. It was nearly 1 in afternoon and I wasn’t able to find something to write about. I don’t want to break my consistency so soon. One article a day is going so fantastic and people are loving me and sharing my work. So basically I was desperately searching for something to write about since my consciences don’t allow me to just forward second hand content. That very moment, “God” came to rescue me. How? Just find out yourself as I turn my encounter with those ‘two fakers in saffron’ into a short story…

…And the door bell ringed. I lifted my face to see the clock in front and shouted, “Nothing today. You can go”. I started reading again, but suddenly realized that the garbage collector had already come earlier. So actually I had treated some guest with the hospitality of the garbage collector of our locality. I jumped from my chair with an “oops” and ran to the main door. I opened the door and saw two men dressed in dhoti and kurta of saffron color. One of them was tall, dark, dirty, and skinny; and looked like bark of a neem tree. His brown-half-broken-and-other-half-about-to-break teeth gave me an impression that he had been punched hard in face. His eyes were yellow and watery; and his neck dipped down in his shoulders like he had no neck. Overall he looked no sage, he looked more of a beaten up street fool. The other one was short, fair and had a decent mid 30’s physique. He was clean and wore a constant smile, apart from his saffron clothes. Basically I was in front of two rouges who were pretending to be sages. The clean guy was the ‘master-mind’ and the stinky was aide. I had a thought of chasing them away but since there was nobody home, I wanted to take a chance, and have some fun.

Thought Detonation #6 - On Corruption

I frequently wonder why people choose to go corrupt. Practicing corruption is something like compromising with one’s dignity, like begging with hands and legs in place. It is actually the worst kind of begging. Every penny that is dropped as bribe is actually like a sweet poison. With a million curses coated with that meekest of smiles be held by the victim. Only the hands giving the bribe actually know what the heart would be yelling when saying “Sir ye le lijiye kharcha-pani”. Moreover it’s ultimately of no use. The biggest corrupts are the victims of corruption themselves. Corruption actually doesn’t differentiate between the commoner and the babu. Is affects all of them the same way. It all ends up in same place. Exactly like in this short story.

…He was a prematurely retired office clerk, in his early forties, with grey-black hair and a dense moustache; Bent a little forward, and thin. He had bifocal glasses on, with black square frame and thick lenses. His hands were dry and wrinkled, and the nail of right thumb broken. He was dressed in khaki jacket and dhoti and wore torn black shoes. He was a prematurely retired office clerk called Sharmaji waiting outside the city police station. His forehead displayed lines of anxiety and discomfort. He was shaking his left foot in impatience and repeatedly looking at his mobile phone, going through his phonebook and recent calls list in nervousness. He was waiting for the constable to “introduce” him to the Station Inspector.

Suddenly the wooden doors flung open and the short, round and dark constable took a step out. He bent towards the wall corner and spat the beetle he chewed, while signaled to Sharmaji that he could come in. Sharmaji rose from his seat quickly which was instantly grabbed by one of the three other men who were waiting for Sahrmaji to vacate. As they both entered the room, the SI sitting right in front of them smiled to welcome them. He had his legs on a chair beside the one he was sitting on and two buttons of his shirt undone. “Bahaut garmi hai sharmaji yaha pe”, the SI exclaimed. Sharmaji dint reply to him and stood there nervously. There was silence for a few seconds. “Accha haan apka kaam yaad hai mujhe. Maine ladkon se baat kit hai. Apka kam ho jayega”, said the SI in a consoling tone.

Sharmaji had been robbed nearly a month ago. He was carrying his wife’s jewelry in a khaki bag when two men on a bike snatched it away. Sharmaji wanted to sell it off at the local jewelry shop. His son wished to do an MBA and Sharmaji wanted him to do that as well. But since the jewelry was stolen now, the fate of the Sharma family hung loose.

Thought Detonation #5 – The black boy on rollers

After my routine jog for a kilometer I went to the center play area of the park, like every day, for those twenty pushups. It had been nearly four months or so since I had the same exercise regime. Neither more, nor less. I had tried a few times to do a little more than that. After all improvement is the basic essence of any work out, isn’t it? I had always failed miserably. Running out of breath in just next few meters after my standard one kilometer. And after this I actually never tried to increase the number of pushups and neither the intensity of other exercises. Since I was building a good body anyhow, I dint feel the need to strain myself further. So basically, today’s jog seemed nothing special, just like other days. One kilometer and 20 pushups plus some exercise. I wasn’t thrilled. My face had the expression of the concrete track below. Flat and non-lively. Well I do look that way when I am shook out of my dreams. But In all this “inactive” state of the world, there was something that was going to catch my attention and detonate a new thought.

I was pushing the ground below while I puffed number 17… damn just three more 18… fu*k fu*k 19… again……..20… I was just about to get up when I heard a dash.

Thought Detonation #4 - Varied perceptions and deficient conclusions

As I sat all cool skimming through today’s TOI & reading about the Ayodhya issue, I felt that all these problems prevailing in our country, mostly related to religious groups, casts and communities, are because each group is “intra-monotone”. Most people within a group have similar kind of thought process and perceptions. Safe to say, they have same paradigms. But when the same group interacts with another group, the paradigms differ. In fact what could be beneficial for one group might be a loss for the other. Inter-group difference reside in the roots of our nation, and in a varied country like India, it is bound to reside in future. A simple version of this thought can be applied to each of us individually. Each of us has perceptions different, and at times repugnant, to a fellow being. In a world which is so intense, these differences in perceptions can prove to be grave. Especially under provocation. The following fictional short story of mine describes how the variance in perceptions formed and the deficient conclusions drawn from them are actually stupid, still they compel us to prepare “most craziest” of overviews.

…It was 8:30 in the morning and I was walking to the nearby shop to by the day’s bread and milk. Shops shutters were just starting to open. There was not much activity in the vicinity. With just a few people, newspaper boys, a few plump women on their morning walk and sniffing dogs. In these passive surroundings, the by footer on the opposite pavement was rather interesting. She was dressed in a red salwar suit, which fit right on her, with a couple of red bangles in each hand, Red nail paint and little silver earrings. She was traumatizing fair than any other thing near-by, which gave her a unique glow. With long black hair swaying loose, she could have killed anyone by her looks. She would have been in her early 20’s. I glanced over her for seconds and then withdrew my sight before it turned a stare. But the guy walking behind me wasn’t sensible enough, or maybe was too excited to decide what was right. He just waved his hand to her and winked. She saw it. I was paused for a few seconds as I was convinced to see a high voltage drama this morning. The guy just stood there like a rogue with his lower lips between his teeth and with penetrating sharp eyes set on her. The girl gave a blushing smile, looked down on the pavement and hurried her steps away from the scene. Exactly at that moment a middle aged man, I guess in his late 30’s and looking quite rural came closer to the girl and started walking with her. It was her father. Now this further convinced me of my thoughts about the high voltage drama and the guy behind me was nearly dead. He quickly got away from the spot and made sure he dint match an eye with her father or the pretty lady. I continued to look at the girl and her father. The girl was still smiling, looking down to pavement. Her father just watched the guy go away, not with anger, not with hate, he dint even respond to the situation. He just had a calm expression on his face, with sober eyes and pale flat forehead. I wondered what made him feel so relaxed when some random guy just winked at her daughter and ran away. What kind of disgusting parent was he? I mean it’s OK for a girl to smile after being winked, but not for her father to look satisfied and contended. I just mumbled “What the Hell. Pimp shit.” in disgust and continued on my way.

Later I was back at my house and it war nearly 10:30 in morning when our maid arrived. She had box full of sweets and looked as happy as never before. She yelled to my mother that her daughter’s surgery was successful and she got her face back. I had once overheard our maid telling my mother that her daughter’s face got burned when she was 5 years old. It was a Degree – III burn and they were having trouble regarding her marriage. All boys in their community had rejected her. And they dint want to marry her to a lower caste boy. She was going gaga over her daughter’s new found beauty as any other mother would. She called “shanti. Aaja”. In her unique accent and a girl stepped up the stairs on my floor and appeared near the door. My jaw dropped. Shati was the girl who got winked this morning. It was she who smiled. It was her father who stood contended. And would he be not? He had every reason to be happy. It was like lightning struck me. These folks had put together each rag to make up the cost of her plastic surgery. And now she was beautiful, beautiful like goddess. Any guy would say yes instantly to her proposal. I wonder how god could give a burn to such a beauty. Did he have no logic? Suddenly all my thoughts got reverted. How foolishly, without knowing the basic cause, or the whole story behind, I just drew atrocious conclusion about her father. How a father could not be contended after all his hard work, earnings and sacrifice earned his daughter her lost beauty. That wink had actually set a seal of success on his hard work. He knew it. Hence he was calm and contended. I did not. Hence I was disgusted.

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Thought Detonation #3 – Dead Rose

Of the 12 plants that I own, I had bought two rose plants last month. The good thing about these plants was that they were very alike. I always love symmetry.  Both were equally tall, equally green, equally dense and showcased one rose each. Both plants started equally well, placed strategically in middle of all other plants, in my balcony. Exposed to equal amount of sunlight and watered equally twice a day. But the thing that drew my attention to all the history of these plants is the fact that one of them was dried up. It was dead.

Gardening is one of my hobbies. And I always stay concerned about the health of my plants. I could not stop myself from wondering what might have caused the little plant to die so soon. I guess it was aging. The sapling might have belonged to an old plant. Or maybe it was just by chance that it ended up dead.

On the contrary “its brother” was green and beautiful. Bearing a flower as well and one bud just about to open. How could two similar plants, in the same house, of the same nursery and probably from same parent; could end up so differently? I was feeling as if that dead rose plant was an Artist who never made it to the stage.  Like a scientist who never published a paper. Guess some guys never make it. Some stars remain hidden, in some darker part of “our universe”. Some songs are never sung, some stories are never told, and some plants just end up dry.

So exactly it fits in “our scenario”. You never know whether you would make it or not.  You never know if that blind shot would be on target. In fact, with such uncertainty, each targeted shot is a blind shot in the first place. Though put into utmost care, the plant ended up dead. It’s like my efforts didn’t matter even a penny. The situation would have been same if I would have left it under the sun without watering it. So where did hard work go? 

It’s the appalling uncertainty that surrounds each of our actions. Since we mostly get a result from our work we tend to take it for granted that our gains would increase in proportion to our work. But we never know how all this could be disposed off. And all attempts would just end up in nothing. There is no “guarantee” that one can make it big in this world. It is, more or less, a matter of chance. Same efforts may lead you to ‘bloom’ or to ‘dryness’.  This sounds crazy and demoralizing, but is the truth. Even if it is, then, it just proves that we actually live in real world. A world with everything encouraging would surely be a fairy land.

PS:

To those who make it – Thank your luck first and then your hard work.

To those who didn’t and never will – It is the way it is. Some roses do end up dried. You are a rose. That’s your achievement. You are dried. That’s just a bad luck. Keep your head up because what you own is not by chance. Anything you are left with is because of your untiring effort against the bad luck that accompanied you. Even the subtle green color that my dried plant posses, it is all because of its determination to never give up. Unlike its brother who just took it by chance and bloomed.

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Thought Detonation #2 - Oxing We

It’s Sunday morning and I am up at 5. Nothing describes a Sunday morning at my place more explicit that the chaotic Sunday market. I tottered my way to the balcony, still half asleep, to see a few men landing wooden tables like every Sunday. These tables are used by the folks who set up their shops in the evening. Everything was as a usual Sunday morning. There was minimal traffic, just a few men, a couple of trailers and a bullock cart. This bullock cart was all rickety and in a just-about-to-fall-apart state. But this was about to Detonate a thought in my mind, which makes it special, utmost special in fact.

The ox pulling the cart was old and weak. With ribs embraced and negligible flesh. Seems recent inflation had an effect on its green diet. The bar of the cart went deep into back of its neck which had multiple wounds and bled. It tilted on one side as it pulled the cart to center its gravity, its legs slipped many-a-times on the uneven road, it had dry cud in its mouth and wet eyes. The owner of the cart stood on the loaded cart kicking tables down at regular intervals. He was fine with his job.

I have been seeing this very bullock cart every Sunday morning since last five years or so. But today it was different. I was still half asleep and hence in my most “thought-vulnerable” state. These are times when I start feeling pity on creatures like the Ox in front of me. It was ill. I had never seen it weaker than this before. Moreover it had water in the eyes. Was it nearing its end? Will I see it next Sunday morning? And if I do, then would it be at his better health? I was somehow feeling terribly bad for the animal.

His master, I feel, was too busy to see his pain. It is the way it is. When you yourself are in the filth, you don’t see any. Only an “outsider” can actually “see” you in filth. The ox was slowing down. Like it was just about to fall and break apart. And the whole loaded cart would just topple over him. I was provoked to shout; I was just about to wave my hand at its master when he took is whip and served the ox hard. He ruthlessly whipped the ox and poked it with the sharp rear of his whip. The ox was constrained to continue. It was in pain, but had to continue. Not because he was on “his” journey or because he liked roaming about the area every Sunday morning, but because his master whipped him to do so. It actually deserved better. Maybe in some grassland faraway. With its own territory. Where it would have been free, and not whipped. There would have been green fodder. And most importantly no ‘whipped-labour’. Why did it settle for less?

We all settle for less. We all undergo whipped labour. We do what we do, not because we want to, but because we are whipped to do so. We all are pulling that rickety cart which is in just-about-to-fall-apart state with wet eyes and multiple wounds. We don’t want to feel the burden anymore. We want to quit. Could we just be at some place, under the sun, at peace, in harmony with our inner self, where our thoughts assailed freely and we were not afraid of thinking, we do not grow pale when we think of a mutiny. We elevate our thoughts with all this and flush the disgust. Then suddenly a whip lands. And we continue to do what we what we do, not because we want to, but because we are whipped to do so.

We all are pulling that rickety cart which is in just-about-to-fall-apart state with wet eyes and multiple wounds.

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Thought Detonation #1 - The Red Cosco Ball

 It was a clean up day at my place today. Everything went upside down and inside out. Cleaning the store room was my responsibility. The store room was my favorite place when I was a kid. Thought it had been a couple of years since I had not been there. Not even to look for something. It seems like this portion of our house was just absent for me. Being hell of an observer, I was amazed to see a few 50 paise coins beneath the trunks. I wonder who put it there. Was it 8 year old me who accidently slipped them under while playing with them ? Or did I put them there then to smile 10 years later when I find them ? This was giving me a blur imagery of the days of my childhood. I am 18 now.The imagery was gradually drifting me into memories. Memories of an 8 year old kid. Who was bubbly. round, plump and talkative. Unlike the 18 year old me.

Moving around the trunks and after making room, I pulled an almirah from the wall. Something went down with a thud and made me check the almirah for damages. It was a dusty brown color ball. All in dust and toughened like the almirah wood. I picked up the ball and spun it hard with my right hand like I always use to. The view of catching it after its flight suddenly fitted in an another frame in mind. It was the 8 year old me spinning the ball with his right hand and collecting it in his left. The *Thought* *Detonated* at this moment.

It was my red cosco ball. It was worth 25 bucks and I had bought it from the Friend's Corner in the next street nearly 10 years ago. The blur image was vivid now. That day I had managed 10 bucks from my mother, and 15 from my savings, to buy a red cosco ball. It was a secret buy as I was allowed to play only with the softer wind balls. Seems like the kid had started his attempts to show the world that he was tough. He could play with the red cosco ball while you thought he deserved softer one.

It was my first day with my first red cosco ball ever. Accompanied with Rahul, Manish and Ashish I started our "World Cup" like everyday. But that day it was with a red cosco ball. Happiness, Devine Joy & Nirvana. The winner was to get an eclairs(of 50 paise - exactly the same amount I found beneath those trunks). Manish was on the bat while I took to bowl. It was my first throw, with my first ever red coso ball, and Manish smashed it hard. Ofcourse it was a by-luck shot. No one can hit me that hard. I am the best, The best 8 year old bowler. The ball flew straigt into my store room on the second floor after bombarding the glass window. All of us ran to our respective houses scared of our respective mothers and the next moment I was in the store room. I looked for my red cosco ball for hours and later declared it lost. It was sorrow, Hellish gloom and weezyness. I flung a few 50 paise coins in disgust and left the store room. There was no red colour cosco ball, no match, no winner & no echlairs.

I have found the red cosco ball now, after 10 years. I know why the 50 paise coins were beneath the trunks. Still there is no joy, no devine happiness, no nirvana. Just the 18 year old me standing still while holding the ball.
There is no Red Cosco Ball now and No Childhood. Its all a dusty store all around with wooden furniture - stiff and inanimate.

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