Impressing is your job, expressing is mine.

Man, Modernity and Mountains

2011-01-10T06:44:00.000-08:00

My BLog, ladies, peace

2008-10-21T12:09:00.000-07:00

I dont know if i am trying to sound intelligent in my writings.. I honestly never intend to. I am an artist, not an intellectual, I am more concerned about expressing myself than about being politically right. ANd i like expressing myslsef, that's y i own this blog- my own piece of land in cyberspace.
Unfortunately, some ppl recently are getting it a bit wrong. THis is my blog, my space, an outlet for how I feel about things. You can disagree wid me, beyond doubt, coz no two people think alike, certainly not when I am one of the ppl. I write what I want to... If someone has a problem with it, its their problem. put it down on your own blog, dont fill up my comment page with hatemail. (specially if u have a problem with my typos)
I have been calling some ppl peudo-intellectuals, I dont know if they are. Being an intellectual's bad enough. Its always intellectuals that cause war. Pseudo-intellectuals can be disastrous. I'd rather this world was full of hippies or kindergarten kids or artists athn intellectuals. they live in their heads and they talk out of some crappy piece of mental furniture that have been imbedded in them involuntary, they have never experience huinger, they have never lived in ahnut with no electricty, they have never been caught in war in a third world country, they have never become refugees adn lost their identitities.. tey've gronw up in plush luxuries and have a third person view of the world that will never materialise.
ANd they tend to think I am talking crap. I probably am, if i am, i will, its my freaking blog.

Y cops should leave rave parties alone and Y some TV reporters should shove nine-inch nails up theirs

2008-10-06T12:29:00.000-07:00

I sometimes don't understand how cops can get their preferences so no right. They need to crack down on bombers and militant meetings, but what do they do? They kill a nice cozy trance party in Mumbai. Apparently, they were caught with ecstasy pills. LSD and charas. And that leaves a few questions to be answered.

1. How did the ecstacy and LSD get there in the first place? How come there are so many loopholes in your own system that such narcotics can be freely carried around?
2. How come you have never broken down militants meeting but manage to screw up a harmless party? How come you aren't able to crack down on people spreading and practicing hate but manage to kill the mood for a bunch of youngsters spreading the love?
3. How come these questions are so clear in my head but they are not making sense when I write them down?
4. HOw come you have NEVER broken down on larger scale raves that happen all the time but manage to corner on this poor pub?

Nyways, the law is teh law. I have no problems with the cops, I guess they are almost matured enough to decide their own course of action. They can't be as cheap as the traffic cops in Hyderabad, the ones I buy off for twenty bucks when caught. (Whatever happened to self-esteem?) WHoever said inflation is on the rise? I can still buy my way out of a challan for 20-30 bucks.

I do have a problem with TV reporters. ANalyze this, a bunch of kids were partying and getting high on substances, all right. They got caught and are hiding their faces form the camers.
Now why are you guys trying to get a shot of their faces? What if they had not done drugs? Nothing's been proved against them. Maybe some of them just went to the party for the music. By trying to get them on camera, you are doing them serious harm.
Even if they did do drugs, you are just screwing up their chances for improving in the future. A camera shot of their face is a permanent identification proof of a 'crime' they once committed and can kill all future prospects for them. None of these people will be doing drugs twenty years down the line, when they have kids and families. It would have been an incident for them, an experience, but thanks to you and your cameras, it becomes a scar.
Now, I don't usually watch TV, not the newschannels, specially. The day they showed the end of the world two weeks back was the day I lost it; that was the day I lost every inch of any respect I had for news channels; if tragedy occurs, I log on to the internet or wait for the next day morning's paper, which I still respect. Watching News channels on TV is a sin, it is encouraging degrading practices among teh fourth estate, it is encouraging of blatant commercial sensationalism and it is a sign of bad taste. I f I had the choice, I would remove every india news channel from my set top box.
Today, I happened to be watching TV. And when these arrested kids were being taken into police vehicles, I heard the videographers hitting sarcastic insults at them "Ek toh battamizi, abhi media k saath bhi battamizi".. etc when one guy tried to push away a camera that was poking into his face. For heaven's sake, get that camera off his face, even if you do get his face, censor it on TV. Why are you afte rthat guy's life? has he harmed you? has he bombed any city in the country? has he slaughtered Christians or Muslims? No, he was partying and feeling at one with the universe.

And then I got it, the reason behind the videographers sneering at them.

A press journalist commands respect till date. You won't find press reporters coming to you and asking you "Your child has died, how do you feel about it?", you don't find press reporters filing up the entire paper with the sam enews when a kid falls into a tunnel. and Aarushi's murder case is a column in the newspaper, it does not fill up the entire page while neglecting news on inflation and the N-deal.
A TV reporter has lost every ounce of respect he once commanded. that is why TV reporters are beaten up, abused. I am not syaing they should be manhandles. I am saying if only they handled themselves a little more respectfully, it wouldn't have come to this. CLimbing a tree to take videos of Abhi-Ash wedding? Showing MPs watching a belly dancer- I mean, ok, whatever, but there are kids watching the TV, don't show the dancers shaking their boobs around. More than TV reporters, I think the News Directors need to get a life, they are the ones sending people behind all this aren't tey?
Now, TV reprters are considered so uncool that they will NEVER be invited to a trance party. NEVER. I can imagine a press journalists having a night out and letting their hair down, but not TV reporters. They are fingery b******s who will never be invited to good parties, who will never be invited to trip along and who will never get laid.
And when they see al this happening to people, they get sheer jealous. AND they sneer.
Now, if you imagined inviting a videographer to your closed group party and got him smoked up and all happy, what do you think he would do? probably have a hidden camera tucked away inside his shirt.
nyways, whatever, bottomline, TV reporters! get some degree of self-respect and hunt for news, not crap.
ANd to those channels that forecast the end of the world, I am still living, sons of bitches, don't you think you owe me an apology for disturbing me, for disturbing kids and for causing one girl to commit suicide????

My Blog and her new Look

2008-04-25T03:36:00.000-07:00

I have finally decided that my blog's tired and that she needs a new look. If you were, in any case, about to ask me why my blog's feminine, do the following. Find out from the Spanish why the Radio is feminine and cinema is masculine, ask the French why the glove is masculine while the tie is feminine, and you shall find your answer.
The idea of re-dressing (not redressing as in redressing a grievance) my blog came to me after I saw Kartick's. He'd done his up well, so I decided that the best way to do my blog up would be to ask Kartick to do it. He did it, and here it is.
Just to give it the finishing touches, I added the photo of the Dog shitting. (Who else could have come up with that?) And the line to go along with the pic.
Crap (popularly known as shit) and I have a long history. For one, I call out her name whenever something shitty happens.
(If you are asking me why shit is feminine again, consider this. Food is feminine in spanish, portugese and Italian, so processed food remains feminine, too, right?)
I am also very selective in her distributing her. Come to think of it, there are so many I don't give a shit to...
Incidentally, I also don't take shit from anyone.
So, isn't it only fair that crap should adorn my page?
As for the dog connection, don't even ask.
Apparently, Diamonds are a woman's best friends. A man's best friend... is a dog.
Who the fuck came up with that? That's gender discrmination directed against us!

TOSS- Travelogue On Sexy Sri Lanka

2008-03-21T06:49:00.000-07:00

(Was published on Deccan Chronicle and Asian Age (i think so, its on the site at least)

You don’t feel like you just took an international flight when you get down at Colombo. It’s just over an hour’s flight from Chennai , if you don’t count the time you stand near the belt waiting for your luggage. You step out of the airport and everything feels like back home. Maybe it’s because the people are so friendly or maybe it’s just because we are of the same race, you’ll feel completely at home in Lanka as long as you stay.
We landed at 3a.m and were driven to a Green Center at Tholangamuwa- near Kegalle. We were so tired that we crashed the moment we arrived. (Though we did manage to squeeze in a sumptuous meal with countless varieties of fish cooked with exotic spices). I woke up early the next day and the view from the window shook away all the sleep from within me. Steaming cup of Ceylon tea in hand, I stepped out of a cottage where I had apparently spent the night to discover why the place was called Green Center. I found myself on the top of a hill, surrounded by hills in all directions save upwards. Our cottage was perched right there, with flowers and trees all around. And for the first time in a long, long while, I could hear birds chirping so close to me. The Lankan sun was creeping up from behind one of those hills, giving me my first view of the beautiful country. I fell in love with it at first sight.

(Below: DJ Su ;) trying to figure out where he is, More below: Chained Majesty, I wouldnt have dared go so close if he wasnt chained)

We started off with a tour of the Elephant orphanage at Kegalle. The sight of elephants feeding and later, much to the joy of tourists, bathing in the river was delightful. The baby elephants seemed to be having the time of their lives playfully spraying themselves. As for us, we felt glad seeing them in an environment where they weren’t made to carry logs or overweight people on their backs. Immediately after that, we headed towards the South coast. (The Northern Side is where peril lies, so we avoided it altogether) It sure was a long drive but amazingly memorable. What took away our breath was the roadside view. We were driving along the coast, so there were houses by the road and their back doors opened up to the ocean. How would you feel when you are driving along with waves crashing 20 feet away from your window and the blue ocean stretching to infinity? We could, of course, see some reminiscences of the Tsunami- a few felled trees, a few broken houses here and there to remind you of what an ugly disaster hit this beautiful place. I shook such painful thoughts away from my mind and stuck my eyes on the window to soak in as much of the moment as I could.

(Abaauw: A view of the coast from outside the car window. I repeat, Roadside)

As we neared Ambalagonda, the view kept getting more beautiful and the twenty feet that separated us from the ocean grew increasingly painful. Sensing our temptation, our driver (who in total knew four words in English- van, late, OK and beer) graciously stopped and we ran out. It wasn’t like we hadn’t seen a beach before. It was just that we hadn’t seen such a clean beach. The only thing lying on the shore was a single rose with a red ribbon somebody must have rejected, or left it there to tempt Neptune to come pick it up. We climbed rocks, chased crabs and I was lucky enough to fall down and hurt my toe- giving me something to remember the golden moments by.

Next stop was a turtle conservation center where we played with turtles of all shapes and sizes. One of them even managed to whack me with its flippers. And believe me, they sure aren’t as soft and vulnerable as they look!
It was getting pretty late so we hit a guest house and before we could even keep our bags, we rushed to another beach. The sun was setting, and the feeling was incomparable. It was like us and the sun on two sides of the ocean. As we dropped clothes and ran into the waves on this side, the sun sank into the ocean on the other side. After exhausting all energy we had, we lazed on the shore with the ocean washing our legs and filling whatever clothing we had with sand. And as I looked into the ocean (it was grey now), I realized how small I was, how small and powerless we all were. The tiniest of waves could wash us two meters away. The full fury of the ocean was unimaginable. It suddenly struck me that if nature wanted to, she could finish us all, including the mightiest of men and the tallest of buildings without having to waste a tenth of her energy. And as I walked back, I suddenly felt this growing respect for the seas.
That night, we ate from a table that seemed to have a menu that was as endless a the Ocean itself and dead cheap, considering the complimentary beer that came along with it.
The next day’s trip started with a visit to Maduganga- a huge backwater lagoon near Ambalagonda. The three thousand Sri Lankan Rupees (Twelve hundred in our money) we paid was worth every paise and more for the hour long boat ride on the green water that included two stops- one at an island temple (where giant squirrels came kissing our camera lenses) and another at the famed Cinammon island. As we passed under canopies, we saw huge, powerful and smelly water monitors lazing on the rocks. We also were lucky enough to see two crocodiles ambushing just below the surface with their eyes and nose made visible only by the air bubbles bursting around them. (Abaauw: A water Monitor, Still more abaauw: Maduganga Boat house)
By this time, we were all wondering why we had chosen to live in such polluted, crowded cities where the only wildlife one can see is stray dogs when there are indeed such beautiful places still on earth. In the same frame of mind, we hit Hikkaduwa beach. It was pretty crowded with a lot of tourists, most of them from inland Germany (and two breathtakingly pretty ones probably from Korea) soaking up the sun. We hired a glass-bottom lake and rowed (not exactly, it was a motorboat) towards the horizon.
A hundred meters from the beach, the water was still as clear as crystal. And right underneath our feet, was a sight that beats every Discovery show hands down. Brightly colored coral reefs grew from the bottom and black striped yellow coral fish darted in and out of them. They were so close to us, all we had to do is look outside the boat and we could see hundreds of them swimming fast and random. The boatman gave us food to feed them, we dipped our hands into the water and the little yellow beauties came and licked it clean from our fingers. (Now you are getting jealous, aren’t you?). Just to make the Discovery show complete, our boatman (I wonder how long he had been in the business to predict the animal’s routine) steered our boat right on top of a probably century old Olive Ridley turtle. We stood transfixed, our eyes not leaving the glass bottom. Sir Olive Ridley did not even notice a boat above his head. He just swam about non-chalantly.
Resisting the urge to go scuba diving (which could have proved financially suicidal), we headed towards Galle, the ‘Capital of the South’. We drove along the coast again, this time the view getting only better. At Galle, we went to an ancient fort that the Dutch had built sometime in the 16th century, to protect against a possible Portuguese attack from the sea and locals from the inland. The fort is today a free tourist spot and a lover’s paradise. Dozens of couples sat along the fort walls, covered from the world by their umbrellas and least bothered by tourists around. We had on one side an aerial view of the city and on another of the never-ending Indian Ocean. We wondered what the next stop would be if one started swimming along towards Australia. (We were, of course, joking. It’s humanly impossible)
We took a long ride back to Tholangamuwa, stopping at Colombo for a brief while to shop for our loved ones back home. (The fac t was that we were so engrossed in the beauty that we missed very few people, but we didn’t want them to know that).
I had to leave the next day. I came back and went to work directly from the airport. My friends were lucky enough to spend another three days visiting the most beautiful places in Sri Lanka while I was taking in the pollution. Three long days where my body was in office in front of my comp but my mind was back with the rest of them, in Sri Lanka, driving along clean roads, running along its beautiful beaches and jumping the waves of the godly Indian Ocean.

A new explanantion of the origin of AIDS...

2007-11-15T09:21:00.000-08:00

With my fallible understanding of Telugu, and my infallible understanding of Telugu slang, I heard today the most interesting explanation of the origin of AIDS- from a sixty year old man.

I was on my way to another of our brainstorming and lung-burning sessions at the hookah shop, travelling by good old 25S, footboarding when:

I heard a senior citizen on the last seat speaking bad words.

Now I like old peopel who swear, I think they're KOOL! I think the Koolest peopel are old women who swear. This one was a man, but just to live up to it, his gaalis were of the top order (Lanjakoduka, !@#@#$$#... etc).
I was impressed.

I don't know what he was talking about, till the guy beside him got up and gave me the golden opportunity to sit beside him. I sat there- with this old man (our hero) on the right and another young guy (around yours n my age), who was his object of oral homicide, on the left- window seat.

By the time I sat, Uncle Bad Words (henceforth referred to as UBW) was talking about hospitals, giving his frank opinion that hospitals like Apollo, NIMS etc were only for the upper class, and not accessible to the grassroots.
Then he started on the issue of how rich peopel were so sickly- always falling sick, crying for the slightest headache etc.

And then he said it- AIDS also, it happens to the upper class vaalu, not to the middle and lower class.

I disagree, I thought. A large portion of PLHAs (People living with HIV/AIDS) are from rural Coastal Andhra, slums, brothels etc- the lowest levels of Indian economy, said my Brain.

Shut up! said my heart. You don't stand a chance debating this guy. Don't act like Mr. Know-it-all, don't ruin the fun.

"Adi enti? Kukka toti samparkam?" (What's that? Intercourse with dogs?), he continued, appparently some fancy orgy tale he had heard.
"Upperclass pillalu ki assallo intilo evar ledu, mummy daddy pani ki pote lonely ga huntadu."
(Upperclass kids have no one at home, mom-dad go to work, so they get lonely)

Just an interruption. Intercourse with dogs isn't something new. When I was interviewing a Nurse Practitioner at an ICTC in East Godavari this summer, she had told that the strangest case she had come across was of a girl from Rajahmundry who had sex with an "Alsatian dog".

For UBW (Uncle Bad Words)'s kind info, this girl wasn't really a millionaire's daughter.
So much for rich kids being alone at home.

(An alsatian's a dog, undoubtedly, you noticed how we say German Shepherd Dog, but not alsatian dog?
That's coz a German Shepherd could be a shepherd also but an Alsatian can't be anything but a dog. WTF? I'm in the mood for PJs)

Comin back to Uncle Bad Words, he continued: (We were at how rich kids are alone at home)
"Vaalu ki Bore kottadi, aithe Kukkalu ki "Caam, daarling, sweetheart, caam, caam ... (in the most sarcastic of voices and broken english)..let me give you kiss...umm... koncham sep tarvaata, F*****g, F*****g with chinna doggy"

I was laughing like a hyena inside, smiling and nodding my head outside. The guy on ma left was wondering if he should jump out the window coz UBW was talking so loud everyone could hear us, including the lady conductor.

And then UBW leans towards us (in the context of Rich kids screwing dogs) drops his tone, pulls up his bass, and lets out to us the biggest secret in the history of medical science:

"Assalga...(pause)... AIDS ee kukkalu nunchi wachindi"
[Actually, AIDS originated from these dogs]

WHATTTTT?

Reaction:
1/10 seond it took me to actually realize what I had heard.
For a second, I was speechless, trying to digest that.

You'd think I dismissed itas rubbish or burst out laughing.

I swear, on you, (n u still alive which means I'm not lying) for three seconds I actually tried to rationalize what he said: could it be true?

And then, I burst out laughing. The guy on my left took an equally long time to react, we were both hysterically laughing our heads and asses off.

Uncle Bad Words was least bothered.. he continued about how middle class children were scared of their parents and would not make out, while rich kids could do whatever they wanted, and how Faith and Respect (apparently Middle Class Values, which are apparently demonstrated by not making out) for parents could save you from AIDS.........

He finally, and thankfully, got down at Lal Bazaar, the Lady Conductor gave us the strangest look in the history of looks, as if we were his partners in crime. We left the bus as soon as we could....

So much for AIDS awareness, maybe now the Govt should lift the self-imposed ban on sex education in schools....

AP Govt does Shuddi after tribal rapes?

2007-11-14T03:51:00.000-08:00

Before we go into details, I reckon you don’t know what Shuddi means. It’s an act of purification done, something to wash away your sins.

If the Deccan Chronicle front page report of today is even anywhere close to the truth, then… I don’t know; complete this sentence for me after you read it.

I guess you all know about the tribal women who were allegedly gang raped by policemen in Vakapalli (August 20)
Forensic tests at APFSL and further ‘investigations’ said no rape had taken place.

However, the government has said (in a written reply to a question on the alleged incident) that it disbursed Rs. 20,000 as Shuddi to the families of the victims apart from utensils, food grains and clothes.

WHAT?!!!!!!!

Now, first place, why would the tribal women cry out ‘rape’ if no rape had taken place? There never is smoke without fire. And in cases like these, even if the point isn’t proved in court, we know, deep inside our hearts what the truth is.

And anyway, if the rape didn’t occur? Why’d the state government give “purifications’?

Now, the point- if the gang rape DID happen, in fact, chuck the ‘if’, we now know it happened, what exactly is the government doing by publishing false reports and giving compensations? Trying to save the image of the police? (yeah, right!), the home department? The ruling party? What?

If things could go on this way, I mean, if someone could rape and then get away by giving rice and dal, dammit!, the state government might as well as start a rape-for-money scheme where you buy a quintal of rice, offer a few thousand rupees and rape women in broad daylight. Revenue for the state, increase in sex tourism and employment for the women.

See? You flinched at that, didn’t you? When I said that last sentence. You now realize that these tribal women too were just ‘women’ – like the others in and around us, those we love and are ready to die for, and you realize that even they are equally vulnerable in this ‘Justice’ system. It pricks on our conscience- because this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. How wrong can things go?

Rape is bad, gang rape?
Gang rape by drunken men in a state of semi-consciousness should beget a death sentence or a lifer, but gang rape by policemen in full consciousness?
Delayed justice for rape victims is bad enough, but compensation in the form of rice and dal and money?
“Here, you got raped, I reckon, keep this money, buy yourself a new sari, and here’s some utensils to cook in. Now shut up about the whole incident.”

Dammit! man, this is civilized society, this shouldn’t be happening even in the reign of absolute monarchs, even a prince would be punished for such crimes. A gang of bloody hawaldars? Why is the state government going so far, or rather dropping so low to save them?

See what role everyone’s playing over here

The cops who raped

Cops are the saviors of the law. They round up people for eve teasing and punish those who commit rapes. What happens when they start raping? What did they think- wearing a uniform gives them a license to commit crime- one as horrendous as rape? Thought they’d get away with it because they wouldn’t book themselves?

And sadly, that IS what happened, isn’t it? They got away with it.

The cops who didn’t rape
What about the rest of cophood? If someone in our family committed such a crime, we’d throw him out of the house, hand him over to the police. I swear I’d shoot him in the head.
Can’t the police stop uplifting its criminal image and at least denounce the ones who were booked? Or at least condemn the incident?

The Justice system
How flawed can you be? How silent can you be? How much demanding of proof can you be when crime’s taking place in front of your eyes. Your daughters are getting raped in front of your eyes and you are turning the pages of the constitution to determine if there’s an alternative explanation? Your daughter’s getting gang raped in your house and you are waiting for your neighbor to come and tell you that yes, this does constitute an act of crime? Go drown yourself. If the 1,00,000 pending cases in your drawers weren’t enough, here’s another fourteen women whose trauma, helplessness, and miserability is just another fourteen files for you.

The State Government
This is democracy- and the government’s king, the government’s god, the government’s the solution to all our problems, the redeemer, the savior, the protector.
Is this your way of protecting? Giving utensils and rice so that these women won’t go hungry in the time it takes them to recover from the physical pain, leave alone the mental agony?
If this sort of government is who I pay taxes to, whom I complain to, whom I trust to take care of me and my family, what sort of life am I living? What will happen to me if a similar crime, god forbid, where to happen to ones I knew- I don’t even dare imagine the ones I love.

The families and the women
I don’t even have the guts or the imagination to get into their shoes. I can’t, and I know, you too certainly can’t put yourself in the shoes of someone who’s been raped in broad daylight- by not one man, but many, grinning and laughing as you screamed, or in the shoes of someone whose wife, or daughter or mother has been raped by men whom you go to when someone commits a crime against you.
Ever had that feeling when you dive deep down underwater and then someone grabs you from inside? You can’t release yourself, you don’t want to breathe in the water, you can’t kick back because the hand that’s grapping you is too strong, and that fresh, free air is just a few feet above your head- you can see it but can’t actually make it to the top.
And you finally give in, and breathe deeply in through the nose, or mouth, for the last time.

The Investigators
What price will you sell for? How mush of money or threat does it take to make you sell your professional ethics? And submerge facts that could have given someone the satisfaction of justice, even if not a renewed life?
How much does it cost to make you write a false report? Would you have sold yourselves if the women who were raped had been your daughters or wives or sisters gang raped on their way back from shopping?

Us
Losers like me will log on to mutiny and write an article and go back to ma friend’s shop for a hookah. Losers like you will read this (if you do) and then say what’s the point?
There is no point.
We thought of taking out a bike trip and carrying hardcore messages- something that would make people turn and look and think. We are too scared for our families and ones around us, and too lonely. That’s why I said losers.

Women in Manipur stripped themselves naked to protest against the rapes by people in uniform, and screamed “Indian Army, Rape us” in front of their children and grandchildren who had no idea of what was going on, who had no idea of what rape is.

They probably got their demands fulfilled, if you know what I mean.

The Armed Forces Special Powers act has still not been revoked, though it goes against all human rights principles.

Most of us have forgotten about the incident, some of us think that happened in China or Burma; None of us are bothered.
Want to do something about it? Let me know.

Rain, drain, gain, pain, chain, etc...

2007-11-11T08:49:00.000-08:00

Jon messages me at 1 in the night (evening for people like us) and asks me 'Dude, you awake?"
(What am I supposed to reply? No dude?..lol). I asked him if if it was another PJ- it usually is- it wasn't.

Jon tells me bout this chick's blog that he really likes n can't stop describing (the blog, dammit- think straight) so I decide I might just look it up coz I ain't sleepy.

I do- it's Pink !!!! I'll never go through this, i tell myself. But I skim through, coz I have to mesage Jon (he's on Gtalk now) and give him some feedback, make it sound like yeah, I read it n stuff. Then I start liking what I read. I like poets who write from their heart, I like intellectuals who write from their head. (I can't stand people who write from their head and try make it sound like it's comin from the heart, but that's off the topic). Well, this girl writes from somewhere in between- personal stuff with an intellectual touch n the other way round.

Then, it catches my eyes!
There's this list of things she's drawn up that probably she likes n stuff, and in it there it is- a few lines about rain.

Now rain's got a pretty negative connotative meaning for me since I've come to Hyderabad (exept for memories of college being called off)- dirty streets, wet jeans (or cargos, or cotton, or whatever you wear, man), leather sandals being ruined, no autos etc etc.

Then I remembered rain back home. And in Sikkim- and I got nostalgic. I messaged a few things rain reminds me of to Jon. He posted them as a comment on her blog, but dammit! that was only a fraction.
So I get up from bed (I'd gone back to sleep), take my chair out and sit on the balcony after I find a notebook whose origin I can't seem to remember and start scribbling stuff bout rain and providing nutrition to sons of bitches mosquitoes.

Here's a what rain reminds me of, what it means to me, or rather what it meant to me before my eyes went redder than Sunny Deol's blood and the mosquitoes drank up more blood than you donated to the SBI Blood Bank scheme, if you did that is.

The smell of wet earth. Nothing, just nothing, in all of creation compares to that smell- not even the drifting chicken in the air when you are passing through a neighborhood on a hungry stomach, or the smell of your girl's shampoo when she's really really close to you- nothing!

The wet blades of grass

Dead leaves on those wet blades of grass

The way they stick on your legs when you walk on the grass.

(And the wet spider webs, with a few droplets of water shining on them)

Watching the rain hit your window pane.

The rain hittin the front portion of your balcony and a little puddle gathering just below the railing.

Running your hand across that railing when it stops raining- that cold touch of the iron, and the way the water drips down your palm/fist.

Simply watching the droplets hanging on to the bottom of the iron rod and dropping down, to be replaced by another droplet.

The cool feelin when you touch the front walls of your house after they become wet.

Wrapping yourself up in a blanket and watching a movie- and drinking a coffee (or a hot chocolate, or bournvita, or horlicks, whatever makes you happy)

The puddles in front of your house

The joy of splashing around in those puddles.

That numb feeling in your wrinkled toes after splashing around.

You sit inside and look out the window, at the ground to see if it's still raining and you don't see the rain, but you see those tiny ripples on the puddles, and you know its still drizzling- one of the best sights of mundane lives.

The platter of rain on a tin roof.

(When I was in the hostel- the top floor. It used to bloody POUR- noisy as hell, but the most soothing lullaby ever. Going to sleep listening to that noise after a long day,,,,)

The feeling when you sit near an open window and tiny drops fall on your skin- ones you can't see but just barely feel. The joy it gives your skin

Those inspiring times when you sit down to write a poem about rain, and you realize that the only words that ryme with rain have a negative evaluative meaning... Pain, Drain, Slain, Chain etc..

Then you get the brilliant idea, and you replace rain with 'showers', and your next line ends in 'flowers'. And then when you need to write rain again, you're fucked.

You give up on the damned poem and go back to watchin the rain.

Sitting on a bench or on a bike after a shower and letting those drops wet your ass- that cool pleasant feeling...

Cycling through a puddle.

The earthworms that come out, you touch them with a twig and they roll into discs.

Sitting with your friends, in the dorm, wrapped up in balnkets and eating- doesn't mater what- and talking bout the lengendary notorious characters in the history of the hostel and the fights they had.

The times you share an umbrella with your friends (eight months of rain in Sikkim) on the way from hostel to school and back.

You spend the first few minutes trying to find out which direction the rain's coming from.

By the time you reach school, the right side of your trouser's wet
Your friend's left side of the trouser's wet too.

Water drips down your pullover/cardigan sleeve.

The way the brown cover on your botebook turns a dark smudgy brown when the rain hits them.

The way you hold your books inside your cardigan to save them from the rain when you are in class six or seven.

The way you hold your books to save your cardigan from getting wet after you reach class nine or ten.

Cheering your football team in the rain.

Playing football in the rain, wearing canvas shoes that you were supposed to keep clean for saturday.

Falling while playing football.

You gather all your shirts during the week and wash them on sundays, hoping they dry because you don't have another one for tomoro.

Skip your bath coz it's too cold (You'll connect with this only if you have lived in a boys' hostel in a hill station)

Drinking tea in the dining hall, while the rain lashes outside, dreading the thought that study hour is twenty minutes away.

The wet footprints all over the staircase, and the corridoor.

Get into your friend's blankets, sit on their clothes, drop food all over threir beds, and they don't mind- coz next time- it's your bed!

The way your socks get wet and your legs freeze inside your shoes, and the relief you get when you open them.

The mud all over your shoes, and the way they don't shine when you polish them the next day.

That cold feeling of your wet shirt sticking to your body.

Pine needles after the rain.

Running in the rain, holding your atlas/ geography notebook over your head, coz only they are large enough to cover it.

And the best game- walking under the trees, and you jump and pull the branches and run and the water falls on your friend. He gets mad and wets you next and you chase each other all the way back to the hostel.

The way water flows down the road.

Damn! I miss Pakyong (Sikkim), I miss the hostel, I miss home (I'm actually more homesick about the hostel than bout home, if it makes any sense to you)
I miss Rajiv, Rohan and everyone else I shared umbrellas with, while walking from the hostel to school in six years of life in Sikkim

Biswas, Sandesh, Karan, Ankit- sitting with them in the dormitory, wrapped in blankets and talking stuff we already talked about a million times.

I miss washing my clothes when it rained, watching cricket when it rained, and million other tiny things that a six inch wide column on blogspot can't do justice to.

2007-07-09T00:13:00.000-07:00

Travelogue on Bhutan... was published in the Deccan Chronicle yesterday
(http://www.deccan.com/Sunday%20Chronicle/Sunday%20ChronicleDescription.asp#Bhutan%20is%20where%20beauty%20comes%20alive)..

here is the unabridged version...

Why they call it Shangri-La

Few people know about Bhutan. And even fewer have seen it. Tourists all around the world call it Shangri-La. Locked among the HImalayas betteen two huge countries, it remains isolated and mysterious.

Getting into Bhutan required one to take a week's (or less) pass from the Immigration office at Phuentsholing, where Bhutan shares a border with the Indian state of West Bengal. Getting the pass required our identity proofs, nationality proofs and residence proofs and proof of ultimate patience, as we hung around in the summer heat all afternoon.

You don't hear much about Bhutan in the Media, or even in the weather reports. Nor do you get in very easily or cheaply, unless you are Indian. Other tourists are taxed heavily. The country in itself is tiny, hilly, agrarian, far from developed, and has less than a million poeple... probably lesser than Indian Railway employees. But the kingdon is a tourist's haven, and I was soon going to find out why.

Early morning on the 2nd of May, three of us boarded a Toyota Coaster (happily called bus) at Phuenstsholing, bound for Thimpu. Lady luck dumped us on the last seat. The road to Thimpu goes round and round and round and round. I was scared I'd be nauseatic. Ona flashback, I had one of the most comfortable rides of my life. The hills started as soon as we left Phuentsholing. And the hills aren't normal hills. They're beautiful. Lush green, houseless, poeple-less and absolutely calm. The calm starts the moment you enter Bhutan and you don't hear noise until you leave the country.

We stopped at Chimakoti for lunch. Two hotels beside the road, few houses, Buddhist Dhwajas (flags) on high poles and nothing else in sight except hills, hills and hills. And no noise except for the breeze, the birds and an occasional vehicle passing by.The menu at the hotel wasn't long. Beef momo was the only item that looked eatable. I don't eat beef.

Usually.

That day I did.

That done, we stepped out on the road, stood on the edge of the hill and screamed. And our screams echoed. And then it echoed again. And echoed, and echoed. I forgot the rest of the world. I suddenly no longer thought of home; or college or assignments or whether Jordan wouuld win the American Idol. I only looked forward to discovering this country. I felt a sense of belonging. A feeling of 'I'm here, it's good. I want to stay.'

The rest of the journey to Thimpu was shaky. The roads were being repaired and it was terribly dusty. And the slopes on the sides of the road looked scary. You could see the the Sunkosh ( a tributary of the Ganges) flowing down, down below. Imagine standing on the top of a very tall building and seeing the road down below. Now imagine something three hundred times that high. That down below.

The only comfort was the songs the driver played- four languages- Hindi, Nepali, Dzongkha (the national language) and English, turn by turn, suggestive of the vibrant multi-ethnicity of the country.

When we stepped down at Thimpu six hours afert we boarded, and after a few security checks, we felt the cold on our cheeks. it was 15 degree celcius. And it was summer!

Thimpu is the Capital city. Or town, I can't be sure. You can walk through Thimpu. And that's exactly what we did... once we had checked in and dumped our luggage.

The entire capital is just a couple of parallel roads, lined with buildings built in traditional Bhutanese style (it is obligatory to build your house that way)- that's all you will see of Thimpu at first sight.

What you see after that is what will make you pause for your breath..

The roads are clean: shining clean and dotted with cars surprisingly enviablle for a third world country: Land Cruisers, Tucsons, Corollas, and occasional Mercs, most driven by women, and more contrastingly- orange-clad Buddhist monks.

(The streets of Thimpu)

And then there's the view- just below the railing on the lower road- pine trees in the foreground, the Thimpu Chhu (Chhu is the local word for river) flowing just a few meters away and hills on the other side- a photographer's dream. And the cold constant breeze hitting your cheeks,and making your feet cold inside your shoes.

The most pleasing thing about Thimpu- as with the rest of Bhutan- is the calm. No one honks, no one screams and no one abuses at fellow drivers- a far cry from our cities and the traffic jams. The police is efficient, it enjoys an authoritarian status. And so is the municipality, giving Thimpu a rare combination- beautiful, clean and safe.Tobacco is banned in Bhutan, but you see occasionsl law breakers smoking in corners. And the passerbys don't seem to notice them. They don't seem to notice much of anything, not even tourists with handycams.

The children, though, are extremely camera shy. They'll smile at you, and wish you "Kudzuzambola" and let you pinch their cheeks. The moment you take out your camera, they giggle and run away.

The people are universally beautiful with pink cheeks, chinky eyes and thick black hair as straight as pine needles. One doesnt bathe much in Thimpu, but then one doesn't sweat much. Nor does one dare risking his life in the near freezing water.

The national dress, something that was, and still is, much prided upon is barely seen on the streets. It's limited to work and school and taxi-drivers (they are fined 600 Ngultrums, equal to 600 rupess, if they don't wear the Bakhkhu). The teens wear an air of style around them, with a certain hip-hop culture imbibed into their clothing.What surprises you is the perfect gender equalty and work division. Women selling billets at parking lots, girls filling up your tank at petrol pumps and girls single-handedly running internet cafes and videogame parlors and bars and restaurants. Women rule. There isn't such a thing as eve-teasing in Bhutan.

A visit to the mini-zoo near the newly set up TV tower perched on the top of a hill, overlooking Thimpu gave us a rare glimpse of the Takin- Bhutan's national animal and an endangered species. The Takin looks like a Gnu and its very gentle, so gentle you could count its teeth and have your fingers intact. Shy and timid, it barely climbs down to present itself to the tourists, who have to contend themselves with the red deer and the panoramic view of Thimpu. We were lucky enough to get the Takin on tape.

(The Takin, I actually got to pet it)

The royalty seems a little cut off from the rest of the population when you look at the palace. You see the elite practising archery-the national sport and riding about in posh cars, and though you believe in egalite, you feel a sense of awe for the monarchy rising from within you.

Night life in Thimpu is rocking, with new discotheques and pubs springing up.The youngsters flood the streets towards the evening- giving Thimpu a hep, happy look.

Dinner was Asparagus and red rice: terrific combo! Asparagus is another thing Bhutan is really famous for.Beer is dirt cheap, and a local favorite. It's best enjoyed with cooked pork or sun-dried meat and a gang of local friends, which we were lucky enough to gather.

The night in Thimpu was warm. Warm because we piled three blankets over ourselves and rolled into balls. Winter would have been terrible, when temperature drops below freezing point.

The next day morning was foggy, and we were set to head for Paro- another major tourist destination in the country and the only airport. Students poured into the streets of the capital- looking smart ion their Bakhkhus and Kiras, and rosy cheeks and pine-staright hair. And to my surprise, some actually smiled into the camera, walked towards it and smeared my lens with their curious fingerprints. But what the heck- atleast they smiled!

Even the stray dogs in Thimpu are amazingly good looking. Big, black, hary, dirty and gentle, they would tempt any cameraman. I gave in to the temptation, and my friends chided me for making a 'Dog-umentary'.

We left for Paro in an Omni. The road was under construction and our driver Thinley probably under an attack of excitement, because he rattled us off at 80 kilometres per hours on a ever-winding road too small for two vehicles to pass at a time. And twice he alsmost dropped us off the cliff, almost taking us through a fast trip of the gorge into the Sunkosh.

But then, as you near Paro and you look around, you stop thinking of accidents and deaths. You close your eyes and thank the creator for creating such a beautiful sight. Once you descend into the valley, the road runs parallel to the Paro Chhu. The sun was mild, the air was calm and there were poppies on the banks, just meters outside the window. And mouth-watering green paddy fields across the river. And I thought if Shangri-La was a valley, Hilton must have been referring to Paro. And if I were doomed to die in an Omni in vicinity of this divine sight, I wouldn't have to travel far to find paradise.

We had no clue of what to do in Paro. So we walked around at random in the streets. Everyone seemed to be chewing 'Doma' a local variety of paan, which to me smells horrible but seemd to be a local favorite. And people seemd to smile at us more than they did in Thimpu.

Deciding we were hungry, we stepped into a certain Hotel Penjorling. We seemd to be the only customers and the only source of sound. The restaurant was dead calm, except for the TV playing softly in the corner.But what was more noticable about the corner was a cutely-set cabin with a warning sign outside that said "Adam and Eve's corner". We smiled at it, and I vowed to myself that I'd get in there with someone as sweet as the cabin itself someday.

The waiter spoke to us at 20 decibels and I was surprised actually heard him. We ordered Emma-Datchhi, the national dish with red rice and waited eagerly. Emma is a variety of big local chilly and Datchhi is a unique local cheese strained from raw milk that you get only in Bhutan and neighboring places. Our order took a hundred years to come. What we got was small green fiery chillies cooked in supermarket cheese. Scary!, but it smelled wonderful.

We couldn't resist eating it and when we were done with it, our tongues were on fire. After gulping down a million glasses of water, I screamed for dessert. There was none! No ice-cream, no fruit salad, no Mithai!

I yelled at the waiter to get us something to pacify us. Within minutes, he brought us watermelon chopped and bathed in yogurt- no original Bhutanese dish, but an ad-hoc recipe invented to keep customers alive. And looking back, I have never had a more delectable lunch. I drool till date when I think of those tiny green chillies creamed with cheese. And I tried dipping watermelon in yogurt a couple of times, but it never tasted as good as it had that day.

We decied to forego a visit to the Drugyal Dzong- Paro's famed museum- a sin no tourist dares commit. We decided to head to Takshang. Thinley was still hanging around at the only taxi-stand and offered to take us to the base for an amount enough to feed a dozen people.

Now, Takshang Lakhang is a monastery, and a mystery. The name means "Tiger's Nest", and it is perched near the top of an almost vertical slope of a black granite hill. Locals say it wasn't built by humans. It is believed to have been built by Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambha) himself, when he flew there in a tigress. Others say it was built by Zhabdrung Ngwang Namgyal, one of the founders of Bhutan, sat here to meditate. Others say it was completed by the Zhabdrung.

Bhutan's history beyond the last 100 years or so is shrouded in myth and mystery. It's been a hundred years since the currents dynasty has been ruling. The fifth king sits in the throne now. And he is probably one of the handsomest kings ever, as was his father. But no one, not even the British have much documents about what happended in this kingdon prior to that. The national flag has a dragon on it till date.

Whatever it be, Thinley dropped us at the highest place a vehicle could go and showed us Takshang on the high hill oposite- majestic, breath-taking even from so far away and almost near the horizon. The first viewpoint is a 30-minute uphill road (or track) which most tourists climb on a mule. But mules are no fun, and also a little above the budget of tourists from a country as poor as ours. We decided to walk.. a shortcut that required walking at 90 degrees to sea level. Pausing for breaths in a wilderness thousands of feet above sea level, from where we could see neither top nor bottom but only pine trees, we finally reached the view point, exhausted and ashamed at our lack of stamina.

The moment we set our eyes on the Lakhang, still opposite to us, and still at the horizon, but looking bigger now, we were dumbstruck with wonder. How anyone could have built anything like that on a wall beat us, and i am sure it beat the otehr dozen European tourist staring at it, jaws dropping.

It is beautiful. It is so beatiful you will cry.

Takshang should be nominated for the seven wonders of the world. If there was one wonder, Takshang should be nominated for that too. On second thoughts, it shouldn't be. It's way out of this world. It defies physics, defies science, it defies all limits of beauty, and it defies understanding.

And at such a point, the battery in my camera drained out. After a near death experience arising out of dissapointment, I borrowed a camera froma an Austarlian tourist who was still trying to gather himself from the shock of the sight.

(Takshang, view from when you are almost there... I didnt take any of these photos, just in case)

(To give you an idea of where the Lakhang's been built)

Badly though we wanted to, we didnt dare go to the top. Thinley and the taxi were waiting at the base, and we had to get to Thimpu before nightfall. And we were scared the place would lose its awe if we stepped into it. Those that have been inside tell me they can't describe it. It's an hours walk along a murderous cliff but I'm going back in there someday.

I picked up a rhododendron from among the many that were growing on the slope- a reminder of the most marvellous sight I had seen. I later gave it to the girl who ran an Internet cafe at Thimpu and became instant friends.

I also picked up pine cones on my way back and have kept them well guarded in my room.We were all quiet on the way back. We stopped and dipped our legs in Paro Chhu. The water was cold, the air was calm and we were still awestruck by what we had seen. The water ran through our toes, leaving them numb. No water will ever feel the same again.

(Paro Chhu- where I dipped my legs, with the dzong in the back)

We reached Thimpu, had asparagus and Datchi for dinner, emptied liters of the dirt cheap and amazingly tasty beer and slept the most peaceful sleep ever.

The next day we reserved for shopping. Longed as much as we could to go to Punakaha, the winter capital, we didn't have the permit to do so and being a weekened, the Embassy was closed. Moreover, there had been wildfires in two districts- Wangdi and Chirang and the Govt had declared a national emergency. Hundreds of firefighters and scientists were fighting the fires. The atmosphere in the entire country was eerie.

Leaving Bhutan was tough. Four days of a different life, renewed acquaintances with relatives, dozens of new friends, bottles and bottles of good beer, one bath and millions of memories hung in our minds.

When we reached Phuentsholing, it was another world again. As soon as we stepped down the bus, the heat hit us. When we crossed into India, we were overwhelmed by the noise, the litter, the crowd and the smoke. At that moment, I felt the strongest urge to walk back right inside, get lost in that sweet surrender and never come back.

Bhutan is gearing up for its first elections. After a century of monarchy, consisting of revered and the most handsome kings, democracy's to come in. The country's expected to relax tourist taxes. But the joy of Bhutan lies in its isolation and rare accessiblity.

The joy of Bhutan lies in its difference. So small yet so full of marvels; so isolated yet so friendly; so silent and yet so merry; such beauty, such wonderful people, such simple ways of life; so down to earth and yet so out of this world.

And in all this, I have not praised Bhutan, I have only described it, to my best. You need to see Bhutan to believe it, and you need to be God to describe it perfectly.

(Paro Dzong, one place we did not go to)

(The ex-king, H.M Jigme Singye Wangchuk)

(The fifth and present king, Jigme Khesar (or Gesar) )

(The national dress- Bakkhu and Kira, and just another of those sceneries you'll find everywhere in this photogenic country)

How to get there:
Siliguri is the nearest Indian City. Three hours ride by road to Jaigaon,the Indian town adjoining Phentsholing. Direct flights to Paro from Kolkata and Delhi too, I should think. If you are an Indian, you need to visit the India house at Phuentsholing first from where they'll send you to the Immigration office, Once you get the pass, you're God. Buses and taxis are available to Thimpu from Phuentsholing. If you are known personally to the king, you could consider taking a chopper. oh yeah, i know this is terribly long to read without any burger offers....but here's a feedback I'll treasure:

"It sure was an epic. But I loved every word of it.....hate the fact that I'll have to chop it"- Christina Francis, Deccan Chronicle

Winter

2007-01-15T06:44:00.000-08:00

Before I went home this vacation, I had that faint feeling that it would be freezing cold and that maybe I shouldn't go... but then there was this documentary film I was working on which I had to finish (at least, I really wanted to get done)
I'd been looking forward to the shooting since I came back after Dussera (And before I tell u more, let me just tell you bout what I was shooting. And with that little part of how I am involved)
I'm confused... and not bout which pair of socks to wear tomoro or whether to get up at ( or postpone my alarm to 9.15 on college days... for once, I'm confused bout where I belong.

(btw, if you haven't heard of refugees or don't know which part of India Bhutan is in, or who is the Chief Minister of Nepal, you might as well get back to Orkuting, this isn't nice stories bout Hijras payoing back 5 bucks on the train or beautiful photographs on misty mornings)

Good to see you are still reading.
Its irritating when people think Nepal's a part of India, or when they think Bhutan is the name of some forest area near Mongolia. Truth is they are both Neighbors of India, really close to each other, seperated by Sikkim, which itself was a country till 76...(I know u know this,, some people I have met don't, and its painful)
And yeah,, there's a part about Hijras later on.. if you read on till that long.

Coming back to the issue...
About a hundred thousand people were evicted on really flimsy grounds in the late 80s and the early 90s from Bhutan, these are today living in Refugee camps in eastern Nepal. Nepal provided us refuge, UN kept us alive for 16 years, and the rest of the world doesn't know about us.

I don't live in a refugee camp. My name was deregistered in 93, which means I wasnt getting food from the UN all these years... and thats what makes me all the more confused. I was born in Bhutan and lived there for the first four years of my life. My mom held a Bhutanese passport adn was the District Education Officer under the Govt of Bhutan. Dad held Nepali citizenship but had been working in Bhutan for bout fifteen years.
By the time I was born, ethnic conflicts had started. More and more of the government policies were being directed against the Lhotsampa (Ethnic nepalis in Bhutan, majority of who were in the South of the country) community and most of these policies were designed to hit where it hurt the most- culturally.

And now (if you r still readingthis, either you r a nerd, or a realy good friend of mine, or eagerly waiting to get to the story out the HIjras on the train), let me tell you a bit bout Bhutan before I start harking politically controversial stuff.

Bhutan is a beautiful country, to some people I have met, I need to remind that it is a country in the first place. And its not up there in Mongolia, it's India's northern neighbor (and a much privileged one at that) just right of Sikkim and left of majority of Assam. Its also not an uninhabited place, ts got about 6,00,000 warm-blooded human beings living in there, which also stll includes some of my relatives and many of my childhood friends.
The beauty of the country is unbelievable, you have to see it to believe it. You'll cry if you see it- its that beautiful. Connectivity's poor, most of the country is unreachable by road. Even the highways are noarrow (for the last fifteen years of my life I have been wondering what happens if two lorries come across on one of these roads. I won't be allowed in, so I can only imagine)
Televison was allowed in 1999, (and many had been caught and imprisoned for placing antennas in the bathrooms and other secret places), mobile phones have reached the capital city (city?) and a few other towns and literacy must be nearing 40% by now.

Holy shit, u r still reading this?

The country is ruled by a king, who is much akin to God. The last one abdicated his throne last month. Democracy is to be ushered in in 2008, though the monarchy will remain. The 30% people who may understand what franchise means might just be waiting eagerly to cast their votes for some cabinet whose members will not be allowed to look into the King's face by royal decree even in 2047.
The history of Bhutan is shrouded in myth. After reading the textbooks of all classes (my friends in the refugee camps have to study Bhutan history), I can only think of logically explainable events occuring around the mid 20th century. google to find more, if you r bothered.

Bhutan has three main communities- the Ngalongs in the center and West(the ruling family belongs to this one), the Sarsops (a tibetan-mongoloid race) in the East (or maybe the other way round)and the Lhotsampas(Nepali speaking Aryans and Mongoloids inhabiting the Southern part).
Heavens knows what happened, the central policies suddenly started being directed againstthe Lhotsampas. Some say because Ethnic Nepalis had led to the downfall of the Chhogyal in Sikkim and the community had rallied for Gorkhaland in Darjeeling, the Bhutan Govt decided they were dangerous people and had to be got rid off. Others say Lhotsampas had the highest literacy rate and were also doing really well in all sectors, threatening to acquire political dominance in the future. Still others say stuff I don't really care bout. Read on the net to find out anything, if you even care.

Throughout all of what happened, I could gather nothing. We were living in the north (Punakha) where ethnic tension was minimum. But there came times when I started hearing about people who had gone to Nepal. I also knew I had to compulsorily wear the Bakkhu (the national dress- it was imposed upon all people, another reason for all the ethnic conflict).
By the end of 91, I was almost four, and I started learning that we would be going to Nepal soon. In 92, we came to Nepal.
17th Jan, we reached Birtamode, Nepal. Dad had come earlier and was getting a house built. I remember some of the journey. We had ridden a truck, with the belongings at the back. It wasnt all that bad as it sounds, I really can't remember the journey being uncomfortable. But I had a vague feeling that the back of the truck wasn't our entire world and some stuff was missing, propbably some of my toys too, though I am not really sure.

I think I'll buy you a burger for still reading this.

While our house was being built, we stayed at our new neighbors' place.
In the meanwhile, we knew of people who had been chased away and were settling in tents on the banks of a river called Mai (A tributary of the Kosi, which in turn is a tributary of the Ganga, and is locally revered as a holy river). I even went to the place once, though by then UNHCR had shifted most refugees to other refugee camps.
Many times, me and my sisters used to see trucks and trucks of refugees on the road which was visible from our new house. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew those people were ones less fortunate than us and that they had left their houses to be thrown upon the banks of Maidhar.

My first few months, I don't really remember. All I could figure out was that I was in a new place. My neighbors had a different accent than us though we spoke the same language. It was way much hotter than where I had come from, and there were ugly and horrible people called beggars, something we had never seen in Bhutan and scared us to death. I spent quite a few months asking Mom and Dad :When are we going back home?"

Almost every night we used to gather around the radio to listen to news on Radio Nepal, to hear if they would say anything about the refugees and if Bhutan govt would take us back. 15 years later, people still listen to the radio news with the same expectation.

Nepal also saw the beginning of my schooling. I had attended pre-primary probably four days back in Bhutan. Thanks to my excellent pre schooling at home, I realised that I knew much more than many of my friends. Learning Ka, Kha, Ga and ek, dui, teen was a pain though.

How the change must have been for my sisters I can only imagine. They had left entire classes of friends. They were in their upper primary by then. And all of a sudden, the social studies lessons had completely changed, they no longer had to study Dzongkha, the school dress was shirts and ties and not a Kira, they had to sing a different Ntaional anthem each morning and had to study a new language (which was our mother tongue but had a really unfamiliar script all the same). After a few months, or prob around a year, I also realised that my sister was not at all keeping well and that she was really ill.

I heard of refugee camps being built. I also knew that my aunt and some of my cousins stayed in there. Towards August of 92 or so, my sisters went to the camp and lived there a few months with our aunt.
I went to the camp sometime in January 93 and stayed there for bout three months.

Those few months were amazingly memorable.
School was a jungle near the camp (and so was toilet- that was an adjoinig jungle. By June 93, UNHCR had provided toilets, one for two houses, it still works the same way).
Each morning we used to carry a sack and books (hold on.. books only came by in february. Twas sack and a slate throughout Jan) and go place ourselves under a tree, which was our classroom- class 1, section C. Hari sir was our class teacher, he was one of learned who had finished his intermediate (those days it used to be class 13) and was sharing whatever he knew with those who didnt. One of my class mates was 24. He's probably 40 now, must have kids and all, never met him after i left the camp.
My cousin and me were in the same class. he was a few years elder to me (is that grammatically correct?). Each morning he used to leave home sulking with me for no reasons watsoever, and I had to go to school with someone else. To make things worse, I had to carry his sack too, for which he never thanked me. He was always around the big boys of the class, i was one of the little ones.
By the way, our school was called BLES (bloomin Lotus English School). It became my favorite shooting spot while i was working on the documentary. Our camp is called Goldhap, it is one among the eight refugee camps in Eastern Nepal, and by far the best. (Cause thats where i know the maximum people, and I dont really have to give explanations, coz no one's ever going to read this far, except my sister. If you're my sister, u're probably smiling. You're not my sister, you're probably nuts to read something so not connected to you so far)

What the hell, you still reading this? (not applicable to didi).

Goldhap was also where I committed my first crime.
Some people had set up small shops where they sold sweets and cigarettes and guthka. Anda mithai (directly translated as egg sweets: sugar balls, shaped like eggs and colored) was our favorite, coz we got six for a rupee...(If you aren't a refugee, you wont understand how costly that is).
One fine day, I stole five rupees from Aunty's purse. My best friend and neighbor (holy shit! i forgot his name) and me went and bought 30 anda mithais... I have honestly never felt so rich in my life as i did then....
I was scared of aunty (Me and my cousin Dinesh were living with her, and she was in charge. She brought up all of us, even back in Bhutan coz mom wouldnt be with us during the day. We all love her, but when I committed mistakes, i was terribly scared coz I had gotten a few spankings).
To make sure aunty wouldn't know, me and Indra (I remeber his name now, he's working as a teacher somewhere today)- we bribed Dinesh Daju (da, or big brother).. we gave him some five Anda mithais (believe me, it wasnt easy to have a batwaara). He complained that night all the same, aunt went and asked the shopkeeper, just to be sure, and then spanked me. Dinesh da didnt have much to be happy about, coz he got spanked too- I told aunty I had given him the sweets.

But honestly, I thank heavens aunty spanked me that day, god knows how i'd have turned out if not.

I love you for still reading this.

I moved out of the camp in April. My mom's friend Eilish baked me a birthday cake on my bday that year, and that was one of the best birthdays i ever had.
And ever since I left the camp, I have been confused. Our entire family was deregistered from the camp in 93 or 94. We stayed outside the camp then. I left the country (that sounds great, dunnit?) in 98, and used to go to nepal hardly thrice ayear. I hardly see my home fifteen days in a year now.

Thats just another reason why I am so confused. While I'm chatting on the internet, I'm perceived to be an indian, I look like one and even talk like one now.
I'm ethnically nepali. I speak nepali, I eat nepali food, say my prayers and dream in that language. And for all that matters, nepal's the country of my forefathers. Its the country my dad was born in. When someone asks me what I am, i say I m nepali.

Bhutan was where i was born, I took my first steps there, uttered my first words there. I remember every detail of the house we lived in before we left. My first friends were in Bhutan. that was where i had my first sickness, that is where i got my polio and BCG and DPT vaccines thats kept me alive all these years. So what if all my relatives and fellow people were driven out from my country? I know there's a part of me that belongs there and there's a part of Bhutan that belongs to me. And if I even cross the Bhutan gate, the sight of the country leaves me with a lump in my throat. The sight of the chicks make me wish i had never left the country and the sight of the fancy cars guys around my age drive (most people in Bhutan, i must tell you are annoyingly rich, wat the hell.. with only six lacs poeple to divide the entire GDP and UN funds among), I wish i was still in there.
But its not just bout the cars and the chicks... why should a hundred thousand people be banished for no apparent reason and have to compromise their sense of belonging? Forget me, there are thousands of people my age and younger than me who have never left the camps. They have no idea what Bhutan meant, they have no idea of how things are in Nepal outside the camp, and they have never been to any other country. Tousands have lost their childhood, thousands have wasted their youth, thousands have passed their old age worrying about tomoro's meal and whether they would be alive to pray in peace, thousands have left all that they worked for and ran away, not knowing where they were running away to, thousands have buried their dead children with their own hands when they couldnt arrange for firewood to burn them, thousands stand in line at ration shops waiting for the UN and Lutheran federation to give them food for the next two weeks, thousands pass the chilling winter with the few sweaters UNHCR gives them, thousands write their class ten board exam knowing they do not have the money to study further, thousands learn Bhutan history, bhutan geography, mug Dzongkha literature and sing the Bhutanese national anthem each morning in silent hopes that they might go back. Thousands of children have never seen life outside the refugee camp and yet say they want to go back to bhutan.
Parents have no idea what they will leave behind for their children, the old have no idea if they will live to die in the orchards and farms they had sweated all their lives for, and the young have no idea what will happen next week. Bhutan says it will never take them back, Nepal cant afford to assimilate them, UN and donor organizations have fed them for sixteen years, they are now running short of funds, adn the rest of the world doesnt even know that such a problem exists.

This is been a long write up. If you have come so far, thank you, honestly, my writing has not gone in waste.
For those who wanted to read bout the part bout Hijras in the end, we met a bunch of Hijras on the train, made them dance and took the video.
I met Chakeela my old friend and gave her back the 5 bucks i had taken from her.

Will write another one soon.
Love you for coming so far.

Ad Copies

2006-12-08T16:55:00.000-08:00

In all my life, I have always wondered why my interest span's so short. Poems, then stories, then came speeches; there was a time when I couldn't spend a day wthout reading a novel; and then there were times I got hooked on to late night movies on TV; then I started sketching and even had a sketch book with some a pretty collecton; late last year and early this year, I was a regular visitor at Sarathi Studios where I'd watch art movies. And of course, there were days when I took seriously scrpt writing and wrote quite a few really good ones.

What surprises me is that I don't do most of these anymore, not regularly at least. Not that I have lost interest, each of the above is my passion, and I pride myself on all that I have written or drawn. Even the movies I watched at the HFC helped me understand Film making better.

Just that I cant understand why they become a hobby for a few day and then i just stop doing them.

I took to photography recently, and before I'd even learnt the P of Photography, the pics stopped coming.

Whatever, I've started on Ad Copies now. i mostly makes PSMs cause I can't bring myself to subject poeple to commercialisation. Besides, hello, there r better ideas to sell than all the stuff that fills up supermarket shelves. You need to tell peopel to stop multiplying, for one. You need to warn them against diseases and environmental destruction- basically, u need to tell people to stop killing themselves before you tell them to buy fairness creams and popcorn.

Here are three of my ad copies. they need working on, but what the hell.. I'm only a beginner- as I have always been.

That's the first one, and ya, my favorite. The slogan clicked while I was a arguing with my friend online about creation and genesis. I still have a doubt lingering from that debate: Didn't the dinosaurs get o ride the Ark? (no offence, i was only fingering my friend. The debate actually started with me saying man was instinctively carnivorous, and he contradicted that to say we were supposed to eat fruits. Religion aside, I owe him for giving me the inspiration)

A little oo much of information, I guess.. I didn't save a psd format so have no patience to redo the whole thing.

The idea of a white space ad had been in my head for quite some time... I took the photo in the studio. I took a video in fact, captured it on FCP, converted it into a .mov in the studio; came home and exported it into .pct and finally to a .bmp. The photo needed quite some cutting and clippng before i could actually work on it. Btw, do visit that blog thats in the ad

Trying to 'graduate'

2006-11-19T19:21:00.000-08:00

Now that things are going good, and I'm actually starting to understand lenses, I've started shooting stuff other than flowers and at times other than before sunrise, (wat was described in the previous post's comment page as 'graduate') though i hardly dare go beyond the first hour and half of the sun.
Mistakes keep happening and I end up deleting more than three times the number of photos i keep. And some can be frustating- because while they look mind boggling on the LCD, they move the photographer to tears when viewed on a larger screen.
And by now, I need to learn to take multiple shots of the same object rather than look at the pic on the display on the first try, smile and move my tripod to something else.
The first photo I'm putting up today is one that blows my mind off on the small screen but then the object is completely out of focus, when actually seen big. But I swear to the spirits of all amateur photographers before me, I'll take that photo again, and this time, I'll bring it out good.
This is the one I'm talking about

And ya, anyway,
here are the better ones...

(And to think for 19 years of my life, I trampled on these without as much as looking at them)

(Because people r thinking I'm getting fixated over close ups of flowers, I thought I might as well as move to a wider view)

(Yeah, I know, Animal Planet won't hire me. Blame the light. And expand the image n look at his eyes)

(Thats two (duh) trees near teh percolation tank, as viewed fro the anonymous jungle near teh agricultural farm)

(L'église)

(That's my first shot at shooting a person... and ya, that's also my buddy Sam, who lost his background to a shutter speed of 100 while I left the flash on)

Its actually working

2006-11-18T09:14:00.000-08:00

There's so much I'd love to write but I guess this requires more space for my today's work than for my poor sense of humor... So here we go...

(I feared the sun's rays till yesterday. today, I started loving the morning rays, and the shadows it brings with it)

(How I maintained the focus for this one, I have no idea)

(This one's in front of our P.G block... Incidentally, I saw it for the first time when I shot it, in all my three years and a half in Loyola)

(Another neighbor's garden.. honestly, I lived among all these for six months, what was i doing all this while?)

(Someone told me this one's got no story, but wat the hell.. I like it)

(This is one from that family you saw up there. Honestly, I'm publicising my neighborhood)

(My day's favorite, taken just before I packed my tripod for the day. Taken from one of the most cared for gardens in my neighborhood)

Next post: do I even need to say it?

The painful days of patient beginnership

2006-11-17T05:40:00.000-08:00

The wanna be photographer's struck gold!

K.. not really..

Ma first day of photography started with an early rise...

Left home with a tripod, the cam and many good intentions, and then realised two things-

firstly, i'd left the cells in my room

secondly, i was locked out

As usual, technology came to rescue, and a missed call to my cousin did the trick of opening the door.

Next was some patient hanging around in my garden, neighbors and college after which.....................

O, wat the hell.. just look at them damn photos,

Man, m a proud beginner!

(starting with the more modest ones.... this one's one among those millions near the college gate)

(that one's the results of vagetable farming in my garden.. little too much exposure, I guess, but i like the composition, n so does ma HOD :) )

(Now, y can't i remeber where i took that? But I like it anyway, maybe could have done with little more exposure)

(That's the very first photograph which kickstarted off my hopeful hobby n also ma orkut display pic for a few days)

(This one's a favorite of the day, taken off ma neighbor's puic. If u r my neighbor, u thank me for the publicity 8) )

(Enough of flowers, time for some bigger stuff)

(You must be thinking good of me now, so thought I'd push my luck n chip this in. View of ma block from ma roof. Consider the possibility of givin ma attendance from ma roof)

Next post: More photos, duh...

The Formative days of Desperate Photography

2006-11-15T04:04:00.000-08:00

More than a century and half's passed ever since Joseph Nicephore Niepce (I missed two accents aiguilles in there) invented the photographic camera in 1827. Thousands have mastered the art since and there are a couple of billion cameras in the world today. And you thought, in all these years those wanna-be photographers were extinct.

Unfortunately, they are not . These closet photosophers come to the surface once in a while with a borrowed camera and lots of inspiration. They take pictures of commonday things expecting great photographs; look at their own pictures; frown; shake their heads and delete them. Then after three million and thirty seven tries and half that number of wasted dry cells, they finally get a photo they can look at, smile, come back to their world and go home for dinner. And then they sit on Photoshop and apply pretty weird effects thanx to which the picture finally looks tolerable to the human eye. And unfortunatelyfor you, I am one of them.

I always had a fascination for still photography, which i did not pursue thanx to Nikon and Cannon who price those digi SLRs at above 50,000.

When I finally decided to start some serious shooting, there were two forces behind it. One was Scott Kelby whose book on photography has been very enlightenig and whose poor sense of humor matches mine. (By the way if u ARE Scott Kelby, ignore that last sentence, you have an amazingly rib tickling collection of jokes. If, you are not, then ignore the last sentence, I was lying)

The second's ma friend who drove me to the edge of the cliff above the sea of jealousy (yeah, I am a retired poet) by bragging about her photography lessons every fifteen seconds. (Not bragging actually, t was just narration, at times, enlightening and eventually, motivating).

(And not exactly every fifteen seconds either)

So, I borrowed a Digi SLR from ma fren who is also my Junior (And who has still photography as a part of his course. Why do all good things happen to batches after yours?), a tripod from another close friend and hopefully a lens from another in the recent future (read tomorrow)

And just a day before I started, I took another Digi, which was not SLR and which belonged to another close friend of mine and shot some pics for practice.

And here I am posting those pics. Firstly, because they show how bad my sense of photography is; secondly,they are gros so that might make you want to visit my blog again. And thirdly, when I put up other photos in future, you'll know how much I have improved (and by God's grace, that might even happen)

(That was one hell of a cobra they killed near an undisclosed location, just in case animal rights activists are viewing this. Notice the shallow depth of field, with the background out of focus.
(If you are a genuine photographer, I know u must be saying "This guy can't use lenses for nuts)

(I think this one's a pretty nice view of one of the most useful corners in my house. And just in case you want to know how good I am at manipulating photos with softwares, try this: http://www.orkut.com/AlbumZoom.aspx?uid=12446339638028837856&pid=11)

"The joy of photography lies in making look beautiful what people would say "Gros!"

-Me

And for those who regularly vistit ma blog (That's a sizeable 0.000007% of the world's population, unless you are a forst timer, which would make it 0.0000076), I know i promised to post Chakeela's photo. Sorry to dissapoint you, I promise that will happen soon).

Next post: More photos

The 'Hijra'

2006-10-14T20:01:00.000-07:00

For the first time in my life i got an upper hand on an eunuch- on ma joureney back from nepal. And it wasn't easy.

M back in hyderabad, after 14 days n ma room feels like heaven, except for the blanket- it smells soorta queer- must be two weeks of dampness takin its toll.
Weather back home was murderous, weather on the way was worse- The sun in bengal n orisssa was accompanied by hot air, which made it difficult for tiny human cells to survive.
First things first, i had no reservation. I met a friend at the station (implied that we became friends after we met)- guru- n he had no berth either. Nyways, with the whole train at our disposal and no place to sleep, we (at least I) stayed awake all night.

We did try our hand at using the Indian way of getting things done- but the TTE asked for a thousand bucks for one seat, which was way above our financial extravaganza.

Middle of the night we met Akash, who had a berth and no intention of sleeping. And while Guru slept, me and akash stayed awake till morning.

An Uncle on the side got up at 4, asked us the time, n started shaving.
My hopes began to rise- if uncle was going to stay awake, he could sit where we were sitting n v could sleep on his berth. I went to the bathroom. Five minuttes later, no such luck. Akash was fast asleep beside guru, n uncle was back in dreamland with vengeance and a clean shaved face.

I finally did go to sleep - at 7.30 in the morning and was promptly awakened by beggars two hours later. Orissa was amazingly uncomfortable and it wasn't until we were way inside Andhra in the afrternoon that things startyed to cool down.

Andhra Pradesh also brought about another encounter- an eunuch called Chakeela.

I gave the Eunuch (Hijda) 10 bucks with the assurance that (s)he would return 5.
(s)he didn't.

Bored as i was, i decided i neede to do something to get back my money. So i, and akash, followed the eunuch, crying 'paanch rupiya de re'. 7 bogeys and half an hour later (s)he returned the money.

In the process, i sustained over a dozen attacks on my privates, spoke like a million dirty words to balance the conversation, had to throw him/her away wen (s)he tried to grasp me, came to know his/her name, experinced the support and encouragement of fellow passengers, had to take snap shots of chakeela n her friend ramya on the videocam.
Also, i gave a gruelling fifteen minutes lecture on truth telling and working with dignity, standing beside the door, received a compliment saying ' ni kallu baag hunnai ra'*,
turned down three offers from both teh eunuchs to 'go to the bathroom', called hiom/her Sree devi twice before (s)he told me his/her name, and never gave up the flirtatious smile on my face.

Wen i finally got the five rupees (near vishakaptnam), i held it out in my hand like a trophy and showed it to all the people in the seven bogeys whoever were willing to listen.
I also congratulated chakeela who didn't seem really happy and was less willing to shake hands.

The five ruppee coin is tucked away in my purse.
And ya, Chakeela's friend was called Ramya
Next post: Chakeela's photo

*(to which i replied: thanx, topic hage cheyaku, na aidu rupai ei ra),

Je t'aime

2006-09-01T07:36:00.000-07:00

Tu es belle
Et tu es toute a quoi je peux penser
Si je ferme mes yeux, je te vois
Si je les ouvre, tu est la
Je te sens
Toujours...
Partout...
Autour de moi,
Je sens ton corps dans mes bras
Tes yeux en regardant du ciel
Tes levres sur les miennes
Tu hantes mes reves
Tu hantes mes penses
Je te veux..
Dans ma vie...
Et je veux etre
Dans la tienne...
*********
Quand.....
Comment....
Est-ce que
Tu seras la mienne?

(Note: If you know french, edit me)

Coz he loved a man

2006-09-01T07:28:00.000-07:00

Looked down by the society
Outcast by his clan
Only fault in life being his
That he loved a man

Not that he was bad looking
Just unlucky his fate
For all good he tried to do
All he got was hate

He was but a laughing stock
All the children's toon
A job he once held before
Lost it just too soon

Parties he was not called to
For friends, he had none
From the pew, alone he'd pray
When everyone was gone

Good fellow he was, not hurt
A soul in his life
But who cared for all that goodness
When he had no wife?

Tuppence though he gave for glares
Fools hate who they can
Saw no reason to feel weird
Just coz he loved a man

He too'd lay at paradise
happy to have died
Rid of men who hated
Or holy books that lied

Coz he loved a man

2006-09-01T07:27:00.000-07:00

Creaky bones: An ode to the dead living

2006-09-01T07:03:00.000-07:00

He lived aloof and alone, amidstthe woods afar
Where men didn't haunt him nor society his freedom mar
The nearest hut he knew was over a mile away
He slept alone by the night and lazed so by the day

He had a friend though, the only friend he ever had
A greyhound- old, daunted, smelly and equally sad
Two teeth short, it drooled and drooped to gravity
Much like its master, void of any levity

Master and hound, they owned an old wooden hut in the woods
It creaked and squealed to each of nature's changing moods
A dusty patched deerskin lay near the broken fireplace
And a rusty gun hung by the wall with wasted grace.

They spent all summer lazing and winter just grunting
Save when the seasons changed, and they'd go duck-hunting
There best days, though, were spent by the fire, eating burnt meat
Master lying lazily on the chair, hound at his feet.

Thus years passed one after another, time raced ahead
The master's back hunched over, the dog was bout half dead
Their muscles rested, their bones began to rot and defile
Hunting trips became rarer and shorter by the mile

One cold foggy morn, The old man scraped his rusty old gun
Fall ws at it's end and so was his only chance to have fun
Game'd be plenty now and he may get no chance again
Whistling out to hs oldest friend, he whispered- "Captain!"

Captain came limping, saliva droolin from his mouth
His hunter instinct not aroused by the geese flying south
But would follow his master till time did them apart
As both made their last foray into the forest heart

Their joints creaked as they walked, old master and half dead hound
They tramped the marshy land to where the duck abound
They arrived at the lakeside and hid among the reeds
Game was plenty and unaware, the man prepared his leads.

The rusty gun shook hard as it coughed out a bullet
A hasty flutter of wings as game and shot met
"Go, get him, Captain", the man ordered the dog, eyeing him
With forced alacrity, the hound limped and splashed to swim

But his upsurged joy gave his rot decaying bpomes no strength
And when he had splashed his way through half the target length
His hound instinct no longer gave him a helping hand
And he stopped and sank into the marshy sand

The master watched with taerful eyes, this entire death show
He cried, reached his hand out to the air, grieved head hung low
He stood up, walked home and brought back a rope, traumatised
With aged fatigue, he pulled out his only friend demised

His strength fading fast, he dragged the body to his lair
Sat near the fire, hound at his feet, and scratched its dead hair
The deerskin lay dirtily wet and splattered with mud
His throat was sore with cold dry cough and clothes smeared with mud

He stared into the fire as the room dimly it lit
He pulled over the dog and threw it onto the fire
Stench and smoke rose and spread in the room, not lessening his pain
Intoxicated, he lay still on the chair, never to rise again

Le collection de mes photographies

2006-08-31T11:14:00.000-07:00

Well, I created a blog but realised that i wasn't puttin up anything on it... so, for a start, here's some photographs of me n ma frens (whose photographs I have).
If you find yourself here, gimme a comment; if you don't, write me a comment anyway.

Left: Me n Pooja at ma place b4 the party

Right: Bidush: Leavin on a Jet (?) Plane

Left: Me n Rommel on the banks of Hussain Saagar

Left:Rommel, Pooja n Me: Jst b4 the party at ma place

Right: Me n Shruti on her B'day

Left: The team with which i mde my (our) first film: Vaishali, Soni, Deborah, Me n Chintaka

Left: Rahul n me at the Ameerpet House

Right: Me n Rishava on the way from Chintaka's party to Johan's. Both of us three fourths drunk...Wat a weekend that was...

Left: Me n Jon, All caked up on Shruti's birthday

Right: Me n Ken on stage, College day

Ma pic

2006-08-20T04:59:00.000-07:00

me n ma hair two months back....

ThE GenesiS

2006-08-20T04:03:00.000-07:00

I'm not the dog in the picture, though we probably think alike. A few phrases describe me: Hard Thinker, Powerful speaker, Fierce writer, Lazy doer....
The IQ test on facebook says I scored 140, I don't think so.
I like everything in life, except those potholes on the road. I dream of a day when they will no longer be there.
People ask me if I rememeber my dreams when I wake up. Incidentally, I dream when I am fully awake.
I talk to myself, I cheer people up, I dance in the office washroom, I can hide seven pencils in my hair, I genuinely avoid hurting everyone, I work towards a better world. In short, I am what people would call weird. I love the title.
I am creative, intelligent, modest on the outside and arrogant on the inside, focussed, egoistic and eccentric, and I swear I pity those who are not.