Mahabharatha

Mahabharatha can quite simply be termed as the greatest Indian novel ever. There is always a thin line that seperates fact from fiction and one will never know on which side of that line the story called Mahabharatha resides. This is a territory that, as a mere mortal, I do not wish to trespass.

‘Mahabharata’ or ‘Jaya’, as it was originally called is bound to leave a lasting impression on anyone who reads it, irrespective of the quality or extent of the narration. I am no exception and here I essay the imprints it made on my mind, imprints that will never fade.

1. Doesn't this great work of art show us that God can be much more human than we hope? So can man be much more divine than we believe.

2. Mahabharatha gave us the most tragic hero in the whole wide universe. Oh Karna! Unparalleled as a warrior, equally unparalleled as destiny’s eternal step child. Unfortunately, a warrior as great as Karna will be remembered for reasons, more wrong than right. The tragedy accentuates when one realises that had he known the story of his birth, we would have heard the bards sing an entirely different song. Karna was the first instance of the right man in the wrong party. Read history to know that he was not the last.

3. In history, anonymous was always a woman. Mahabharatha was no different.

4. When one talks about the greatness of Mahabharatha, one should not ignore some great works in literature that Mahabharatha spawned. In Marathi, Shivaji Sawant’s ‘Mrityunjay’ where he glorifies Karna is a classic. In Malayalam, M.T.Vasudevan Nair’s ‘Randamoozham’ where he narrates Mahabharatha from the point of view of Bheem is unforgettable. More recently, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s ‘The Palace of Illusions’ gives a voice to Panchali. Shashi Tharoor’s  ‘The great Indian novel’ in which he draws a parallel between Indian history and Mahabharatha has surprisingly not been recognised for its sheer brilliance.

5. Passionate love is not something that is associated with most of the characters in Mahabharatha. This is an area where the silence in the epic speaks much more than words can ever do. Bheem’s unadulterated love for Panchali, Karna’s longing for Panchali and Panchali’s unexpressed feelings for Karna never found utterances in the epic. There is nothing as tragic as unexpressed love and Mahabharatha poetically chooses to be silent about silent love.

6. In the end, the wicked go straight to the heavens and the righteous are left languishing on earth. This is an unfathomable aspect of the epic and reason enough for me to pick up another translation. With treasure chests of knowledge hidden at every turn, one more journey through the epic can do no harm.

I have always believed that a list is a failed attempt to hide discontinuity of thought. At times like this, I prefer to be truthful about the discontinuity and resort to this much abused form of expression of thoughts.

Here he rests a warrior dead

He lost more battles during that catastrophic period than he could ever win in a lifetime. Dark clouds marched into the lost paradise, a place it seemed they had made home; silver linings relegated to the deepest corner of a mind that had withered one storm too many.

He could run away, but how far could he? He could stop dead, but could a man sleep well in the knowledge that he had shouldered arms in the face of a calamity? He did neither. He looked each demon in its eye, caught a few by their horns, and was mauled by the rest. Praise the maker who crafted the spirit of his finest creation infinitely stronger than mere bones, mere muscles. Each mauling, each body blow was but physical. He was inspired by not one of the righteous values taught in our schools because not one school had he been to. Not one of the great leaders of the past ignited the flame in his heart because he barely recognized the photos hanging on the walls of offices where he was humiliated like no being should ever be. The motor of his world was driven by the desire to improve the plight of his lot. A goal, as true, as pure, does it exist?

As what appeared to be the final blow landed on his battered body, he collapsed, arms spread and a smile on his lips. Any grimace the overwhelming pain caused was wiped away by the high of all the battles fought hard. Towards the great warriors who walk away with their heads high and conscience clean, the sun has an obligation to rise once again. As the hero slept in the embrace of Mother Earth, he could clearly hear the chirping birds signalling the dawn of another opportunity, another blessing. 

Gems adorning my book-shelf - 1. Atlas Shrugged

Just before a much awaited journey to Kerala, I rushed into the Strand Bookstall and bought a copy of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. An hour into the journey, I realised two things about the book. One, the font was so small that one could not read it during a journey without running the risk of a very bad headache. Two, sometimes a headache is too less a payment for devouring genuine art. Very rarely do we come across books, the reviews of which stop being comments on the author's vision and end up being reflections of the reviewers' ability to decipher greatness. This was one such book.

Most of us have heard about the mythical hero Atlas who carries the burden of the heaven on his shoulders. Set in the United States, with the rail-road industry as the backdrop, 'Atlas Shrugged' is a fictional tale of a time when all the leading innovators and creators (collectively, Atlas here) decide to stop their acts of serving a world which bore the cost of mediocrity at the expense of genius. The title in itself is a masterpiece; not many of us would be able to find a more beautiful usage of metaphor in any form of literature.

Who is John Galt? This is a question that will linger years after one has read this book despite the fact that very early into the book, it stares right at the reader’s face that John Galt represents all innovators and creators, the people who run the 'turbine of the world' in Ayn Rand's glorious words. John Galt when he could no longer stand mediocrity being regularized and excellence being punished decides to call strike on such a world. Dagny Taggart, the brain behind the largest rail network in the country and Hank Rearden, a self made man who has the formula for the world’s most reliable metal are as much the heroes as John Galt.

How John Galt goes about his strike is left for the readers to find, no spoilers here. Fiction and philosophy have not always been good companions. Ayn Rand combines it beautifully in this masterpiece of hers. Objectivism, her fabled philosophy finds a vent in the speech that John Galt makes to the world. Pure capitalist meritocracy is what Ayn Rand advocates and not without sufficient reason. Some may not subscribe to her views, but the views are expressed by means so radical that one stands up and takes notice.

So much being said about what Atlas Shrugged is, it becomes equally important to highlight what Atlas Shrugged is not. It is not one among those quick fix, read it and forget it kind of books available in heaps in the market. It is not one of those self help books that tell you things you already knew. This is a work that will easily find a place among the must-reads of all time. A collector’s item it definitely is. The next time you walk into a book store, make it a point to buy it. My book-shelf was a poorer place till Atlas Shrugged found its place there.

Oh! Rating Atlas Shrugged on a scale of five; Quantifying genius is blasphemous and let’s leave it for another day..

As I signed off...

The Journey: I have read a huge number of last day mails/posts and with immense disappointment, I admit that the supply of adjectives has been exhausted and anything that I say will sound clichéd. Deep in my heart, I know that the time spent here in this wonderful company has been a source of unrivalled joy. Like they say, nothing is perfect, so I don’t grudge the few disappointments that came my way. Maybe without them, I would have grown a wee lesser, as a professional and as a person. I cannot thank this place enough for giving me friends for life, few of them who knowingly or unknowingly have been among my biggest strengths in trying times. A few words on my last day here do no justice to what you mean to me, but who says that this is the last for us? We will continue to rock, roll, play, party!!

The Bloggers: You guys rock. The blogs have seriously amazed me, be it the content, the variety or the language. A big thank you to all you folks who regularly come up with works those are hundred times better than the stuff that is being doled out on professional websites outside. To the Hindi poet par excellence, the master at sarcasm, the spooky short story teller, the mush queen(s), the cricket experts, that rare true blue tennis fan and a few others: Is there an alternative profession calling? And to anyone and everyone who has read even a single post of mine, I confess that it was a pleasant surprise that you found me worth reading. 

What’s not running through my mind? I don’t understand why people get sentimental about their mail id being deleted. That is the last thing on my mind. Anyway, I never thought that my id was kewl. Ok! Failed attempt to console myself. Here I sign off…


Good luck and God speed to you
- Sooraj


This was my last post at a place that will always remain special. But fact is that many of the guys who made the place special would not have read this. So the act of posting it here :)

Doom....

Reflections many, of death, of despair

State grim, the gloom all beyond repair

With tears tainted, the skies they swell

Doom! Have the evils cast their spell?

Clouds dark, darker flows the water

Pain scathing, all that it offers in barter

Shrieks gory, we hear more than a few

Plead we guilty, next not me, not you.

Vultures waiting, beaks they sharpen

Allies the skies brooding, they darken

Crawling, cried the lizards from far

Creeping they announced it’s war.

That we are running from, we know not

That we are running to, we care not

Stuck are we with the last resort, praying

Pray! Where’s the great master gone missing?

Random...

From 140 characters to 10000 pages. Modi’s reply to the BCCI spans ten thousand pages. In the face of trouble, brevity definitely is among the first casualties.

Coffee with KJo. Season 3 will shortly be unleashed. If you believe that SRK is the best thing that has happened to life on planet Earth, then the show is not recommended because it would just state the obvious to you. If you do not believe it, then the show is even more not recommended because it will make futile attempts to make you rethink. Mallika fans need not be disappointed. A surprise or two will always be on the cards.

Sunil Gavaskar says that young Indian batsmen should train against the short pitch delivery at the National Cricket Academy. BCCI welcomed the suggestion but felt that dance classes at Shiamak Davar’s academy were more important. Dancing at IPL parties was more pathetic than batting in the Caribbean. Sreesanth is touted to be the next captain. BCCI is banking on him not forgetting his dancing just like he did his bowling.

A general observation is that there are as many men addicted to news as women addicted to K serials. To the men addicted to K serials: “Get a life”. To the women addicted to news:”Welcome to the club”.

Sanctimonious self proclaimed bibliophiles have come up with unsolicited reviews bashing each of Chetan Bhagat’s four books. Neither Rupa publications nor Chetan Bhagat forced the books down their throats. Long live the closet Chetan Bhagat fans.

A TV news reporter eager to break news caught tears flowing down RGV’s cheeks. The reporter claimed that RGV had finally seen his Aag. In depth enquiries proved that the report was partially true. Emotions got the better of RGV after he saw Phir Mile Sur Mera Tumhara. All his hopes of his Aag winning the award for the worst sequel ever were quashed. Competition does come in from unexpected quarters.

India in the T20 world cup reminds me of Subhash Ghai. India’s presence in the world cup is overhyped, inconsequential and Blink and you miss. How similar is it to Subhash Ghai’s presence in his movies?

Summer Times

Grandpa waiting to pick us, no mobile but fine will he do

The train chugged to a halt, out came we and huge bags two

For grandpa I would have always grown thinner

Said he to dad, the luggage could have been lighter

Dad always said that heavenly charm this place has

As mom glanced towards grandma, a pearl drop it was

Didn’t mom and dad look a few years younger

More than these drops of rain, can anything be truer

Summer was the time for the king among fruits, mango

Innocent were we that beauty caused a tango

Mangoes we devoured even if it meant rashes on our faces

A cousin so tempted that she could not mind her braces

Lunch, the table bore brunt of our hunger the highest

Wasn’t Darwin right when he said survival of the fittest

Everyone demanded fish fry one piece too many

Flicking an extra papadam, of me was it canny

Afternoons for hide and seek, today a long lost game

Temporary lock up in the dark room was punishment so lame

For never did we allow grandpa to take his nap

Today the hiding places I see, I ask, why in our bones no snap

Evening we played cricket, our Sachin batted left handed

Into Mathai uncle’s compound, often the ball landed

He and his dog roared that the police they would call

Didn’t he realise what happens when kids have a ball

Indigenous where the games that we found

Surprise that we had no computer, but still games abound

Guests when the girls played kitchen were we

Girls passengers when we played bus, driver and conductor we

Days passed, rushing came the time to go back

Promises made, next year again will we back

One month gone, I was darker and stronger

Question my mind asked, why can’t this be longer

Final Frontier

Ignominy of defeat blunted by the pain

Dripping sweat camouflaged the tears

You toiled in a void, lone goal to attain

Of a victory that could alleviate your fears

Once again it was a story we had seen

Heartbreak,was it failing at the final frontier

Contemplating the finale that could have been

Doubts marched about the great warrior

Of all the times when you were put to test

In defeats wrenching, in you we saw a winner

Now you could bear not, being second best

History whispered, I'm never kind to the loser

As you sharpened the edges in oblivion

Lingering images of the past blurred

Fate brought you a chance, one in a million

As you saw, it was victory that you feared

Mind liberated, the final lap was a breeze

As tears solemnized your rise after the fall

Celebrations, not for a moment did they cease

And smiled the great writer who has scripts for all

Unsaid it is..

Storms passed, clouds vanished, always were you at play
You shielded me, the one with feet of clay
You dreamt for me, I quashed your dreams so dear
The Sun shining magically, destiny I did not fear
Destiny, the master reveals not what's up its furrow
Edifice crashed, He said for you there's no tomorrow
Today, they say, of you I am a reflection
Tears well, can there be any bigger a redemption

Gracias

I feel like thanking a few entities who have left indelible marks on my impressionable mind. If the reader finds traces (read loads) of sarcasm and a total absence of gratitude, then please be assured that it’s purely intentional.

If the term ‘online social networking’ ends up as the oxymoron of the decade, you know who told you first. I have realised that I should be eternally grateful to the people who think that it will be life changing for their friends if they tell them about the pink (doesn’t say much about the person who could think of this) cows that they have found, the black (no racial discrimination intended) goats that they have lost, the dogs that they are training (Maneka ji..Opportunity!) and the potatoes (Onions are a better choice. Sometimes you get gold at a lesser cost) that they have grown.

After a few hours spent shopping with members of the fairer sex (Is ‘darker sex’ the masculine gender?), I realised that I was wrong when I thought that lavender was a flower, peach was a fruit and magenta had something to do with a magnet.

I read a few blogs this weekend. Thanks to a few bloggers for cementing my belief that posts should not be both unbearable and long at the same time. Now you know why most of my posts are short and why it’s Narcissism when my posts are long.

Thanks also to the Hindi cricket commentators who are a genuine source of entertainment (unintentionally so). Yesterday, someone talked about Kallis preserving wickets at the other end. Blasphemy!!! Only Rajnikanth can do that.

I want to go on but this is one more post that I should keep short.

For the love of the game...

Many of us support Manchester United or Chelsea or Liverpool in the English Premier League. We do not support Manchester United because we are from Manchester or because we speak the language spoken in Manchester. Then why should our support in IPL be dependent upon whether we are from M in MI or C in CSK or B in RCB. It makes more sense to support teams based on their ability or their players or their style of play as deemed by us. Before I am laughed off, let me ask you a question. How many of you seriously believe that the IPL teams are a representation of the state or the city after which they are named. MI had two players from Mumbai in their playing eleven. CSK had four players from Chennai. The coaching staffs for all teams barring MI were predominantly foreign. These are teams that belong to the franchisees. Yes, city based names have made it popular. If popularity was the sole criterion then why were the quadrangular/pentangular tournaments in erstwhile Bombay stopped?

These misplaced rivalries combined with the gaudy frills around the games have succeeded in producing the faithless follower, a follower for whom revelry is the aim and the team that he is supporting is his alter ego. He will not mind if the game is cricket or gilli-danda or ludo. Cheer leaders, silly competitions and victories to satiate his ego are all that he needs. Fortunately, the true cricket fan watches IPL after weeding it to find cricket. It has helped that the cricket has been of very good quality in spite of all the nonsense around it.

Let us listen to a person who watches Zimbabwe play Kenya, who wakes up at 3 am to watch a test match in Newzealand, who stays awake till 3 am to watch the end of play when matches are played in the WestIndies....


“I love cricket and so I speak. I can’t bear sports relying on cheap advertising. I can’t bear commentators who keep on pushing brands down my throat. I can’t laugh off losers discussing the ‘Match ka Mujrim’. It hurts me when my love for the game is considered to be a function of petty misled rivalries. It hurts when the soi distant educated individuals malign great players in the veil of supporting their team. Some of the communities and comments on social networking sites have been a disgrace. The less said about the comments posted for the articles on cricket websites, the better. If supporting a team entices a person to make derogatory remarks about another team or individual then I should never again support a team. Not even when India is playing Pakistan.

The IPL could have been a glorious example of the new face that my country aspires to acquire. But promises have not been kept and what we have got is another mess. It hurts when a person who claims to be a cricket historian from Australia takes this opportunity to lash against my country. It hurts when he equates IPL with corruption and sleaze and furthermore, extends this as a generalization about everything else in this country.

I am hurt because you let go an opportunity to be the change that fans with their heart in the right place want to see in the game. You suspend captains for slow over rates but turn a blind eye towards the liberal usage of four letter words. It may reduce the apparent entertainment value but the time has come to say a complete ‘NO’ to sledging. Five minutes per innings that you devote to ‘strategic’ time outs could have been utilized to present the team with an opportunity to go for a limited number of decision reviews. As far as advertising is concerned, all that I wish you know is the story that my dad told me when I was six, the story of the goose that laid gold eggs.

Fair weather friends exist in sports, as much as anywhere else. The new friends that you have gained are friends of the show called IPL and not Indian cricket. However, once they turn enemies, IPL will be synonymous with Indian cricket for them. We have seen tough times during the nineties and the early 2000s. We came out of the tough times strongly due to people like me who were ready to bear sub humane conditions in many venues which got matches only due to your rotation policy which is a mere vote garnering gimmick. We were the ones who watched India lose to Pakistan in a great exhibition of skill at Chennai and then had the magnanimity of character to honour the winning team with a standing ovation. We are the ones who fill the stadiums every time there is a test match in Bangalore. The powers of the game are treading dangerous territory as a result of which my love for the game is being tested. It may give in one day and believe me; the new ‘IPL fans’ that you claim to have acquired will be no replacement."

A mortal's ode to Sachin

As Sachin Tendulkar celebrates his thirty seventh birthday, I am reminded of a year when Sachin celebrated his birthday in the most astonishing fashion, his performances transcending the boundaries that limit mere mortals. Yes, the summer of 98 it was. That was when he made us all proud to be Indians. Not that he had not done it earlier, not that he is not doing it now but things reached a crescendo then. Bryan Adams sang 'Summer of 69'. I would have done a 'Summer of 98', had I been blessed with even a fraction of Bryan Adams' skills. I am not and therefore its plain words that I conjure to describe the ecstasy of seeing genius on display.

We all know what Sir Donald Bradman had to say about Sachin. It’s not style to repeat that, just like how people think it’s not style to praise Sachin Tendulkar. You are just stating the obvious, but proclaiming that the guy cannot flick a full toss on the pads may earn you, a second or two of fame. Fame or notoriety, I doubt because gravity takes care of all attempts of spitting on the moon.

Oh ! The summer of 98.

Discussing the brilliance of any of the innings played by the maestro is gross injustice because genius transcends words. It is exhibited on rare occasions and on rarer occasions do billions have the fortune of watching it. I still remember that it was annual examinations time. My mom had to flash an apologetic and ask me to stop watching the highlights of the test matches for the nth time and start studying. I am sure that mom and dad watched it on mute after packing me off to studies.

Move on to Sharjah. Till then Sharjah was synonymous with the last ball six by Javed Miandad. Post Summer of 98, Sharjah is all about the twin centuries from the master's blade. Those were the days when watching pay channels was a luxury few could afford, especially if you were not residing in a city. Star Sports had just gone the 'pay channel' way. Hundreds flocked around the television set placed in a temple corridor of all places by the only cable operator showing Star Sports in town. There was silence every time ‘Aapla Sachin’ (‘Our Sachin’, that’s how he was addressed) was on strike, followed by thunderous applause or mass hysteria depending upon whether it was a single or a boundary scored. By the time the finals came, every cable operator in town had Star Sports. Tony Greig’s commentary during the blitzkriegs provided the ideal background. Genuine admiration sprang from each word he uttered. There was a desert storm during the first of the centuries, but watch the videos and you will see one man looking it in the eye.

The Aussies went back defeated but with tales that will be part of their autobiographies. Shane Warne spoke of nightmares but for millions it was a dream...

PS: I had written this long back. I just thought of posting it as an ode to Sachin on his birthday. Not many would have imagined that twelve years down the line, Sachin would still be going full blast...

Rest in peace...

On any other day, this would have been the expanse of the white carpet of smooth fabric laid down by nature, the daunting white cap adorning the unscaled peaks, the white that is pristine, the white that is tranquil. But on that day, the white was stained by rivulets of red. Nothingness was dotted by the bodies of bright young men, men abandoned by their compatriots in the face of imminent defeat. Most of them did not breathe anymore. For the rest, each breath was more agonizing than the previous. But on all the faces, contentment was written large, the contentment of dying for a noble cause.

Little did they realise that no cause can be noble if it warrants killing of innocent men, no cause can be noble if it means kids for whom daddy will never be back home again, no cause can be noble if it means that the old will have the hope of their lives shot down by bullets that don’t have names of their target written on them. Little did they realise that there can be no noble cause based on the premise of ‘your god against my god’.

.com shaadi

It’s the season of marriages in my family. As a precursor to the marriages, I have seen matchmaking from close quarters and I continue to be amazed by the concept of arranged marriages. It’s easier these days thanks to the matrimony websites. I am going to make a few observations that can appear fatal generalizations, but I may just come up with sufficient data to prove my point.

Going by the profiles, eighty percent of the alliance seekers are fair complexioned. The percentage increases in case of the fairer sex (pun intended). That explains why fair and lovely and fair and handsome and other bleaching agents have been doing great business in India. Perfect euphemism for the remaining 20 percent comes in the form of the categorization ‘wheatish’.

Not everyone is a photoshop expert. Ignoring this simple fact leads to horrendous results. Let’s remember “Expert ka kaam expert par chhodna chahiye”. On a better note, let’s understand that photo editors have no business aiding a search for the perfect partner.

Any connection to the U.S or U.K is flaunted. It’s great if the prospect or the parents are settled there. A photo with starbucks in the background is pure gold. This not being the case, it does no harm if the profile mentions in bold that the prospect’s distant uncle’s third cousin is settled in New Jersey or London. In the worst case scenario, it may pay if you let people know that your favourite movie is Namaste London or London Dreams or Chalo America.

Exclude the textbooks and ‘Five point someone’ is the only book that you have read, but reading is definitely listed in hobbies. Textbooks remind me that the U.S/U.K scenario holds good for IIT/IIM as well.

Borrowing a cliche, I would say that I have touched just the tip of the iceberg. Before I sign off, I would like to state the disclaimer that all the information above was obtained during my altruistic attempts to help my cousins catch the perfect match.

Hope

It’s a wonderful dream about an altogether different world. But you shrug off the devil that tempts you to continue the slumber; find strength to open your eyelids and find the reserve energy stored somewhere in the deep valleys of your mind. Hope does the trick. Hope of making the dream come true in this world of yours.

Your kid cries as you prepare to leave for another excruciating day in the mines. Your charred palms cajole the apple of your eyes. Hope drives you back to the mines to ensure that the fate written on your kid’s palms is better. Hope that you will be home tonight to see your kid sleeping peacefully.

As you enter the train, you see lots of luggage everywhere. You hope that none of the bags has letters from the messengers of death. You hope that lady luck has not sowed yet another tragedy in the life of your loved ones.

Each breath in the dark alleys of the mine takes you a step closer to death. Your lungs plead for some respite from the hard taskmaster that you are. But you hope that each breath here takes you a step closer to the day when you breathe to your heart’s content in the clear blue skies outside.

On your way back home, the hope of being transported to a world where all sorrows sit light tempts you to have one glass too many of the intoxicating wine sold in a shack at the road side. Tumbling on your way home, mumbling in your sleep, you lie preparing for another day...

Vishu...

Another Vishu goes by. Time for a Vishu resolution. My resolutions are found in the bin (recycle bin or dust bin) hardly after a week they were pompously made. It’s only because the Gregorian has been plain unlucky for my resolutions. Am I seeing a few all knowing smiles? I ignore them as I hate smiles with sarcastic undertones, especially when they are directed at me. Without digressing further, all I say is that the Vishu resolution will meet a better fate. Once again I hear people remarking sarcastically: “2 weeks”. To you guys:”Chal hawa aane de”.^*

On a related note, one reason why I like Vishu is ‘Vishu Kaineetam’. I stand corrected. It’s not ‘one reason’, it’s the primary reason. Vishu Kaineetam is token money given by the elders in the family to the young. It used to be coins till inflation rendered coins ineffective. Vishu Kaineetam is good time for a reality check. As time goes by, you move from being a payee to a payer in these transactions. Pardon the banking jargon. Yesterday I was the payer in an uncomfortably large number of transactions. Uncleji, you are growing old.^**

^*For the life of me, I could not get an English translation for this. Suggestions welcome.

^**I am better off. A friend of mine is heartbroken. A cute 19 year old damsel called him ‘uncle’. To add insult to injury, I told him that he is 33 percent older and therefore the cutie maybe technically correct. I know that the justification is just not just, but it had the desired effect.

The Mind The Barrier

As I burnt in the desert sun, At me destiny threw an oasis.

The mind played one game too many, My feet failed lest it be a mirage.

Comeback

My presence (not so noteworthy) in the blog space has been restricted mainly to an internal company blog.Time to move on and here I come back to the public blogging arena. Its 2 a.m and definitely a good time to say ‘Lo main aa gaya’.

Happy Vishu to one and all.