"Lets see how crude will behave today".
Thus said the news anchor for Business Buzz on Times Now. Whenever I have to reveal to everyone that I watch news I feel like I have been caught with my pants down.
But this statement made me think.
As if crude has a mind of its own. Day in and day out I have to hear about the different indices moving up and down. The Wholesale Price Index and the inflation rate inching away. The dollar against the rupee. Oft heard jargons, and holi colored graphs. And so on and so forth.
They talk of these things as if they are all animate. And have a mind of their own. As if they are worms which decide one fine day to move some different way. And we humans are so helpless.
Sometimes I think we are such fools. We think we control the world and then have these worms controlling us.
Mar 29, 2007
Mar 26, 2007
Tired!
Since consciousness there have been about a thousand Monday's. In school, in college, in university, in office and on each stage.
Each week is like a crossroad. Each week is like an opportunity. The light seems to be just around the corner.
Signs of potential and traces of brilliance. Inflated consciousness and bubble-like sensitivity. Mediocrity, laze and lady luck walking hand in hand. Immaturity and a deep sense of wisdom.
All talk but no substance. The stick of pride dipped in ego. Insecurity yet envy. Impatience and inaction. A deep seated desire yet no dreams out of fear. No stage because of cold feet.
Contradictions at crossroads. Fluctuating fickleness. Shame stirred with embarassment.
Life's like a big rollercoaster waiting to be turned on.
Am I talking of the India cricket team??
Each week is like a crossroad. Each week is like an opportunity. The light seems to be just around the corner.
Signs of potential and traces of brilliance. Inflated consciousness and bubble-like sensitivity. Mediocrity, laze and lady luck walking hand in hand. Immaturity and a deep sense of wisdom.
All talk but no substance. The stick of pride dipped in ego. Insecurity yet envy. Impatience and inaction. A deep seated desire yet no dreams out of fear. No stage because of cold feet.
Contradictions at crossroads. Fluctuating fickleness. Shame stirred with embarassment.
Life's like a big rollercoaster waiting to be turned on.
Am I talking of the India cricket team??
Mar 23, 2007
Waiting?
With all the talk of a March end meet I got myself a new hair cut. June loves it.
But all concerned parties are just silence personified.
We three are ready. What about the others??
Looks like my Rs. 60 is wasted.
But all concerned parties are just silence personified.
We three are ready. What about the others??
Looks like my Rs. 60 is wasted.
Maa' m a Mia
To us all she was the ubiquitous Mrs. Chatterjee. Buxom and with a face more like Moon Sen. In my 12 years in CBS she never wore anything but the slingy sleeveles blouse.
Her physique was more like what the crowd in Chennai roots for but in Class VII she was our elixir. Even at 35 she was as coy as a newly married.
There she was getting up again with her frail son who studied in Class II. This H.B. Sarkar's bus which used to ferry us to and from school was already full. Only the seat next to me was empty (it had to be otherwise how would the story be born).
I offered the window seat. The archetypal Bengali mother allowed her archetypal Bengali son to seat while she hung on beside me.
I was still in the learning phase about the birds and bees. But very often I could hear the hum from inside but could never understand it. It was those exploratory times when you start stretching at some stages. And then one day you realise that there is also an explosion after the hum. Slowly you also discover the conditions of such explosions.
But it was early days for me. And this was 1987.
This bus'seat was a little bit higher than usual. It made my small feet dangle and made the whole thing unmanly. But today with Mrs. Chatterjee's armpit above my eyes and her pouting tummy well within sniffing distance I could hear the humming sound again.
Up and down, right and left. Keshtoda was at his tumbling best. Each time he would press hard she would press against me. And each time she looked at me coyly.
Jiyo Keshtoda. But why are u driving so fast. The 40 minutes whizzed past and I was only left with the smell. It was only a year later when I discovered the cause of the hum.
Atleast Mrs. Chatterjee was coy all through.
Her physique was more like what the crowd in Chennai roots for but in Class VII she was our elixir. Even at 35 she was as coy as a newly married.
There she was getting up again with her frail son who studied in Class II. This H.B. Sarkar's bus which used to ferry us to and from school was already full. Only the seat next to me was empty (it had to be otherwise how would the story be born).
I offered the window seat. The archetypal Bengali mother allowed her archetypal Bengali son to seat while she hung on beside me.
I was still in the learning phase about the birds and bees. But very often I could hear the hum from inside but could never understand it. It was those exploratory times when you start stretching at some stages. And then one day you realise that there is also an explosion after the hum. Slowly you also discover the conditions of such explosions.
But it was early days for me. And this was 1987.
This bus'seat was a little bit higher than usual. It made my small feet dangle and made the whole thing unmanly. But today with Mrs. Chatterjee's armpit above my eyes and her pouting tummy well within sniffing distance I could hear the humming sound again.
Up and down, right and left. Keshtoda was at his tumbling best. Each time he would press hard she would press against me. And each time she looked at me coyly.
Jiyo Keshtoda. But why are u driving so fast. The 40 minutes whizzed past and I was only left with the smell. It was only a year later when I discovered the cause of the hum.
Atleast Mrs. Chatterjee was coy all through.
Mar 22, 2007
Mar 15, 2007
Parveen Akhtar
Mom was yet to arrive. In a family as big as ours it was easy for a 9 year old to get lost. Everybody loved me but no one seemed to notice my pain. There was only Laluda who understood my predicament.
Each morning he reminded me that I had to go to school. Each day I cried. I just could not get out of it. Each day Maa'm would call me at her desk and console me. That was the only time of the day I felt good. The rest of the day would be spent in acute depression and waiting for the next round of mollycoddle.
All this continued till Ms. Akhtar's patience snapped. She took her ruler and gave me a royal spanking, her plaits lashing around my face. It was only at Laluda's insistence I was back to school the next day.
"Kaushik Som!" She called out. I refused to say yes. She looked at me and put her tick. Later that day she called me to the staff room during lunch hours. She explained and explained. And she wrapped me around her. The smell of starch is still so fresh. That made it.
Next day she changed my place. Two days later my mom returned with my 4 year old bro. And my life was getting normal. And each day I carried a flower from my father's rose blooms. He didnt mind. He liked flaunting them and they were getting good publicity.
However it is when I knocked off this flower to take it to Maa'm that my dad was furious. It bloomed once in 12 years and rarely does so in a pot. He had managed the impossible. And didnt even have a look at it. A few rounds of spanks and he finally felt OK.
Life was going pretty well and everyday my adorations grew for my Maa'm. A year passed on and I had to move on to the next class. Ms. Akhtar would continue where she was. In that one year I grew up so much. I was feeling so bad. Mr. D' Souza would be our next class teacher I found out.
No flowers, no hugs, no crying, no nonsense.
The annual holiday were on and we had a trip to Musoorie & Dehradun. I was enjoying my holidays. I reasoned that Ms. Akhtar was not leaving school. So I would see her everyday.
One evening while I was taking a walk on the Musoorie Mall struggling with my Candyfloss I was taken aback. There she was walking in a group. She was in her jeans, wearing a "sleevless" shirt. It was 1984.
She was clinging to a man laughing and chattering. Ms. Akhtar was not married. How could she hold onto a man like that? How could she wear that stuff? I could not stand the sight.
My world for a moment came apart. I hid myself behind a crowd. I thought over and over. How? How? I was disgusted and felt glad that I was moving onto Mr. D' Souza' class. I didnt look her straight in her eyes ever since.
Mr. D' Souza was married and was an extremely nice man. I liked him and thought he was a good teacher till I found out six years later that he was having an affair with Ms. Parveen Akhtar.
Mrs. Chatterjee it seems was better.
Each morning he reminded me that I had to go to school. Each day I cried. I just could not get out of it. Each day Maa'm would call me at her desk and console me. That was the only time of the day I felt good. The rest of the day would be spent in acute depression and waiting for the next round of mollycoddle.
All this continued till Ms. Akhtar's patience snapped. She took her ruler and gave me a royal spanking, her plaits lashing around my face. It was only at Laluda's insistence I was back to school the next day.
"Kaushik Som!" She called out. I refused to say yes. She looked at me and put her tick. Later that day she called me to the staff room during lunch hours. She explained and explained. And she wrapped me around her. The smell of starch is still so fresh. That made it.
Next day she changed my place. Two days later my mom returned with my 4 year old bro. And my life was getting normal. And each day I carried a flower from my father's rose blooms. He didnt mind. He liked flaunting them and they were getting good publicity.
However it is when I knocked off this flower to take it to Maa'm that my dad was furious. It bloomed once in 12 years and rarely does so in a pot. He had managed the impossible. And didnt even have a look at it. A few rounds of spanks and he finally felt OK.
Life was going pretty well and everyday my adorations grew for my Maa'm. A year passed on and I had to move on to the next class. Ms. Akhtar would continue where she was. In that one year I grew up so much. I was feeling so bad. Mr. D' Souza would be our next class teacher I found out.
No flowers, no hugs, no crying, no nonsense.
The annual holiday were on and we had a trip to Musoorie & Dehradun. I was enjoying my holidays. I reasoned that Ms. Akhtar was not leaving school. So I would see her everyday.
One evening while I was taking a walk on the Musoorie Mall struggling with my Candyfloss I was taken aback. There she was walking in a group. She was in her jeans, wearing a "sleevless" shirt. It was 1984.
She was clinging to a man laughing and chattering. Ms. Akhtar was not married. How could she hold onto a man like that? How could she wear that stuff? I could not stand the sight.
My world for a moment came apart. I hid myself behind a crowd. I thought over and over. How? How? I was disgusted and felt glad that I was moving onto Mr. D' Souza' class. I didnt look her straight in her eyes ever since.
Mr. D' Souza was married and was an extremely nice man. I liked him and thought he was a good teacher till I found out six years later that he was having an affair with Ms. Parveen Akhtar.
Mrs. Chatterjee it seems was better.
Mar 13, 2007
Maa' m
June 1983. First day of school in a new academic year.
Like usual I was one of the first to reach school. I had to take the best seat. That would be mine to keep for the rest of the year. All assembled and the teacher (I dont remember her name) was doing the roll call.
Kaushik Som! I had to wait for my alphabetic turn. I always had to wait an eternity. Only Sourav Talukdar had to wait longer. My fault! I was born into the Soms.
However my name was not called out. I was apparently sent into section B. They usually knocked off the last names from the list to manage the numbers. I had to face that 3 times in my school life.
So? I took my bag walked across the corridor. And there she was sitting and calling out the names. I now know the word - Ethereal.
Merriam Webster uses the following phrases to describe the word
.. of or relating to the regions beyond the earth
.. celestial, heavenly
.. unworldly, spiritual
.. lacking material substance
.. marked by unusual delicacy or refinement
.. suggesting the heavens or heaven
Parveen Akhtar was all. It was another one of the many ephiphanic moments of my life.
She looked so delicate. She was in a brown cotton saree in keeping with her complexion and the dignity she oozed. Not one pleat was out of place. Thats how I always saw her till the day I left school 10 years later.
Each name rolling out of her mouth was like sweet music. So, she would call out my name every day of that one year in school? Good Morning Maa' m! Can I..??
Did I feel lucky?
I thought so but not till I had walked till the end of the class and took my place among the backbenchers. Ankan Basu and his gang were ready to gobble me up. It was just Std. III but they knew everything. Everything about everything and what made Ms. Akhtar Ms.
I had this strange feeling in my stomach. Ms. Akhtar was there (she was too far) but I felt devastated. My mom was in Nagpur. I had volunteered to come early with my dad. I had to attend school from day 1 so that I could choose my own seat amongst my pals.
What a cruel turn of fate. No friends, sitting in the last bench with a bunch of no hopers. Could people lose hope at Std. III? Tears filled up my heart and forced its way up my eyes. I never cried in school before.
"Maa' m! he is crying".
I didnt want this to happen. I didnt want to be caught up in school crying. Not in front of her. I tried my best to hold up. But I could'nt.
Ms. Akhtar called me up to her seat. I dont remember anything of what she said. However I do remember her hands run through my hair, trying to comfort me. I didnt touch my disheveled locks the whole day till the water next day rolled it straight.
What followed was a year of stargazing, looking at the celestial being, till that evening in Musoorie..
More in Next..
Like usual I was one of the first to reach school. I had to take the best seat. That would be mine to keep for the rest of the year. All assembled and the teacher (I dont remember her name) was doing the roll call.
Kaushik Som! I had to wait for my alphabetic turn. I always had to wait an eternity. Only Sourav Talukdar had to wait longer. My fault! I was born into the Soms.
However my name was not called out. I was apparently sent into section B. They usually knocked off the last names from the list to manage the numbers. I had to face that 3 times in my school life.
So? I took my bag walked across the corridor. And there she was sitting and calling out the names. I now know the word - Ethereal.
Merriam Webster uses the following phrases to describe the word
.. of or relating to the regions beyond the earth
.. celestial, heavenly
.. unworldly, spiritual
.. lacking material substance
.. marked by unusual delicacy or refinement
.. suggesting the heavens or heaven
Parveen Akhtar was all. It was another one of the many ephiphanic moments of my life.
She looked so delicate. She was in a brown cotton saree in keeping with her complexion and the dignity she oozed. Not one pleat was out of place. Thats how I always saw her till the day I left school 10 years later.
Each name rolling out of her mouth was like sweet music. So, she would call out my name every day of that one year in school? Good Morning Maa' m! Can I..??
Did I feel lucky?
I thought so but not till I had walked till the end of the class and took my place among the backbenchers. Ankan Basu and his gang were ready to gobble me up. It was just Std. III but they knew everything. Everything about everything and what made Ms. Akhtar Ms.
I had this strange feeling in my stomach. Ms. Akhtar was there (she was too far) but I felt devastated. My mom was in Nagpur. I had volunteered to come early with my dad. I had to attend school from day 1 so that I could choose my own seat amongst my pals.
What a cruel turn of fate. No friends, sitting in the last bench with a bunch of no hopers. Could people lose hope at Std. III? Tears filled up my heart and forced its way up my eyes. I never cried in school before.
"Maa' m! he is crying".
I didnt want this to happen. I didnt want to be caught up in school crying. Not in front of her. I tried my best to hold up. But I could'nt.
Ms. Akhtar called me up to her seat. I dont remember anything of what she said. However I do remember her hands run through my hair, trying to comfort me. I didnt touch my disheveled locks the whole day till the water next day rolled it straight.
What followed was a year of stargazing, looking at the celestial being, till that evening in Musoorie..
More in Next..
No, this is not Parveen Akhtar. But she would run her close.