The Lament

The monsoon rain fell in thick sheets, the cruel drops impinging upon fragile bodies, sending them scampering for cover. The clouds gurgled with laughter, watching the futile efforts of drenched mortals trying to shelter under a tree.

I reminisced about the happy times he and I had spent together at Marine Drive. He. The one who my heart beat for. Strong and virile. And I was then beautiful and comely. In my arrogant youth, when I believed I’d stay young and lovely for ever. If he had been around, he’d still have loved me. Like before. Despite my scars and ugliness.

I remember the time when I was his soul and he was mine. When our identities blended with each other so well that no one knew where one ended and the other began.

No matter how clichéd it sounds, in his case and mine, it had been love at first sight. No one else had ever evoked the same feelings, the now familiar rush of emotion in my heart. I reciprocated his feelings, and we became inseparable companions. For a while, at least. We believed that we were meant to be together. He and I. I and him. We

But, that was only till they came. Those cruel men, with cold steel in their hearts, veneered under thin smiles made of plastic. I shrieked and struggled, but to no avail. Vain were my cries of help, and he could do nothing but watch in anguish, as I was defiled by those monsters.

I remember my appeals to you, to you who stood there in mute stupefaction, gaping at the dastardly dervish dance that went on in front of your very eyes. You never came to my aid. You shrugged your shoulders mournfully, and went away.

The rain fell in thick sheets, trying to wash off their filth from me, trying to cleanse my soul with its sheer impact. And he writhed in agony from the blows that they had landed on him. I took him under my fold, and we wept.

But you never noticed.

He was a tough character. He wouldn’t die on me just yet. He managed to drag himself around, just to lend me strength and help me live.

You rejoiced in your cowardice, rejoiced at the fact that he still lived. That’s when I learnt to hate you. That’s when I realised that your life revolved only around yourself. You only stopped to capture a vicarious thrill, an adrenaline rush of being in the thick of things. You never even cared.

You were not there when they had come again. One night, when all was quiet, those men with faces cloaked in darkness came. The evil glint of their weapons still gives me sleepless nights. I cower in fear, dreading that they may return yet another day.

The rain fell, washing away the blood from his mortal wounds as he lay there. You never came.

He died that night.

On those monsoon nights, when the clouds rumble in anger at your cowardice, and the sea threatens to breach its shores in its angst, the wind carries my whispered longings away to where I think he can still hear me.

I’m a broken shell, an old woman pitted ugly sores, brought low by my own hubris and your cowardice.

I am Mumbai.

State of Fear

History is a little like the most boring professor we used to have in school - always repeating herself, only for her words to fall on deaf ears. But, she'd always have the last laugh, when we came up short in every test that she threw at us.

Everytime, we resolved anew that we would heed her words carefully. Of course, by the time her tests caught us by surprise, we had forgotten what she taught us last.We clenched our fists, gnashed our teeth, orated about her cruelty in our closed rooms, and went on with life hoping we'd get rid of her soon.

Hearing a news channel airing a 'breaking news' program, as soon as I stepped into my house, I realised that there we were again. Mumbai - the business capital of India. THE Metropolis. The City of Dreams. Blasts. Flashes. Shrapnel. Screams. Death. Destruction. Sympathy. Concern. Apathy.

Frantic calls to loved ones. Concern giving way to annoyance on finding jammed phone networks. Texts, emails, twitter updates, FB updates, and now Google+ updates too.

It doesn't take much to throw our nation into a frenzy. All it takes is a bunch of lunatics to target a busy area in a major city, and wreak havoc. News channels have a field day, waving their microphones in the faces of the dying, the injured and the bereaved. Our respected leaders leave no stone unturned to illuminate themselves from the burning pyres of the dead. Our security agencies go into a tizzy and blame 'foreign hands' trying to destabilise our country.

We oscillate between incredulity, anger, outrage and despair, sending our blood pressure to alarming levels. Absent-mindedly, we stir our bitterness into our coffee cups and drink them down.

13/12. 26/11. 13/7. 10 dead. Thousands feared killed. Hundreds injured. Mere dates, mere statistics to be relegated to some file gathering dust in the corner of a government office, piled up for 'compensating' the relatives of the dead. Numbers to be quoted by politicians spewing vitriol. People who were neglected in life, finally getting some 'value' ascribed to them post-death.

We'll hold candle-lit vigils at India Gate, watching the ficklely flickering flames. We'll organize prayer meetings at the Gateway of India, letting our tears be one with the salty sea. We'll attempt to drown out terrorism by flooding social networks with our rants.

Of course, we'll tighten our security. We'll install CCTVs at busy markets, allowing pot-bellied policemen to ogle at nubile girls. We'll hand metal detectors to security guards, hoping their loud beeps scare away miscreants. We'll double the security of our leaders, to keep their revered souls safe from the madness.

Then, a few months later, that cruel professor called History will throw us another test, and laugh as we miserably fail again. We'll clench our fists, gnash our teeth, orate about her cruelty in our closed rooms, and go on with life hoping we'd get rid of her soon.

Rain...

The sun was a molten ball of malevolence, dipping beyond the horizon. Like the burning fingers of a demon escaped from hell, the wind raked my face, leaving behind its wet footprints. The empty road glistened like a river of burnished silver.

Devoid of activity, devoid of life - the city streets were as deserted as a modern city in a post-Apocalyptic movie.

The furious skies darkened their brow, outraged at being ignored, blotting out the arrogance of the sun. The trees began to sway to the tunes of an invisible fiddler, enthralled by her music.

The drops leapt from the pavement, scalded by its touch. I stretched out my arms to embrace them, like a long-lost lover, returned to a loved one's fold.

Such a Long Journey

Sent for publication :)

Racists!

Black vs White. Good vs Evil. Master vs Slave. Evolution vs Divine Creation. Civilization vs Primitive Instincts.

These are some of the themes touched upon by Kunal Basu's novel - Racists. The book narrates the tale of an outrageous experiment - an endeavour to settle the debate of whether the European whites are superior to the African blacks. Set in the year 1855, the novel charts the paths of the English scientist - Bates, and his French rival, Belavoix. The two scientists decide to leave two children - a black boy and a white girl on the deserted island of Arlinda for 12 years, to decide who will emerge the master, and who will be the slave.

The children are to be raised by a mute nurse, Norah, whose sole prerogative is to keep them alive for the duration of the experiment. The scientists constantly pit their theories against each other, with Bates focusing on proving his hypothesis by using the 'science' of craniometry - periodically measuring the dimensions of the skulls, and postulating that the larger dimensions would belong to the more intelligent. Belavoix, on the other hand, takes out time from his feigned illnesses to predict the insanity of the nurse, and that one of the children will kill the other at some point of time.

Norah, and Bates' assistant, Quarterly begin to see the children as humans, as opposed to the scientists who only view them as test specimens. Do they watch from the sidelines, as their masters plot a dance of death and destruction? Do they interfere and stop what could possibly be an experiment that has never taken place before?

Kunal Basu's characters have strong dimensions to them, and the reader begins to understand how each one's mind works. One can even draw parallels with contemporary characters, and how racism manifests itself in modern times.

However, what begins promisingly enough, ends with a damp squib as Mr. Basu takes the easy way out and finishes his book without answering the all-important question. The narrative slows down and peters out towards the end into predictable mediocrity.

Still, a fairly good read and I'd give it around 3/5.

Happy Reading!

Traffic

They look down upon the myriad boxes, rolling along on feet made from rubber from their lofty perches, with curious detachment. Aware that with a tiny flicker of their coquettish eyes, they can cause brakes to squeal like pigs being slaughtered. At their command, internal combustion engines hunch together - heaving, purring and clutching at each other, like participants in a depraved Roman orgy. On their whims, they send commuters running helter-skelter like insects scurrying in search of food.

They look at the mangled pieces of metal and the shards of glass that were once vehicles, but now lie like lovers spent, having just consummated their togetherness.

Like little children revelling in mischief, they wink in merriment.

And the chaos goes on.

The Void

The demons return. Every night. To feast on my soul. Fighting to grab the tiny slivers that now remain - little shards of humanity soaked in blood.

The deities stay unmoved as their temple is desecrated. Dead deities. With hearts of stone.

I feel the darkness closing in, pulsing like a living organism.

I am one with the darkness; the point of fear is past. And I open my arms to embrace my freedom.

The Void beckons.

Life.

The last vestiges of daylight slip away like grains of sand from my aching fingers. I smile at the night, as it engulfs me in its warm embrace, covering my wounds with its blanket. And I lie oblivious, till a dagger of sunlight creeps up on me, and stabs me like a vengeful, jilted lover. 

Ghosts…

I sat in front of the glowing LCD display, staring at its blankness as it winked slyly at me. My fingers tapped out patterns of nothingness on the keys, repeating a cycle of type-select-delete. It was depressing. I wanted to write, but the words wouldn’t obey me. They danced a macabre dance in my head, whirling faster and faster like dervishes caught in the clutches of mad ecstasy, till my head threatened to explode.

What good is a writer who can’t write? Movies seem to idolize the concept of an unkempt character with long locks, sitting by the window and throwing crumpled up pieces of blank paper on the ground, with metronomic regularity – till a lovely muse arrives, bringing a wave of inspiration in her wake. Bah! Unfortunately, a landlord whose rent has not been paid doesn’t understand ‘writers’ block’. Neither does the grocer, the milkman, or the electricity company.

There were times when I had those flashes of inspiration that led to a ‘great’ piece being written, fetching me a few hundred bucks from the local newspapers. And then there were the wannabes  – rich, bratty kids who wanted some ‘original’ poems or beautiful verses for their sucker girlfriends. Fine with me, as long as my bills got paid!

But, it was a rough ride, nevertheless. I even tried the Samuel Taylor Coleridge way of working myself into a drunken stupor, hoping to be visited by my Muse. But, a disastrous hangover later, I gave up.

And so, apart from the occasional paragraph, which would be abandoned like an illegitimate child shortly after birth, I never made much headway.

And then, it began. The people in my head started talking to me. Their voices were faint wisps of sound somewhat like an autumn wind rustling through the trees. The sound was alien, but strangely familiar at the same time – as if they had been talking inside my head for years.

I plugged in my iPod, turning the dial to full volume in an attempt to drown out those feeble, other-worldly whispers. Why? Why did they want to talk to me? Why didn’t they stay in their netherworld, why did they have to deny the decree of fate, and seek out my world?

Everytime, when one of those creatures spoke, my stomach would knot itself into a cold ball of fear and my insides would turn to ice. I tried to shut them out, but the fearful clamour of light whispers was deafening. Slowly, but inexorably they grew stronger. I forgot where my world ended and theirs began. Fascinated, I listened to the old man who had been a serial killer, the chit of a girl who had led a life of wretched debauchery, the middle-aged man who had sacrificed his own happiness for that of his family, and the young man who spent insomniac nights, listening to the travails of tortured souls. Which one of these was I? I no longer knew.

I began to feverishly write the tales that the ghosts in my mind spun out. Pages upon pages filled up with stories of lust, love, hatred and revenge. I loved some of my narrators for their incredible tales of passion. Others, I hated for the mundane, everyday stories that they had to tell.

By now, there was an incessant chatter of voices in my head, as more and more unfamiliar ghosts joined in. I took to writing with a vengeance. Reams upon reams of paper passed through my hands, as I wrote like a man possessed. (But then, I was possessed, wasn’t I?)

The voices were strongest at night, craving my attention. But, even during the day, they kept up a plaintive hiss, somewhat like a lonesome tide washing up on a gray, dank shore.  

Thin wraiths of children abandoned at birth, pale ghosts with hearts of ice, angelic souls weeping for their loved ones, demonic beings consumed with vengeance – they were all there.

One day, the doorbell rang – a whining screechy sound like that of a banshee in distress. It was her. Another ghost. From the distant past. Not like the ones in my head. A ghost that I had once loved. A ghost that had once loved me. And now, there were only the fragments of broken dreams that held us together.

I slapped her. Hard. She recoiled, more from the shock than the pain. Then, rage took over her and she clawed at my face. That’s when the knife flashed. Again and again. Its blue steel was painted red, and then there was silence. And peace.

A figure sitting in a padded cell with no windows, and a tiny door – looking around with suspicion, fearing an unseen enemy. She hears my voice in her head and cowers, trying to shut it out, as I throw back my head and laugh…

Spicing up life, eh?

 

Just wanted you guys to know that one of my posts has been selected by Blogadda for their ‘Spicy Saturday’ picks – a collection of what they deem as good writing.

 

I did think I was the cat’s whiskers for managing such a feat till I read some of the other selected posts. Krish Ashok’s tribute to his grandmother is a wonderful, wonderful read. Poignant, touching, and makes you salute that brave woman.

The Restless Quill expresses her views on eve-teasing molestation. And one can’t help but agree that the despicable incidents that women are subjected to everyday need to stop. And no one better than the womenfolk themselves to take charge.

And then, there’s Anuja aka The Princess, who has listed down some very commonsensical things that women expect from us guys, but never get. A real eye-opener, and a must-read for guys. (For girls too, so that they can appreciate guys like me much more. :P )

Crimson Moon

They made a lovely couple, huddled together in the cold winter night on the last seat in the old decrepit bus, as it hurtled towards their destination. Like them, there were only a few passengers courageous enough to take on the challenge of the inclement weather and travelling by the rickety old bus. The bitter wind crept in through the battered windows, and toyed with their hair, throwing it into disarray. She remembered how Aakash loved the wind in her hair, and how she used to enjoy his fingers playing with her long, lush hair…

But today, Aakash seemed lost, distracted… He had that faraway expression in his eyes that he would always have when thinking of something. He stared out of the window, his eyes narrow slits against the cold, and his brow furrowed in concentration. She thought it was because she was going away. Only for a few weeks, but still… She was flying to Bangalore from Delhi to meet her parents. And if the thought of parting hurt him half as much as it hurt her, she could understand his quietness.

He hadn’t talked much during the entire bus journey from Jaipur to Delhi. He’d been staring right ahead, looking worried, with a inscrutable expression on his face. How much he really loved her!! It was amazing… In such a short time, they had become so fond of each other. She smiled to herself in the semi-darkness and put her hand on Aakash’s. He flinched and took it away. She was confounded. Hot tears of hurt welled up in her eyes, but she brushed them away. She justified his reaction to herself, “He must’ve been startled by the cold.”

Finally, he turned his gaze to her. She felt the same warm, cosy feeling when his dark-brown eyes pervaded her being. The cold wind kept up its relentless attack, trying to claw its way into the warmth in her heart. She looked at him, smiling, expecting a warm hug, but he just looked at her vacantly, as if she didn’t even exist. Bitter waves of disappointment washed over her as she realized that he was somehow preoccupied and not quite with her.

“Rachita, I….,” he suddenly said.
“..really love you,” she completed his sentence in her mind. It had been so long since he had said those magic words. She craved to hear them again.

“Uh….,” Aakash hesitated.

She recalled the day that Aakash had proposed to her, and she had accepted. This was the same hesitant Aakash. That day also, if it hadn’t been for her encouraging smile, she doubted if he’d have been able to utter ever a word. But he had said the words, and walked arm-in-arm, gazing at the full moon, which was blushing with a shade of soft crimson. She smiled to herself and blushed lightly.

“Let’s….let’s…,” Rachita closed her eyes in sweet anticipation of his next few words.
“…..stop seeing each other,” Aakash mouthed, barely audibly. He was sweating even in the December chill. But, a huge tidal wave of relief seemed to wash over him as he got these words out of his mind.

If he had been bothered enough to watch, he would have seen, the wilting of the rosy face. But he was oblivious to the slump of her shoulders, to the great tears of disbelief that welled up in her hazel eyes. Nor did he hear the huge, racking sobs that shook Rachita’s petite frame. She struggled to look for one last bit of compassion and love in his face, but found only indifference. It was not the face of the Aakash she had loved. It was a stone face.

Emotionless. Feelingless.

The din from the bus’s engine bit into her bleeding thoughts. The cauldron of her sadness brewed up a concoction of tears, bitterness and hatred. Her uncontrollable sobbing left damp spots on the seat of the bus. The bleak, cold wind whistled around her, mocking her for her naivety. Other passengers swayed with the motion of the bus, either asleep or ignoring the drama that was playing out around them. The haven the darkness provided was snatched away by the overhead lamps that had just been switched on. The crisp night air kept attacking her, disregarding her attempts to numb herself. It was a conspiracy. Against her. To strip her of dignity, her beliefs, her love, and sanity, and to inject her with tortuous betrayal.

Aakash started for the exit as the bus stopped at the airport. He walked without guilt, with his head held high. No remorse, unperturbed. Her eyes still sought him, as she moved towards the departure terminal. He walked away, and she felt something break inside her. One part of her wanted to run to him, to hug him and just cry. The other wanted to hate him for leaving her.

The plane took off, leaving Aakash behind, leaving behind all her memories, and dreams. Leaving behind the naïve, little girl she had once been. She looked out of the airplane’s window at the full moon with tear-filled eyes. It did not have its usual pallor. It had a crimson hue. As if it had been bleeding with some hurt been caused to it….

Her parents waved to her as she descended the steps at Bangalore airport. “Happy Birthday, Rachita,” her mother hugged her and said, “So, what did Aakash give you as a present?”

He gave me a crimson moon Mom. A gift to keep and cherish for life. A crimson moon.

Musings on a morning…

It was 5 am. The moon, after a night-long vigil, had decided to veil herself behind some passing clouds and give herself some rest. Some enthusiastic stars were still twinkling as merrily as ever. The stragglers had all collected their snacks from Bishuda and moved on. The early morning walkers were still about an hour away from waking up, he guessed.

The world outside was dark. And unfriendly.

He sat at his window, with a frown on his brow, thinking or rather brooding... on how life had unfolded over the last two years. He thought about how some pieces had fallen into place neatly, and others had morphed into something else... something alien. He thought of the journey through the last two years - with more ups and downs than a Disneyland roller coaster. Charles Dickens' immortal quote floated into his mind, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

The letter confirming his application to XLRI had turned his world on its head. From a complacent, 'settled' life, it seemed as if he had been thrown into a violent maelstrom. There was a constant rush to finish one thing or another. Sisyphus must have had it easier, he thought one day, musing about the futility of it all.

But to be fair, there were oases of solace in a desert devoid of emotion. There were friends always there to rally around him, when life landed some hard punches. Huffing and puffing under the workload, he did manage to maintain a poker face and hide his emotions away. Life was a bittersweet symphony for him - with sprinklings of happy and sad moments in equal measure.

Somewhere down the line, he fell out of love and then fell in love again - with people, life, and XLRI itself. Slowly, he reconciled to being mired in academic mediocrity. He reconciled to the sleepless nights, the dreary days. He looked forward to long walks and heart-to-heart talks with friends. He enjoyed the late night meetings and the constant striving to improve.

He learnt to not fly off the handle at the slightest of reasons. He learnt to value people. He learnt that it was not a show of strength to be implacable and steadfast to an opinion, but of weakness.

It was 6 am, and the moon was back, though the stars had decided to play truant and disappeared. However, the moon had a new companion - the sun, who shone his first soft rays on the world, caressing it into wakefulness like a doting father.

He awoke and smiled, for he realised that in two years, he had learnt to be an XLer.

The world outside was bright. And friendly.

Autumn

The grimy twilight fades into dusk,
and I see them wither and fall,
those drifting leaves of memories,
and I struggle to gather them all.

...

I stare at the limitless sea,
that mass of never-ending blue,
and listen to the crashing waves,
singing to me of you.

There’s no such place as far away…

The last few days have been odd. Suddenly, from a hectic, bustling life, it seems as if I’ve been sentenced to solitary confinement. Seriously, it would be no exaggeration to say that I feel a little like ‘Linc the sink’ from Prison Break.

I was reading this old copy of ‘Illusions’ by Richard Bach – one of my favourite authors, and came across this line,

You're always free to change your mind and choose a different future, or a different past.

Is it really so? I know I would probably not want to choose a different past. Some of my major blunders in the past have taught me valuable lessons, that I wouldn’t want to part with. But, can I choose a different future? Can I take my life in the direction that I want to? Can I break away from the shackles of the present? Can I shake her out of her reverie, and make her realise that I love her? Can I choose a future of togetherness for us, Mr. Bach?

A soulmate is someone who has locks that fit our keys, and keys to fit our locks. When we feel safe enough to open the locks, our truest selves step out and we can be completely and honestly who we are; we can be loved for who we are and not for who we're pretending to be. Each unveils the best part of the other. No matter what else goes wrong around us, with that one person we're safe in our own paradise. Our soulmate is someone who shares our deepest longings, our sense of direction. When we're two balloons, and together our direction is up, chances are we've found the right person. Our soulmate is the one who makes life come to life.

Well, is that seriously true? If it is, then it means that she and I are soulmates. We care for each other, despite the distance between us. We pretend that there’s no chemistry, though the sparks fly each time we interact. Soulmates... is it really possible? I adore her, love everything about her. I could just spend a lifetime listening to her, or watching her smile at my clumsiness.

I feel uncomfortable and unclean, because there is some part of me that I’ve always kept hidden from her. She still thinks the world of me and it scares me.

She doesn't know that I keep pining for her, on those sleepless nights. She doesn't know I could do anything to be with her, even for a fleeting moment. She doesn't know that I replay each conversation we have, over and over again. Or does she?

Mr. Bach, you also said that ‘There’s no such place as far away.’

I wish that were true.

The Martyr

 

I savoured my evening drink in my room,
as my bright fire shut out the gloomy twilight,
my wife and daughter peacefully slumbered,
and I smiled at the precious sight.

 

I was startled by a knock on the door,
there was someone out in the night,
I crept to the window to see who it was,
a lonesome figure stood, his face weary and tight.

 

“Come in and warm yourself,” I said to him,
“have a drink or two at the very least,”
replied he, “I have no need of your hospitality,
you don’t have to offer me a feast.”

 

He bent and lovingly unwrapped,
a piece of cloth from his tattered bag,
saying, “This shall always keep me warm,
the saffron, white and green of my flag.”

 

“I’ve been part of many a battle,
I’d fight against one and all,
I’d kill a man or more,
to ensure this flag doesn’t fall.”

 

“Tell your mind to be bereft of worry,
have no fear, harbour no fright,
go back to the fire in your hearth,
for you and your loved ones will be all right.”

 

I said, “But is there something I can do,
for you’re wet from the rain and sleet,
come, enter my warm home,
have your fill, and be replete.”

 

His eyes welled up with tears and he said,
“Mortal things are no comfort for the soul of the dead,
value thy freedom, respect my sacrifice, and remember,
you breathe this air because, I fought and I bled.”

 

Note: I wrote this one a couple of years ago, but never posted it to a blog.

Desolate Thoughts…

Echoing laughter,

a voice that lingers on,

crying out in anguish,

at finding you gone.

The Mockingbird

He was a mockingbird, a little hatchling. He had newly learnt to fly, from his parents. He dreamt - of flying to faraway lands, meeting other birds, and talking to them. He dreamt of making a nest in a faraway land. He told his parents of his wish. They were sad, but told him to go and chase his dreams and fulfil them.
One morning, he flew away. He flew over mountains, and rivers, and dense forests. He flew as far as his wings allowed him to. Tired, he stopped to rest. He found a cool stream nearby to quench his thirst. There were trees laden with exotic fruits to satisfy his hunger. There were none of the predators that his worried parents had warned him about. So, he was happy and content. He decided to stop chasing dreams, and enjoy reality for a while.

Over time, he forgot all about his dream. To him, his current surroundings seemed like paradise. He grew fat and lazy. Then, one day, he woke up to hear a new voice. The voice belonged to a beautiful sparrow. She asked him to tell her the story of his life. She made him dream once more. She made him believe in himself again.

He had his doubts, but he started readying himself for his long journey for he had begun to love the sparrow. But since he was busy regaining his strength for his journey, he was able to devote less and less time to the sparrow. Gradually, the two broke apart. One day, the sparrow flew away. He was heart-broken. He remembered all the happy times he had spent with her, and cried. He did not want to pursue his dreams alone. But, he forced himself to work hard, and prepare for his journey. He resolved to proceed on his journey alone.

He was almost ready to leave, when he heard a beautiful song. A little dove was singing a song - of sorrow and joy, of hope and despair. The song brought tears to his eyes. He requested the dove to sing to him everyday. And each day, the lovely dove would sing a special song for him. He began to look forward to listening to her each day. She became his isle in the middle of a desolate desert of emotion. Without even realizing it, he fell in love with her.

One day, when the dove sang a song that told a tale of love, he could stop himself no longer. With tears flowing from his eyes, he told her of his love for her. The dove smiled through her teary eyes, and told him that she loved him too, and wanted to be with him through his journey towards his dreams.

At the first light of dawn, they flew away together towards the horizon... towards their dreams...

 

Author’s Note: I wrote this close to two years ago. It’s not quite the best piece of writing I’ve done by a long shot, but it still is special to me in a unique way.

The Magnolias Still Bloom

Some friends who were going through the story suggested that I include a post which links to all the chapters in the story together, to make for easier reading. So, here goes:

 

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

 

Once again, I must thank all you folks who read the story and kept me going throughout. Thank you!

I have miles to go to be a better writer, though this story was one of the more satisfying pieces I have written so far.

Gandhi!

Yes, I know it’s been another trip away from Insanity Avenue for me. However, life has been pretty busy with poor me being carpet bombed with assignments, exams, deadlines, group projects and god knows what all!

 

One of the highlights of the week gone by was the submission of an assignment on Gandhi. One of the Hindu scriptures, the Mahanarayana Upanishad, lists down some 12 pillars of leadership excellence. We had to evaluate Gandhi according to those pillars and comment on him.

 

I do have my reasons (or biases if you want to call them that) against that half-naked fakir. However, for academic purposes, I decided to be as fair to him as possible.

 

I don’t really consider him the architect of our freedom. In fact, personally I think we won freedom not because of Gandhi, but despite him. However, I do appreciate the fact that he was a man with an iron will, and was truthful throughout his life.

 

Still, I don’t think sleeping with two naked girls embracing you just so that you can prove your chastity and show the world that you shun sexual pleasures is not noble, it is sick! (Especially if one of those girls happens to be your grand niece.)

 

Also, my research indicated that he was not really trying to do some good when he refused to disembark from a ‘white’ compartment in South Africa. Apparently, he was just trying to protect the rights of upper caste Indians. (In fact, he wrote many letters to the South African government referring to the blacks as ‘kaffirs’.)

 

Agreed that he did practice penance and self-denial. However, the Upanishad says that self-denial practiced to attain some goal or purpose is ‘asuri tapas’ – meaning it is somewhat devilish or satanic. (Not exactly though, but the English language has no suitable translation there.)

 

One positive about him was that he was frugal and a man of few needs. He didn’t mind touring abroad in just a flimsy loincloth.

 

The conclusion that I reached was that being a human, he did have his set of failings and weaknesses. However, there were many positive contributions also that he made. Still, I think that ‘Father of the Nation’ is a bit too much.

 

Your take?