To my Son

Hey bud,

Ever since you were born, I have been wanting to pen down a letter to you. I procrastinate a lot, and may be you should try and change that for you. But it is ok even if you do not, like my father tells me “after all you are my blood”. I initially wanted you to read this when you are eighteen, but then the pace at which your generation would grow would be much more than mine. So please try and read this when you turn thirteen. I was lucky enough to make it back to India for your delivery, or else I would have missed out on witnessing one of the best blessings bestowed upon me. Your birth.

Birth and death cannot be decided by one self, and so you had no choice other than to be born to us. Just like I have been blessed with amazing parents, you have been blessed with a very beautiful mother, who have undergone all the possible pain and hormonal changes on her body, to have given birth to you. I have been a witness to this and it bought out tears in me seeing her in pain. You would realise this at a later stage when you become a father, but son, do not keep waiting till then to keep your mother happy. She is your best teacher and friend and no school can give you what she would. So take all that she gives, without thinking twice about it, cause she would never want ray of darkness coming your way, you are a piece of her body after all.

Understanding people and what they expect from a person, have been an issue with me all my life. I have been unpredictable throughout my life. Now this sounds good in movies, when a hot tanned model with millions of followers express the attire of her desired man. But when it comes to real life, this may not be as good as they show it in reel life. Having said that, some surprises for sure win many hearts. So raise to the occasion when needed, be considerate about the best people in life. Ultimately they are the ones who are with you in life and in death. I have had my share of pie in this and this has hurt both your mother and mine. So bud, never hurt them.

You are now stepping into teen, the time of your life when most of your body and mind goes under transformation. The tiny little 3.05kg kid that I cut off from your mother’s umbilical chord around 11.50 am would have now grown into a handsome teen. You are yet to learn how to crawl when I write this. I really hope and pray I am with you when you read this letter, but even if am not, its ok lad, you are stronger than you think, having been brought up by the best woman in the world, your mother. So enjoy this time of your life to the fullest, make a lot of friends, have fun, explore places, learn a new thing every day. You keep learning till your last breath.

Its already five minutes past three in the morning, the week begins tomorrow and I have back-to-back meeting at work whole day. I still cant get sleep as your cuteness has overtaken all my thoughts. May you be blessed baby.

With Love.

Appoopan Thaadi (Pappus/Indian Milk Weed)

The summer of early 90's made us fall in love with cricket, a curly haired, shorty had stepped on to the cricketing world and had his name engraved in people's heart and mind. The impact was so much that, even kids belonging to a small village in a football frenzy state had evolved as his fans. It was couple of years to the assassination of Rajiv Gandhi, television in the neighbor’s home had only the national channel and on field cricket consumed most of our days. Back then, the real estate business had not imbibed our villages. We had vast open spaces between our homes, our homes had big compounds. Compounds with fruits and vegetable cultivation. Back then, most of the vegetables needed for basic consumption were cultivated at home. In between those large compounds, we found our cricket ground. The four sides of it surrounded by forest weed and random flora. We made our pitch in the center of it, where dry soil was available.


Teams were split based on our area, matches began as soon as the elders at home left for work. Most of us where at the age group of 5 to 7 and we were either in the process of going to grade one in school, or already had first-hand experience of wearing a school uniform. Cricket balls made of rubber were bought at five rupees and we had to put our share to make it five. Those were actually my first lessons at team building and coordinating a purchase from the real market. If we were lucky, some body's distant uncle working in Dubai would have gifted him a cricket bat and he would have turned up to play, else it was the bat made of coconut branch with the bicycle air tube cut out, as its grip that gave us the professional feel.


We lost quite few of the rubber balls hit into the dense forest weed regions of the ground. If we had someone field there, we got the balls back, else that was the day. It was one of those days, when we lost the ball as soon as the match began, and all of us walked back home. I was under irritable depression, I was the one batting and had hardly faced any balls. Those were the days, when fifty paisa coins meant a world to us and donations were scarce. We had our inhibitions, to step out to the dense areas of forest weeds and search for the ball alone. We had spotted snakes once in a while and people at home never let us get there alone. With all the guts I had gained of watching Mowgli in Jungle Book, I decided to step out there, in search for the lost ball.


 Few minutes into the search and I had already grown restless, the sun was piercing through the branches of various trees and light breeze had the branches sway in its rhythm, I looked up to the heavens in desperation and like a revelation, a milky white bunch of light silky hairs came down from the sky, making its way in between the branches rocking to the rhythm of breeze. It was floating in the air, and never wanted to land. At first I was scared, and the more time it took to come down, my fear turned into curiosity and curiosity turned into delight. It had a tiny brownish seed from which the silky hairs had grown, I tried to reach out for it and the breeze took it far from me, the more I tried to chase it, the more it went far, it continued to float and I followed it with excitement. I was almost to have it land in my palm, the breeze took it away and hit the tamarind tree on its way.


 I felt dejected and heart broken, it wasn't flying anymore, it had lost its life and laid there resting itself on the thick grass. I rushed towards the tree and placed it in my palm with utmost care. I wanted to give it first aid and looked around, that is when reality struck me. I had already come long across to the dense forest weed area, where snakes were found. A shiver went down my spine, and I wanted to rush back. I couldn't find the way out, I couldn't find the way I came in, I was lost, scared and wanted to cry. I placed the silky hairs in my pocket and tried to rush back, while doing so, I stumbled upon the brown color five rupee ball that we lost that morning. For once I felt like a warrior who went to war and came back conquering the enemy territory. I had the war booty and the princes of the kingdom I conquered.


 I rushed back to grandma who was busy with her house chores, and narrated the events that unfolded sometime back. I showed her the silky haired creature and fret about its health. She looked at me with kind smile, and narrated the story of Appoopan Thaadi, the silky hair seed that I had confused to be a creature.


 They don't have life of their own, yet they imbibe life from the breeze that its surroundings provide. They don't have their destiny, yet they lead others. They come down from the sky in groups or alone, sway itself with the breeze and act restless, yet they calm our restless nerves. "Appoopan Thaadi" (grandfather’s beard) as they are called, are just like our wise old men at home, who have lived their destiny, yet show us the way to ours.


 Years have passed, and I sit glued to my chair at work on the 9th floor of a tower, sipping my fifth mug of coffee, having worked for the past 12 hours and slept 3 hours last night. The Middle Eastern summer has kicked off and I find myself away from the cricket grounds and the dense forest weeds, this time in the middle of concreate jungle, inhibited, waiting for an Appoopan Thaadi to help me find what am looking for.


TRK.
    

The Indian Muslim

If Wikipedia is to be believed Islam is the fastest growing religion in India. India is already home to around 180-200 million Muslims approximately, which is around 16-18 percent of the total population of India. Off the world Muslim population, Indian Muslims would rank in the first three. Does this Muslim community follow Islam as it was taught by the holly prophet is another point of debate. But what we can be assured is that, the above mentioned quanta of human beings carry Muslim names and tick Islam in the check box for religion in their passports, identity card or ration cards.
So what is the real problem Indian Muslims are facing today? Is it the forced conversions those have been making headlines off late, Is it the various political groups taking unwanted advantage of the plight of certain sections of the Muslim community, Is it the names those pop up on news channels after a series of blasts have happened, Is it the love jihad that the media had invented few years back after few men with Muslim names married women of other religions, Is it the uneducated “Maulana’s” making random fatwa for political gains Or is it the stereo typed Muslim images that have been portrayed by the Indian film Industry at large. The questions are many, and finding a solution to it is difficult considering the range of problems and the size of the population.
We are living in times where the world Muslims at large has been facing some serious issues. Every war on terror as put by the western media mostly controlled by the Zionists has been targeted on people with Muslim names. The question as to whether their claims are true or false is subjected to various permutation and combination of credibility issues. But this does have an effect on the Indian Muslims and it cannot be neglected.
Nobody wants to believe what the Muslim community says or does while Islam in itself means peace. Information is distorted, news has been fabricated, and truth is in the hiding. Nobody living on earth today can keep his hand on his heart and say what news channels show is pure truth and fabrication of news hasn't happened. The same news is shown with different perspectives that two persons would read the same piece of news and conclude on two different levels of assertions.
We are indeed living in troubled waters, air turbulence's and social unrest. The way a Muslim in Kerala would react to an issue is not the same way a Muslim in U.P, Bihar or Delhi would react. The difference being the level of education attained. Kerala has always been the Indian representative in the Middle east; the birth place of Islam. The Malabar region of Kerala has always been connected to Middle East through trade from very ancient times. Probably that is the reason why you would find the Malabar Muslims more inclined to Pan Arabic/ Islamic Culture.
The Muslims in the rest of India predominantly have come through the Mughals or other emperors who invaded the northern part of India. Probably that is the reason you find the Islamic beliefs in northern India distorted and hence a common Muslim is less educated in Islamic beliefs and teachings. This indeed is a problem as people do not know to read and understand the Quran as it is and depends largely on random Clergies who themselves are half educated about what they preach.
It’s impossible to discuss the problems faced by Indian Muslims in today’s changing communal environment in an article. But one of the best ways to improve the situation would be to educate the Indian Muslims about what Islam is in actuality. If every Islamic organization in the country takes up the task of educating Muslims in an area alone, it would be much simpler to live as a Muslim in India. It is easier said than done, but one step towards it would mean one step towards goodness. Who knows in future India can control the world Muslim matters at large. Middle east is anyway turning its head off true Islam.

T.R.K

The Jack Strap - Story of My Last Under Wear

Caution: The following write up contains below the belt terms like "underwear" "boxer" "straps". Hence considering the complexities involved with public morality these days, you might want to quit reading this now and turn on to twinkle. Others who wish to continue reading may do so at their own risk, please do not disclose it with parents, should you do so, the awkward moments to follow is urs. Oops! I meant yours.

Between 2008 and 2010, when my teenage had abruptly left me and youth was yet to pick me up from the lanes of kennet lane, Egmore, Chennai. I had let few fancies grow in me. One of them was the possession of branded under wears. I still do not have any clue to the growth of this particular fantasy in me, Jithin and I had a photo shoot to woo few on the list, by showing of the strap of "jockey" above the belt and that probably took few years to leave me.

In a year from then I had bought almost all the costly brands available in the Chennai market, original of course. Brands from Jockey to Van Husen made my basket. Branded underwear was some kind of a pride, with me Azad too shifted his under wear preferences, while Rameez still stuck to his Saudi road side brand Al-Aisha, later only to find it from Munavvar that the same brand was found in the bus stands of Kerala. The only two brands I missed out were Calvin Klein and Dolce & Gabbana. D&G was the one SRK wore, that he showed off while cheering for KKR in the IPL matches. I couldn't find both in Chennai when i shopped.

One another reason for the huge possession of under wears were the length between two cloth washing episodes. Normally it was once a fortnight, but with the kind of innovations I had around me, a week more never gave me any glitch. Siraj had once even introduced me to an economic method of wearing under wear using the "A side" and "B side", just in case i ran out of under wears. But thanks to all those under wears that i had bought over a period of time, i never had to resort to the A side and B side technique.

By the mid 2010, my stipend pay cheques had started soaring, the recession was almost outdone in the capital markets and i had decided to use my money wisely. Zaheer send me an invitation to Mangalore for his sister's engagement which I found difficult to turn down. In the month of July when the Individual IT returns were nearing the dead line I couldn't afford to take a two day leave. To rejoin work on Monday, i had to fly back to Chennai on Sunday eve from Mangalore. The official arrival at Chennai was scheduled at 9.30 pm. But the King Fisher flight schedule had different plans that night, so they dropped us at Bangalore and would later fly us to Chennai late in the night by 1am. They did provide for a compromise dinner and cab home from the airport in Chennai.

By the time things were settled i found my self in the company of  a Chennai based business man, who was talking to me about smoking grass while we ate our not so good Veg dinner at the Bangalore airport. Later we decided to take a walk around the duty free as the time moved very slow that night. To my surprise and more to my amusement, I found the Calvin Klein under wears on sale there! Oh boy, it was very tempting, I had wanted to buy one of those for quite sometime, but then I had also decided to use money wisely, specifically on standing instructions from Sadia.

There I was, stuck in two minds, on one side was CK, on the other side was the economist in me. With a bit of guilt and greed i put forward my hand and took out a box of CK that had flat 50% off. Till that date, I had herd about various types of under wears, but that was the first time I read Jack Strap on an under wear box. That made me feel triumphant as none of my friends had bought a Jack Strap underwear before/ That was it, i forgot about the economy and savings, i pulled out one box of my size and walked for billing.

The business man gave a weird smile seeing me with the box, what no body buys an under wear from duty free I thought to myself. At the counter, the two ladies looked at each and giggled, I was furious at their orthodox shyness on seeing underwear for men. That night, i reached late to hostel and as a result I had to miss my 9.30 break fast. I was trying to dress up in a hurry and then decided to wear the new CK to work. Its always good to be fresh beginning of the week.

I hurriedly took out the box of CK, unpacked it, put my left leg in, and then the right leg only to find my back exposed without a piece of cloth! I took the box and turned to its back side to find the back part of d underwear model smiling at me. All those lady giggles, the weird smile told me a lot of stories about the impression I made in their minds. That was the last time i bought an underwear, ever since then i started putting my trust on boxers alone.

PS: Under wears can cause you irritation, Switch to boxers, the benefits are plenty. ( If you know what I mean :P )

T.R.K

THE GANGS OF PALLIKKUTH L.P SCHOOL, CHANDAPARAMB

The idea of forming gangs is something I have found it hard to understand. Gangs just gets formed. Oops groups is what I meant. Now I haven't studied psychology, but my master of all trades father says he had studied psychology as a subject. Probably that had some impact on me, I keep thinking about the possible permutations and combinations that ever led to the formation of a group.

It was the month of June, and for the first time in my life I wore the white n blue uniform that the school kids at PALLIKKUTH L.P SCHOOL, CHANDAPARAMB wore when I used to be a mute spectator at the "anganvadi" (play school cum kindergarten). I was pretty reluctant to go the play school, but the big ground, the long building, and loads of children including the ones from my family and neighbourhood always made me eager to be part of this wonderful world called schooling.
                                                 
I was ready with my uniform, and I hated it that only my shirt was tucked inside my shorts, while the others had it out. When I got my first school kit, that had slate with my name written on it and pencil, mother informed me that I would be going to school with andu, muthu, immalu. Now immalu was in 4th grade so she was the most senior and andu was in 2nd.

I and muthu were going for the first time to school. We both were to join school together, we both had the same nickname and we both are family. My parents had to prepend my date of birth to 26th of may from July cause I had to be five to join grade one.
           
The bonding between us were always amazing, we played outside every now and then we got a chance to. During recess I walked to the extreme corner on the right of the big ground and looked at the kids at the anganvaadi and felt I have achieved glory. There were kids from all sides of the village, the west, east, south, north and the centre.

Year passed by, immalu got promoted to 5th grade and left for the U.P school. We were only 3 guys since then and we started mingling more with kids from other sides. We were from the centre, and we had other kids who joined us, but we made all the decisions as to what to play and where to play. Unknowingly we formed a group, and thanks to the mainstream Indian cinema, we enacted the gangs.

We walked together, made a cricket team of our own, and some times had fights with the kids from the other side. But we always won, none of the kids actually dared much against us cause my uncle was the senior Arabic teacher at the school.

That was the time when a guy from the railway gate side came to me and challenged me to stick chewing gum on the hair of a guy from the east side. That was a simple job, I didn't think twice, I had a big babool in my mouth that I took in my hand stuck on his head between his hair. I walked back to the guy who challenged with a punk rock bgm I never heard before in my life. But that was more of a self realization for me of the fact that chewing gum if stuck on hair hardly came of it without pain.

The boy was crying and for the first time in life I felt betrayed by the guy who knowingly challenged me. The recess was almost over and the bell was about to ring when the half bald Gopalakrishnan, the senior teacher at the school called me to the varanda outside the staff room. And kids had gathered around in huge amount as if there was a magic show happening, I was in the center with him and the kid with chewing gum on his head was crying. He pulled my hands out, took a step back and waked me with a stick. My hand was red, swollen, and I cried bad.

Andu probably ran out of the school compound and called NANA PA (grandpa) who was just outside at the tea shop. When he came to see me, I cried further, he was always over protective about me.

He took me out to the tea shop and got me "pazhampori" and tea. Later he dropped me back to school and shouted at the teacher for having beaten me so bad, and hell yeah me and my gang did hi fi. We some times sang songs about the baldness of the teacher who bate me. We rejoiced our victory, random kids praised us, others stayed away.

That formed my first group that turned into a gang even before we realized that we were a group of kids with similar liking and love for each other.

T.R.K

Thalla Kozhi - The mother hen

Not so long ago I feared walking through the backyard of my house to the small market in my village. The houses in this part of the world have big compounds and most of your neighbours are your relatives. The houses have always two gates or more, one would be for the outsiders to come and the other would be through the compound, cutting across the few houses in the neighbourhood to the roadside and into the market.
That was always the side I used to walk to the market. The compound is filled with dry leaves of sundry trees, the coconut fallen scattered on the ground, pepper creepers on few trees, an electric post and not to forget the little birds those kept the bgm going. The best thing about my village is that it has all the calmness and innocence of an old village with loving people and all the facilities that could give the metros a competition.

Off all the creatures in the backyard were hen a d her kids. Something that is common in animals and humans are the love for their kids, parents are always protective. The hen was also protective, if anyone goes near her she would shake herself and get ready to peck you, sometimes run after you and you are stuck in a dilemma whether to run or stay there try and shoo it away and get pecked by her.

Every time I walked through that side to the market she came to attack me, I used to get past her at times, at times I have stood staring at her as if it was the beginning of a martial art sequence in a Jackie Chan movie. Day by day I hated walking through the backyard to the market and this hen had been the prime reasons of all which I didn't disclose to anyone in the family.

Sometimes I used to think about it and feel bad for it. She stays in a house with her kids, a small house which they sometimes would never know who made it. Not guarded by foxes if any had come down from the small mountain near by, or the pythons those crept by ones in a while. She didn't have the freedom to walk out without fear, a stone released from someone's hand might see her handicapped or kill her kids. Yet she lived her life to the full, broke the shackles of her fear and walked out in search of food with her kids, protecting them and attacking anyone who passed close to her.

Few days later on a busy evening I decided to walk by the backyard to the market, and to my surprise the hen and her kids where not in the vicinity, the next day morning too I couldn't find them blocking my way. For once after so long I felt I walked slowly through the backyard.
Evening when I got back I saw my uncle covering up a small hole in a corner of the compound, as he walked back to the veranda of the house, he informed that the rotten smell last night was of the hen that used to walk around in the compound. That had been found dead under the long branches of the coconut tree piled up around a water apple tree.

I felt sad on losing a creature that spread a message to the busy mankind by its life. It had very short boundaries to live in but it lived with freedom, fearless, happy. We have endless boundaries compared to her, we are still tied up, lost in the big world.

T.R.K

The Legacy

I was three and more of a kid who was anxious to know things. I was told I was never shy of talking to anyone. That was the first instance of conversation i had with my grandfather as a kid that I remember now. He came after the morning prayer from the mosque and appeared in front of me from the morning mist. A black framed specs, a woollen topi of black, black color kurta suit and a white pajama.He was elegance personified, I never saw him young, he was always that medium sized man with great energy. He told me loads of stories when ever I sat beside him on an eve.

As times passed and I grew the conversations with him too changed. He was never angry with me, probably because I was his only grandkid who met him only once in two years. And I always loved the fact that he gave me more attention than anyone. He was calm, composed, and pleasant. His life was very simple and had its own style and elegance.  
He had built a school after his retirement from being a professor and a unani medical practitioner. The school was pretty small of all the schools I had seen in my life, but it's significance was the best among all the schools I had seen.

Built in a more under rated village of U.P where kids never went to the primary school, where the parents never felt the need to educate their kids, where the government itself didn't have a proper school, where more than three fourth of the people lived under the bpl, the english medium school was of great significance.

The pain he had in putting up the school, getting books and stationary for the kids who paid 75rs for their term,the transformation of a freedom fighter and a social activist in his early days to a social worker who worked for the well being of the uneducated sans retirement, I found a hero in my grandfather.I always wanted to help him once I would start earning, the last time we met in delhi he was still as energetic as any one in his mid forty would be,had loads of plans for the development of the school in kathiraon,the major one being accredition of cbse syllabus which still looked a distant dream.

We discussed,debated on many topics, anna hazare to satyam scam, Islamic socialism to its functionality and benefits to the democratic set up and there was no end to the conversation, till I left Delhi. He probably saw me get on to the taxi and stood near the gate till the taxi faded off from his sight, I never turned back to look at him for I knew I would see him with tears and I didn't want to carry his sad face in my memory.

Its exactly six months to our last meeting and iam back to Delhi, but this time, all I have here is his memories, his books, his writings, his dresses. Probably he has gone back to Banaras to his village "kathiraon",and would be at the head's chair in Minnat Jahan Razak modern academy where he normally sat on any working day. I know that is not true, but I like to keep it that way, I like to dream that he is still there and he would still ring me someday with his polite sound on the other side of the phone that would address me as "babu".

He lives in me and probably many more of those to whom he was a hero. I would never want to go back to "Kathiraon" and not see him there, standing at the door with his innocent smile. His legacy would continue.

T.R.K

Monte-greens

I was 5 and the only kid to my parents and was a huge fan of cricket. Don’t remember how it all happened, I was a huge Indian team fan, me and the kids in the hood followed everything that the Indian team did on the Panasonic color television imported from Saudi in the neighbor’s house. Life was much free then, I didn’t have to think twice before doing anything, we got the bats carved out of the branches of the coconut tree, five rupees rubber balls that was funded by fifty paise shares by each of the kids, stumps made out of the unused firewood, and a foursquare barren land in the hood that was our home ground.

 Sachin was always the hero; we distributed the lemon toffees that cost 10 paise when India won. As the craze for cricket grew in us, we tried our hands at making the leg pads which never materialized mainly due to the anarchy of the parents. When we couldn’t afford the five rupee rubber balls we tried making them using the plastic wastes which also ended up as a failed backhouse R & D. Grand mom was the savior to us as she helped us tie the plastic covers together and make a round shape out of them tying torn cotton cloths around. We hired the R&D from my grandmother.

We played matches with the kids who lived on the other side of the road, kids who were not any associate of the P.C family, kids who lived on the other side of the fields and kids who lived near the big mosque. We made sunglasses out of old x-ray prints and their frames with thick paper so that it looked exactly like what the players wore on the screen. We tried to dive like the Australian wicket keeper (the Indian wicket keepers never dived then) and often the skin peeled of our elbows. Life was all about playing cricket in the sun, setting up matches for egg puffs (pronounced as pupps) and the broken tamarind branches that used to run behind me when Ammi didn’t see me back home after dusk.

Like the craze for cricket the craze for the products that the players marketed also grew. Everybody loved drinking boost and buying the sports star magazine which had stickers of world cricketers. That was the first time I saw a television commercial that had Sachin drinking a dark brown liquid. At first I confused it as boost, and later realized that it was nowhere near it, I couldn’t read English then and never knew what the black liquid with a round logo in a 350 ml soda bottle meant.

As a kid I always wanted to drink it, I showed the bottle on a flex board that again had sachin with his happy smile, to my father and he told me since the color of the drink was dark it was not good for kids of our age. And I hated him for that not because he didn’t get me the drink but he was degrading Sachin in my mind, Months later when I happened to go with him to the school which was in the neighboring town his colleagues and subordinates showered all their love on me.

They took me to the canteen and offered me juice and soft drinks; I never knew how soft drinks tasted then. One of them kept repeating few names of the drinks for me to choose and all I could understand was “PUPPS”, and I told yes to it. I was waiting for my favorite egg puffs (Pupps) on the table when the dark brown drink that Sachin promoted on the imported Panasonic color television in the neighbor’s house arrived with a thin long straw which was bigger than the straw I had seen on the mango fruity juice packets.

The uncle there told me to have my “Pepsi” and I realized that it was called “PEPSI” and he was never talking about the egg puffs (Pupps) that I thought. I was happy, over jubilant for few reasons, the first being that it was something Sachin drank in the commercials, I was the first among my friends to drink Pepsi in the company of elder people and I got something that my father said NO for. I had a wide big smile, with all the hyper excitement, I kept the straw in my mouth and pulled out a big sip which crossed the limits of my tongue and went direct to my throat causing a choke and an upward flow of the liquid to my nostrils and I coughed bad, leading the liquid burst out through my nose and I remained senseless for few seconds for which I didn’t have a measure then.

PS: Moral of the story, be it at age of five or age or 23 years and 360 days, never do things that your father prohibited you from.

Ramadan Kareem

T.R.K

Satyamev Jayate

I have always loved travelling in a train, be it a short one or the ones that take almost two or three days. I have never hated history, neither have I loved it to a great extent that I ever wanted to study history as a major in my life, Never the less history has attracted me. I have always loved seeing the places of historic importance and that could be the reason why trains fascinate me to an extent.

Having spent almost two months over the books, preparing for a professional career I was kind of drained on excitements. That’s when I decided to leave for Delhi and U.P. Unfortunately I never got a train ticket to and from Delhi to Calicut, and the excitement of travelling alone in a train for around 36 hours was lost. I had to fly.
I have always hated shuttling in a flight; one of the prime reasons could be that, whenever I have travelled alone, the flight is either over crowded with those boring passengers who never knew there is a lighter part in their lives, or when there are nice ones specially the so called “hot chicks” around, I always get a seat two rows behind her. And this phenomenon continues, always!

The only train journey I had was the one from Delhi to Rampur (A place in U.P), and I wanted to enjoy every bit of it. So I made my brother sit in the middle seat and I took the window seat of the chair car. Like any other trains in India, this one was also over crowded, but since it was a reserved compartment the good thing was that people don’t bother to disturb your privacy. Initially I was confused whether we boarded the same train; I trusted my brother to know the direction towards which the train should be moving, for it has been a year since he was in the north. The situation became creepy when the train started moving in the opposite direction. I enquired with a family sitting adjacent to my seat, and they responded as if they herd the name Rampur for the first time.

On becoming a bit restless, I moved to the toilet area of the compartment, that’s the place where most of the people with open tickets sit. They didn’t look dangerous to me, unlike the people who are poverty ridden in the western countries; BPL people in India are submissive, with a bit of hesitation in my tone I asked a guy in white Pathani suit, about Rampur, not that I didn’t know much about the city, I just wanted to confirm that the train actually passed through Rampur. All my doubts where cleared with positiveness and I felt like I had just won a million dollar bet.

The summer heat had almost killed many in Delhi; one of the newspapers had quoted. But the buzz in the train was that of “SatyaMev Jaythe” being aired and the social topics it discussed. There were few college goers who were pretty much into a heated debate about this show. The free ticket people at the doorsteps had something else going in between them; it is a bit difficult to pick the local slang they speak, even more difficult when they speak with “PAN” in their mouth.

The train stopped for a longer break and people started getting out buying snacks and drinks. I was always excited about getting out on the platform whenever the train stopped, be it short or the longer stops. My father always stopped me from doing so whenever we travelled together, that could be the reason I still find it exciting. I was standing on the platform and talking to my brother through the window, someone fell on the doorsteps banging his face on the door. That is when somebody shouted he has ‘fits’.

I didn’t know how to react; the lady standing next to me sipping coffee was trying to find a way to go inside the compartment now that this poor passenger fell down and almost broke his jaws and who is still rocking himself because of the fits. I talked to the police guy standing next to a snacks shop; he came over n told its just fits. He ordered one of those college goers to pass on his leather shoe, so that he could make the guy fallen down with fits to smell it. The only answer the college goer gave was that his shoe is costly enough. That’s when a lady in her forties dressed in an old salwar khameez, came up to the fallen guy and gave him water. Cleaned the blood on his face, pulled him from the door steps, and comforted him.

At first I thought she probably was the guy’s mother, but then came to know she even didn’t know where this guy was going to. The police guy later returned with bottle of water for which he probably didn’t even pay and asked the lady to give it to the guy with fits. The train moved on, and I was sitting thinking about the reactions of each and every passengers. The college goer was sitting in one corner, he was the one who was talking of social causes, the lady who was sipping tea and was worried about her way back into the compartment had been talking to her kids about helping out others, and this old lady who didn’t even know the guy helped him first.

We speak of Satyamev Jayte and being a good human being right from our school days, in our religious classes, but then it took an illiterate, village lady in a semi torn salwar khameez to help out a guy suffering fits amidst the rush of a train journey. Shame on our education system!!

T.R.K

Till the last drop...

Story for a short film yet to be canned, dedicated to all those who live for others,every women(mother/sister/friend/wife) and Komal.:P

Mani an alcoholic truck driver had the last glass of his drink for the night and was on the move to the neighboring town, his hands were shaky and eyes had shrunken in response to the night and alcohol consumed. The truck passed through the twists and turns common to the highway in this part of the country, somewhere ahead on the same road was Ali, who was walking back home from a party, wearing to the trends with headphone attached and responding to a weak female voice on the other side of the phone. He was so involved in the conversation that by the time he saw Mani’s truck he was already brushed by the truck on its way and fell to a distance on the side of the highway.

Faraz rode his bullet as fast as he could so as to reach Ali’s apartment before the ambulance that carried his paralyzed friend reached its destination. Asif opened the door of their friend’s apartment. Both had a sad face the reasons for it being obvious. The later enquired about their paralyzed friend’s depressed state and the former with a negative nod asked about the health of the weak female voice that was on the other side of the phone, and the reply was more negative.

After the ambulance left Ali’s apartment, both his friends tried to joke around and make the atmosphere as happy as they could to make their friend feel better, another reason was to keep his mind as busy as possible and not let him think about the girl on the other side of the phone. But that didn’t help him back from his depressed state of mind, until finally the girl’s voice asked for him on his phone. They talked hours on the phone, hours multiplied more minutes turned into days and days piled on and a week passed by. A fresh air of life blossomed Ali’s face, the clouds in his life gave way for sunshine.

The 1959 Talat Mehmood hit song “Jalte hai Jiske Liye” might have been their favorite that she used to sing it for him. It was just another day when Ali wanted to hear it once more, now that it has been high time since she sang for him. He listened to it with his face bright, laying on his bed he dreamt of a good day when he could walk again, his both friends who entered his room joined his happiness, they smiled at last for his happiness, she sounded sweet and engaging and all of a sudden her sound became vary, she coughed a bit, and yet continued her song, coughed more, the song ended, cough led into vomiting, and she spat out, someone on her background shouted loud for doctor and engage tone bleeped for a second and the call ended.

Ali looked insanely at Asif and Faraz, both of them didn’t know how to react to the fate of a friend who was stepping into happiness after being paralyzed, and the loss of the voice on the other side of the phone, who gave herself away bringing smile to their friend while suffering from a throat cancer.

Back To School

When I think about the fun and frolic during the school days, sometime tears rub my cheeks, and there have been surprise reunions, but those vanished when I clean the eye sand off. The life at school is something that I have always wanted to be in, that’s where I feel I have always belonged to, and that’s where I have always been the real me. Light weighted study schedules, six hours of class, recess in between and good smiling friends who lightened up your day with all those discussions which others thought were silly.

I have always had a silent prayer to Allah that he put me back to those fun filled school days that I spend in the balcony and verandas of IDEAL INDIAN SCHOOL. Don’t know if the angel on my right shoulder recommended it for me, the ‘GMCS’ happened. Initially it was something that I thought as an outing just for the heck of it and a certificate from the ICAI that never let the students grow as social animals. Little did I know that I had my school life waiting for me at the building near heart hospital in Trichur.

Right from day one it was life back in the old school, energy, new friends who seemed to have been friends for ages. Or might be that I have been longing for days like these since all the classes I had after 12th were formal conference halls where the students didn’t know who was sitting next to them, nor they cared cause everyone had to rush to their office after the class. The GMCS was different.
Veena chechi’s sisterly affection, Badru’s Amrican brotherhood, Arun’s naughty stupidity, Ajoy’s ever smiling face, Monish’s happy go lucky nature, Mary’s eyes, Anu’s Middle Eastern English, Bell boy’s gestures with his specs, Ashok’s songs, Dimples shy smiles, Sreenath’s way of walking, Amritha’s MTI and of course my best friends who were with me right from Calicut; Azad, Sajil, Ahsan, Basith and Jithin all in a class room made me feel that I was sitting in grade 12th with a tie and a shoe.

We are stepping as corporate executives, our childishness had been hammered down by the hypocrisy called Chartered Accountancy, but these 15 days did really brighten my life. The joy of being there for each other, holding onto one another, doing action songs on kindergarten rhymes, Compiling a manual staying awake till 4 in the morning, presenting a case study without having known what the case was, Eating five plates of Biriyani and 3 glasses of Palada and driving all the way 12 in the night to a four star hotel near the cochin airport just to go to the restroom, the steam cake and fish curry at Akshaya, water guns and THE THRIKKOTTUR FAMILY. Damn, when I look back I feel I relived my school, my prayers were heard.

One intelligent guy once told me that you make friends and they depart and they depart so that you meet them again. I made new friends and we departed and now that we departed we would surely meet again, if not now might be later, but we will surely meet, because we together formed THE FALCONS, the royal birds those are never caged.

We,The People

Mr. X a priest in the temple was getting late for his duties, running out of time he got on to his T.V.S scooter and hurried. On the way he was stopped by the traffic police, to have a look at his license. It was then that he had realized he had forgotten it back home; the police man was about to tear the receipt of Rs.100, stuck in the run of time he offers the police Rs.50 because he felt Rs.100 was too much to lose early in the morning.

Mr. Y a student, who prayed five times a day, had surprise news that the next three days would be a holiday. He rushed to through the train ticketing counters just to realize that all the tickets were booked. Now that he had to travel in the general compartment with an open ticket, he chose to save on the ticket money and traveled ticket less back home. Any way the TTR would never enter the general compartment.
Ms. Z an engineer at a leading firm had great difficulties in getting into the job position she is now in. Not that she had to go through the various stages of the selection process, but that she really had to run behind her father to talk to his friend who was working in the HR department of the firm so that she would get selected over the candidates who had actually applied for the vacancy and probably more qualified than her.

Abc & Co, tax consultants were happy of earning Rs.5L from an individual client. Though not an easy task, they had to really bribe the registrar to change the purchase date of the asset that had earned their client huge tax amount including interest and once that the asset was made a long term one they successfully exempted their client of taxes.

These are not a newspaper clipping, things like these neither appear on the media, these are the things that happen in a common Indian’s daily life. Not just these but there are many more other simple events that happen in the daily life. So when a government elected by these common people prone to these simple forms of corruption comes into existence how can we blame the government alone to be corrupt. They are also a few among these common people. Just that the margin they save or earn at their level of office is much higher than a common man does.

We never count on the small things that we as Mr. X or Y or Ms. Z do rather we put the blame on others. We support the so called ‘Lok-Pal bill’ that would bring a committee to look for corruption among the ministers and The Prime Minister. But then again doesn’t this committee also have people of our country who could well again corrupt their hands when they get the power. Just like they say the most corrupt cell in the country is the anti-corruption department, what guarantee do we have that this committee so formed wouldn’t turn corrupt.

At this juncture where we are celebrating our nth year of independence and proclaim ourselves as proud Indians, let’s try and introspect how clean an Indian we are, and if we are not let’s try and improvise on that first, and then go about cleaning our politicians. Happy Independence Day.

T.R.K

Priorities in my life

I used to wake up hearing the noise that steel plates made in the kitchen, the wake up calls that the cocks sang; the Sanskrit news in ‘akaashvani’ radio and those sundry animals that marked their presence in the hood. Ammi used to push me to the front yard of my house and grandmother’s ‘kallu dosa’ was ready for breakfast, of which the first four were always reserved for me. While I ate them mixing it with tea and sugar, Ammi kept my ‘Madrasa’ kit ready.

I used to think of a time when I would stop going for the early morning Islamic classes and sleep like the elders at home. I used to be five then. Life was so simple, but for a five year old it was not that easy either, the tutor at the madrasa would ask to recite versus of The Holly Quran that had to be memorized; friends would make fun if Sourav Ganguly had been out cheaply in the previous day’s match and asking fifty paisa from Ammi for the candy at ‘ithiru thatha’s’ shop was a herculean task.

Times change so fast, I always wanted to grow old and start working when I joined school, although my thoughts on a professional career was not much of interest to people at home, since I wanted to be a peon at the school so that I could ring the last bell for home. Cricket in the rain and swimming in ponds in the farm filled the rest of the day.

When I was in eighth grade, I so wanted to be part of the school cricket team, which was the only thing I had prayed when I had gone for ‘Umrah’. A play station, a computer, a mobile phone, a laptop and these prayers never stopped till I finished my schooling. All of these had been top priority at some stages of life.
Now that I’ am twenty three and an exam away from the end of my student life, all those priorities I had in the past seem so funny. Not because I don’t value it any more, nor that I don’t have prayers for any other things in life; just that life was a lot easier then. If I had problem I could just sleep the night off and the next day those were solved. Now if there is a problem even sleep doesn’t come to the rescue.

I have just lived nearly a quarter of my life, when I go to bed now I have a lot to think. And those are not just for the next day, but about the things that are going to be part of my entire life from now on. The upcoming exams, choice of being an internal auditor or financial analyst, and most importantly about my family and the girl who waits on the other side hoping I would hold her hands some day.

And again now that it’s five in the morning and I was to get up had I been the same five year old kid, I have to sleep now that I have been awake the whole night. And when I go to sleep I so wish and pray these priorities of life that I have now just fall in place by the next time I open my eyes.

' The Un educated Literates '

Going home to Kerala has always been sentimentally nostalgic. The gentleman with in the white uniform signalled with the green flag, and the Palghat – Nilambur passenger took off at snail speed. The train started gaining speed as the sun was regaining his empire up in the sky. The dry hot summer was yet to arrive and the early morning dew was dripping off the leaves. The banks of the sacred BHARATH River, green paddy fields, and mighty huge banyan trees all bowed down for me.

I carried with me sore throat, sticky nose block and light temperature that the Chennai city had cursed on me for the past one week. I thought it was more of a physiological impact that as soon as I touch down my home station, I forget the fact that I was not at ease. The one year old kid who was in the next birth of my compartment, the previous night had left me sleepless and that might well be the reason why I dozed of the moment I found my bed.

The India – England world cup match was to begin in some time and my friend dragged me to the sports club nearby. It is always festival when India plays cricket. All the youth at sports club had their own favourite players and prayed for their performance and some even fight for their most supported player. I was sipping my favourite black tea with lemon and extra sugar, and waiting for Pathan to come out to bat.

It was then that someone called for me; it wasn’t a voice that I have heard off late, with a bit of excitement I turned back and looked at the corner of the room to find a guy with curly hair sitting and smiling at me. For once I couldn’t recognize the face and then like those Bollywood movies of the eighties my life’s reel rolled back. It was ‘Natheesh’ my class mate till grade 4 at the lower primary school.

The cricket match went on in full swing and each time the ball crossed the boundary people at the club clapped hands, I was busy talking to my friend, it was indeed ages since I met him. We talked about the things happening around the town, the new movie releases and the same old debate that Mammuka was better than Mohan Lal. I was a bit reluctant to ask him about his studies, but never the less I enquired. He smiled first and then told; he cleared his SSLC in his second attempt and was looking after the farm with his father.

The day passed and India shamelessly tied the match with England, I had lost my sleep to that and was trying to deviate my thoughts and that ended up at the school ground of my lower primary school where we played soccer till the bell rang at 4. It was fun times then, no thoughts about future, where one would be after graduation, no thoughts as to the place where you would want to settle down, no ledgers to scrutinize and no reports on audit to be submitted on date.

Off the forty plus students in my class then only four of us have completed degree and three of us are doing a professional course. The rest of them; the girls got married in between their studies, and some of their kids are already at the kinder garden, and the boys most of them dropped off schooling after their tenth, and few of them flew to the middle east in search of oil fields and the rest sit at the bus stop in the evening to talk about the latest development in the local politics.

Had my parents not been teachers, had I not shifted to Doha, had I been part of this normal government school going children till 10th, I think even I would have been doing the same as my class mates of 4th do now. We boost of a cent percent literate state, but yet our higher education system is one of the weakest in the world. We offer free education till 10th and might be till 12th, but after that we eat up the whole of the savings in our education.

It is high time we need to re analyze our educational system, else more and more of ‘Literate and partially uneducated’ youth would be dumped into our society.

T.R.K

The Rejuvenation..!!!

Its a never ending wait
Life has got to melt
ever since you made it here
and never that we gona hear

Out through the window,
out through the door
Its you my eyes searched for
knowing you will never make it
on and on goes the wait

Laying back in my bed
getting you off my head
still your memories hit
and life has got to melt,

And now that i wait no more
and smoke my life at the corridor
and that you would leave
in a few days from now
love has lost its glow

Its a never ending wait
life has got to melt..!!!!!

TRK
P:S: written for a rock band..!!

The Poor Departed

As it has been for the last one and half months I woke up from a not so comfortable sleep, earlier it used to be the cock that sang its wake up alarm that woke up many in this part of the world, but now the original alarms too have lost its effect. Walking down the stairs wearing a Simpson cartoon boxer and cleaning my eye, i herd strange conversation from the kitchen.

“No she is too young for it”, shouted one of my aunts pushing out the steam cake (PUTT) from its hutch. “It’s everybody’s fate” my grand mom replied trying to lean down to the store desk and pick up something. “Poor lady she was so helping“, added my second aunt moving her wheel chair towards the gas stove. I thought it would be the normal chit chat the ladies do early hours and did not bother to inquire the matter.

Got few pieces of the steam cake and a glass of tea, and while the second aunt poured curry on them, the other aunt continued the topic, “She was taken to Trivandrum for check up”, “No...No... She wasn’t taken there she didn’t have any problems of that sort” replied the other. “No she had problem with her hands and chest pain was frequent, but then she was not taken to Trivandrum”. On hearing this the first aunt got a bit angry that her words were taken to be false and argued “how can you say that she was not taken there, I am pretty sure that had happened” and the other aunt made her statement clear and added on “I had met her a month back at a marriage and then she didn’t complain of anything of that sort, so how do you say that she was taken there”.

All these were happening and I was busy enjoying the taste of the steam cake and added my comment “the cakes have got awesome taste, it might rain today”, and the first aunt rubbished it “we are talking something important, and between that you are bringing up steam cake”. I was pretty surprised about the important discussion that they were into, and all of a sudden the other aunt added “she just have two kids; don’t know how they will be”. “ But I am sure she was taken to Trivandrum last month” the first one stud strong on what she argued, “ No she was not, she had met me last month” replied the other, “you both are wrong, if u want you can call their house and ask” grandmother joined in with her claims.

Finally I made up my mind and enquired about the whole thing. “KAKU’s wife’s mother passed away this morning, didn’t you know about it...?” I was quit puzzled, didn’t know what to reply, because the ladies have been arguing about her hospitalization the month before and not obliging to the fact that they should have been sitting praying for the departed one. Eating up the last piece of cake I walked towards the wash basin, “No” “No...” “Noo...” that was still going on in the kitchen.

And for once I felt bad for the lady who departed last night, after all she was the reason the ladies in the house were putting their tongues in fire. The poor Departed Soul.

TRK

The walls talk

The 8 o'clock train reached Pattikkad station and I stepped out to feel the morning breeze in my home town. It is always a great feeling to be back home, after getting worked out in a polluted metro like Chennai. The Teek woods cover both the sides of the railway station not letting the sun to pierce through. And the early morning dew drops still hung around the leaves falling to the random gentle breeze that came by. I walked out of the platform to the auto park to reach home which is almost about a kilometer from the station.

There aren’t much people in my small home town who study outside the state, so each time I walk home with my bag pack on my back, people always looked out with a smile and always enquired about the well being outside. Walking through the lanes with broken roads cause of the last rains, I reached the sweetest place on earth where I belong, my home.

The door bell sounded more like a cuckoo who always sung the same composition, and Abbu opened the door, greeting me in, Ammi was still in kitchen preparing break fast, brother still in bed snoring and sister curled up with the blankets. I walked past to my room throwing the bag on the ground. And a moment later when I turned back the bag was well placed near the shelf. Of course mothers love their house to be clean and neat.

"Why do u always wear black? And why there is a pony on your back, and why are your jeans falling down your waist? "Those were the questions that I herd from Abbu each time he noticed my ware about." Have you said your prayers, did you brush and then come and have break fast" Ammi always yelled at the top of her voice. Those where the beautiful days when I always wanted to go home.

And now two weeks later, my study holidays began and am back home, and there is no one to open the door, I throw my bag on the ground and it still remain there when I turned back, there is no one to ask about my dressing even though I don’t have a pony on my back, even though I didn’t have a black t shirt, there are just walls around me, that echo the sounds it captured two weeks back.

My brother's bed is kept tidy, sister's blanket packed in the cupboard, their slippers kept in the shoe rack, their scent and all that Ammi left back for me lay in the house, the sweet home is no more and it feels the walls have some thing to say. Some thing that every other house, where parents fly away into the clouds leaving their kids home alone has to say.

I know there are reasons for being lonely, for being home alone, and I just wish I get over these sad memories that kill me day by day, those sounds that the walls echo.

T.R.K

In Soul Remembrance Of

Shabeer had come from Dubai for the first time after he left India a year back. Meeting him gave me special joy for more than one reason. The first was that of meeting a college friend after a year, and the second was not yet known until we both sat at sweet home in the evening for coffee. It was then that I met the most beautiful creations that one could dream to be with.

She had a serene like charm that could win any man’s heart, her eyes had gracious power and in it I lost myself deep in her, that the first sip of coffee hurt my tongue. She spoke with her eyes, her lips never moved even when the whole of public at the cafeteria smiled at her, for some time I was confused about her ability to speak, and the very next moment she spoke and her voice had the melody of Taylor swift singing to the tones of Mozart of Madras.

Dressed up in black and silver with a black HIJAB that covered her beauty from the strangers, she sat opposite my chair, along with Shabeer. Although my body sat there in front of her, in my mind, I had already extended my hands for friendship and more than that for all love I had developed for her in my heart. Shabeer’s sound brought me back to sense and I had my first hand shake with her, the touch of her soft, moist, warm, lucrative palm send passionate love current to my spine.
That was the time I decided she would be part of my life and I would win her at any cost, time passed by and on my trip to Doha two months back, I again met her, the same smile, the same smell and even the same dress, after having talked about the whole thing with my father, going against his emotional worries, I finally proposed her with a toast, and she readily agreed as if she had been waiting for me to hold her hands.

My friends and family liked her, I loved her more than all the girls who have been in and out of my life, we lived together, shared each and every thought I had, she sung all the tunes I loved to hear, my wrist always found comfort in her palm, we woke up to see each other, hugged to bid good bye, all my dreams were captured in her heart, and then the inevitable happened.

We both slept kissing good night, woke up to see each other and my sleep made me take turns, had to look away from her for some time, and when I turned back, she had gone, taking away all the happiness she had given, all the things that made me remind her, she vanished into the dry madras air or someone took her along, breaking my heart and I again fell on bed and this time it was lack of oxygen.

Her loss have given immense pain, She walked away creating an empty space in my life that even better looking ones of her gene does not sooth my heart. She was the solace I had in all my sorrows, just a finger touch on her palm and happiness poured in, she opened my windows to the outer world, let me explore new avenues, never complained of my arrogance or anger, her innocence had made me fall for her in deep and passionate love, and that reminds me of the saying that do not love anyone or anything more than your lord for your lord is the one who has blessed you with it.

On the 8th of September 2010, morning 9.15 while almost every other living soul in my hostel slept, my Nokia e-72, metallic maroon body, silver back, IMEI No: 351513049316943,updated on 31st march 2010 went missing in my bed. I suspect it to be theft so does the police and the hostel inmates, but no one actually knows who took it away. Every time I pass through a mobile store or I hear a SWADES theme music ringing in some ones phone, memories fly by. It lived with me for exactly sixty four days, and all those sixty four days I have had sun shine in my life.
If it doesn’t exist anymore in this world then waiting for its re birth, and if it still exists in some part of India waiting for it to return home, and if it still exists outside India, I would have to kill it, blocking all others who would want to use it.

T.R.K

The Conjure

After having stayed two days with Rameez and Nashmal, at their rented flat in cochin, I and Wasiq were to set back our journey home. The holly month entering its last ten days and the believers of the book doing any thing and everything possible to forfeit their sins, we re-scheduled our selves so as to reach home in time for break fast.

As per Nashmal's enquiries, the bus to my home town was at 2 pm, by the time we reached the depot, it was already over crowded like any Indian bus. Having no uncertainities in mind I and Wasiq borded the bus, walking past the standing passangers, we settled our selves in the later half of the bus, where there were no standing passengers.

The bus started to move and we were lucky enough to notice a man of late fourties trying to vacate his seat, with immense joy, i made Wasiq to sit, not just that he was my younger sibling, but he is a Middle east product as of now and havent had the experience of long travels with out a seat.

It wasn't much to the embarkation that i found a girl of early twenties standing at a distance of 10 feet. She looked like those ones who took an oath in her mother's womb, that she would never give up her 'size zero'. Wearing a skinny salwar kameez, her hair's length almost touching the end of her spines, spoting the typical keralite 'sindoor' on her forehead, eyes full of innocence, specs that had a thin frame black in colour, and a dark blue school bag on her shoulders (i still wonder why she never kept that in the luggage rack) and with a partly made up smile she stood there holding the metal bar on the roof.

There was some sort of an electric vibe that struck me, i happened to gaze at her, and it continued for quite some time, i turned of the music in my head phone, turned my eyes on to other things around so as to deviate my attention from her, i at times felt there was a spark in her eye that kept me gazing on to her, scratched my head in thoughts, trying hard to find out the last time i had met this lady standing ten feet away.

The bus moved at its constant speed, passengers moved in and out, the girl still didn't move out of my sight. Was it at the Ideal feasta that we met last, or was it at the 'Sicasa' in chennai, i cursed my brains for not responding in time like an out dated processor in Azad's laptop, the inability to recognise her turned the nostalgia into sadness and anger. It was then i realised that she was gazing at me too, not always but our eyes did meet at times, and each time our eyes met her lips widened a bit, and she turned her eyes down.

I recollected all that i could from the one fourth of my brain that was in use, her face did appear to be known and seen many times, but her name nor the place where i saw remained a question mark. That was the time i thought i would put my steps forward and try and talk to her, find out the last time we met, as i put my right leg forward the bus stoped at the Trissur bus depot and she walked smiling towards me, i for once did thank god for giving the girl the memory and courage to walk up to me. With a small smile and a ' do i know you ' attitude on my face, i was almost to forward my hands for a shake and a pretty beefed up shoulder rubbed my hand and i lost balance and slanted onto the seat next by, and with utmost anger when i turned back i saw the girl shaking hands with the man who was behind me. Immediatly changed my facial expressions, herd the message tone in my mobile, recollected my sence, found a vacant seat and looked back to the girl, and saw both of them walking out hand in hand.

Shrugged about the whole event, i read the text message on my screen. It read " beautiful women are like the mirage in the desert, attainable from far, deceptive at the end ". I raised my eye brow to make sure the sender wasn't GOD.

The bus moved on and Wasiq got the seat next me, and with a light voice i whispered..GOD DAMN - ILLUSION...!!!

T.R.K

The Bet, One complete fast...!

The peon rang the last bell for the last class of the season and we the senior students of the lower primary school, ran out rejoicing the fact that school would be shut for one complete month. The autumn of 96 had just begun and so was the holly month of ramadan.

It was customary for the lower and upper primary schools of the Malabar region of kerala to close for the holly month. Kids are enthusiastic about growing older before they really grow older. So was i, the bet with friends was of one complete day of fasting. My fasts always used to be twice in a day, from the seher to zuhar and then from zuhar to iftar.

Since the vacation had just begun, all most all my cousins were camped in my house, it was time for fun and frolic for the younger ones in the family. We played around all day, hide and seek to catcher catcher, swimming in the pond next by, plucking the unripe mangos and marinating them.

The break had just got to the nerves of all the kids and unexpectedly my grand father ( nana pa ) fell ill. He was aged and admitted to hospital and then the fun turned to gloom. We were more scared than being sad.

It was then my friend reminded of the bet 'one complete fast',i along with noushad, andu and muthu were pretty energized during the first half of the next day, morning went in quran recitation and prayer at the mosque. After noon was always a temptation for many, as food seemed tempting, it was then, one of my friends offered us to go for a long walk, to the next village, by the time we would reach back it would be evening and then breaking fast wouldn't be a problem.

We started our journey, and walked kilometers to the next village, and then town, and then thought returning back would be good to match the time equation, reached back in time for the magrib call for prayer, with great joy and pride i sat among the elders of the house for iftar, with a glass of lemonade and a liquid dish made of rawa, sat looking at the cloak, the count down began and i felt like i have won a war.

And then came the noise of the mic in the mosque near by being moved, and with all happiness, i gulped the complete lemonade in one go, slightly relieved and with the second breath i caught hold of the sweet dish and fell down, hitting the chairs around.. ' BANG '


I opened my eyes and saw a glucose bottle hanging on my side and ammi sitting near by, in the nursing home, she looked grumpy and inquired about my after noon hang out, caught in the middle of a mess, couldn't tell her i had walked to the next town with friends, had to lie, and she hugged me tight, even in the midst of all the fear of being caught i just had one thought humming in my mind.

I WON d bet, One complete fast...!!!!


TRK