tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70494642002352521402024-02-23T12:15:42.832+05:30SynergyBits and pieces of life, thoughts and experiences.Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.comBlogger211125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-25037416721597121362018-10-15T19:57:00.002+05:302018-10-16T11:21:20.705+05:30Bhainaland : The Unplanned Blind Date With (Yes!) Bhubhaneshwar <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">Rhomboid white boards, the quintessence of
Indian railway stations, with Bhubaneshwar written in Hindi, English and Odia welcome
me onto the platform. Each one of them is attached to a pillar holding up the
perforated asbestos roof. A giant black and white clock, coated with a thin
layer of dust, hangs from one of those pillars. Its otherwise dead minute hand
flexes every thirty seconds or so, as if hiccupping. It shows 11 a.m. My train has
reached on time, however not many are as lucky as I am. Announcements blare non-stop
from loudspeakers. The ubiquitous robotic voice nonchalantly avers that the
train supposed to arrive on platform number three is running late by a paltry seven
hours. As a consolation, it adds, ‘The inconvenience caused is deeply
regretted.’</span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a1/BBSpfboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="515" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a1/BBSpfboard.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">The commotion is overwhelming. There are hordes
of people moving in all directions: red-clad porters, carrying as many as three
to four suitcases stacked on their heads as if they were pots. Passengers,
weary from the journey, uninterestedly haggle with porters whose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gamchas </i>are rolled on their heads like
doughnuts. Tiny effervescent children persuade their parents to allow them,
not the porters, to wheel the gargantuan case with rollers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">As the crowd drifts past, some even harmlessly
brushing against me, I notice stationary faces – dark, chubby and moustached – caught
in this tumult against time, staring at me. I try easing the wrinkles of my
white shirt and reset my ruffled hair. With a piece of tissue, I wipe away the
last vestiges of the journey’s grime from my sneakers. The stares don’t cease. I
look into the camera of my handicapped Nokia 5233. Nothing is amiss, except for
the slightly disheveled hair and a face damp with sweat. While the rest of
northern and central India is bathed in spring, summer arrives as early as
March on the east coast and stations itself like an annoying guest who’s not
willing to take leave until November.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">Fragments of a new language waft in the air.
Odia, a tongue as circular as its script, is by no means easy. For someone conversant
in Hindi and English alone, this unfamiliarity is enough to set one’s pulse
racing. What am I doing here? Why on earth did I decide to come to Bhubaneshwar
of all places! How easy would it have been to remain at home, eat good food
while surfing Facebook, as opposed to getting burnt in the early Eastern summer?
My backpack seems to have doubled in weight, my calves plead for respite. I put
it down on the platform studded with petrified betel stains and squat over it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">Through the jungle of legs, a shrill whistle
manages to make its way to my ears. A giant trolley conveying upon it numerous parcels,
with numbers writ on them in red and white, impales the mob at brutal speed. Its
conductor, an emaciated boy clenching the whistle, swings his hands like the
wipers of a car to rid of the idlers on its way. I withdraw myself just in time
before getting flattened. My ears start to buzz and palms get clammy. I squirm
as a thin trickle of perspiration drips down the small of my back. There is
throbbing at unusual places – fingertips, jugulars and the temples – where it
is the loudest, as if gnawing through my brains. In some time, it becomes the
only thing I hear. No, this couldn’t be a panic attack, could it? I have never
had one before. Why would I even get one? I am young, fit and hardy. I have
experienced much worse. Like having had to live on moldy bread when I was an
entrepreneur on the verge of bankruptcy. To worsen my dehydration, there is now
a sudden urge to pee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">I climb back up on the train with my luggage
and rush to the toilet.</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "book antiqua";"> </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "book antiqua";">The previous
occupant has left behind his precious leftovers for me that are contentedly
lazing in the Indian railway commode. The thought of him </span><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">hopping away happily on the platform while I’m
stuck having to tolerate his shit enrages me. I flush thrice, do my business
and wash my face. Despite the repugnant odour, I stay in the cubicle for a few
minutes, doing nothing, breathing in the constant ‘Indian train’ smell, and staring
at myself in the pockmarked mirror. There are traces of fear – in the faint
lines of the forehead, in the beads of sweat glistening on the sideburns, and in
the quiver in my voice as I try to hum an old R.D.Burman song in an attempt to
calm myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">‘I think I left my … huh … phone here.’ A
petite man of around thirty with large elephant-like ears barges into the
toilet, nudging me in. He has a peculiar voice that is slightly shrill, the
kind on the telephone that is often mistaken for a woman’s. He peers into the
snot-laden basin. It clearly doesn’t interest him; his reflection in the mirror
does, which he leaves only after adjusting his hair. Finally, he looks into the
potty hole with significant interest. This man, in his yellow shirt and black
trousers, is the one I flushed a minute ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">‘You used this toilet after me, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hai ki nahin</i>? Isn’t it?’ The man is
hideously small, so much so that I can lift him up by the scruff of his
vomit-yellow shirt and hoist on top of the train. ‘First I’ll check you and
your bag.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">His authoritative tone doesn’t go well with
his childlike voice. I try to push him aside. His elephant ears redden and he
fumes as if about to puncture my balls any minute. With his height, he probably
can.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">‘It was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nokai</i>,’ he adds. ‘I had all my contacts in it.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">‘Nokia, you mean?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">‘No, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nokai</i>.
Chinese brand. Half price, same looks.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">I ask for his number and dial it on my phone
before he dares to frisk me. Something somewhere rings; it’s a bhajan, a
prayer-song. As both of us start looking for the source, our heads bang into
one another. The man starts to laugh, a high-pitched neigh, for no apparent
reason. He begins unbuttoning his pants and this time, my ears turn red. I push
him aside and rush out onto the platform. Twenty meters away, safe amongst the
very same people who seemed like spies earlier, my phone rings, flashing the
number that I had dialed a moment ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">‘It was inside my pant pocket. I put it
there while using the toilet and forgot about it. Thank you so much for your
help, bhaina, big brother.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">He compensates for the wasted roaming
minutes by teaching me a new word in return, Bhaina. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">Three foreigners with rucksacks, which
appear significantly lighter and more compact than mine, manoeuvre out of the
packed station with an enviable confidence. They seem to know the unsought
railway station of this underrated city much better than I do. After gulping in
some water, I follow them, trying hard to keep pace. Very soon, their dodging
blond-heads disappear. They are too swift for me – a plump sedentary failed
entrepreneur. Well, not too plump. Borderline plump, the kind where your face
just starts to look fuller than before with a chin for each cheek.</span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The portico outside the station is
surprisingly quiet. It opens up to a sprawling concrete piazza with cars, jeeps
and autos parked on the periphery that would have become fully functional solar
cookers. Other than a few auto-drivers swarming toward their prospective
customers, there aren’t many people around. Soon I am mistaken for a staunch
tourist – the backpack’s doing – and lured to visit the “‘Lingoraj’ Temple,
only thirty rupees away”, </span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">and tempted to be
shown a posh five-star hotel, most likely because I look like a waiter. I
ignore them all. An auto-driver seated cross-legged near a chai-shop walks up
to me, chafing his beedi on the concrete, and mutters indiscreetly, ‘if you
want something else, I can arrange at no premium.’ I ignore him too. Perhaps, I
should have spoken further with the last one to glean what exactly his something
else comprised. <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Away from the flurry of the station, the thrill of being on
my own with an entire city at my disposal sinks in for the first time. At a
relatively stranded bus station nearby, a local bus reeking of stale onions is about
to head towards the other end of the city. I grab a seat by the window and
stretch my long, long legs as far as I can, accidentally grazing against the
leg of a middle-aged aunty seated in front. Before I could apologize, she
turns, stares hard at me and mutters something in Odia that doesn’t sound too
sweet. The bus conductor, a dark man with a face like a box and teeth as yellow
as dal, comes forward and inspects me from top to bottom. I utter the only word
I know: bhaina, hoping against hope that it placates him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Five rupiya, first,’ he says in English, adding ‘bhaina’ on
an afterthought. The word is magical. I take out loose change and place three
coins on his greasy palm. He motions me to sit beside him, by the window. Like
a dog in a car, I thrust my head out, away from the pungent smell of onions,
drinking in the wideness of Bhubaneshwar’s roads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The conductor prods me, in all politeness, to alight near a
newly whitewashed building that’s infested with foreigners, perhaps considering
how touristy (and clueless) I looked. Surrounded by manicured vegetation on all
four sides, what looks like a forlorn boarding school turns out to be the State
Museum from inside. One look and I silently scream a no! I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> the museum type. I prefer spending
time with living beings to dead fossils. Should I start sightseeing? In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> heat? Or would I be better off
meeting up with my potential host, the only person in my contact list who lived there, my friend from childhood, Amit Anand? I call Anand and tell him that I am in his city, and might need his help. He's surprised, receiving a call from me after ages, but his tone is most welcoming. Ajao, he says and texts me the address to his place. I walk on, with a smile this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A middle-aged man with a severe face and a smattering of grey
hair on his head stands a meter ahead near the bus stop. Having cracked the
code, the fundamental brotherhood that Odisha advocates, I prod him with a meek
bhaina in hope of gaining some insights into his city. He glances at my rucksack
and says with a grin, ‘New? New? Here? I, travel agent, laujj?’ He flies an imaginary
airplane with his right hand directed to the other side of the road. I thank him
for his gracious offer and cross the road before he does. A minute later, I pass
by Amrita Deluxe “Laujj” on the other side – fully air-conditioned with “testy”
food and hot water running all of 24 hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Random conversations with strangers, most of who are looking
to extort money out of me, may render me penniless before sunset. The practical
thing would be to rid myself of the parasitic rucksack as soon as possible. It
has been a rather foolish decision to choke it with half a dozen books, a
jacket, a change of shoes, a tablet, and an SLR among other redundant items. Half
an hour later and a hundred rupees down in a smoke-spewing auto-rickshaw, I’m at
Anand’s flat, lying comfortably on his bed with calm, wet winds gushing at my
face from his cooler. Nothing can make me go back to the city until the sun calls
it a day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "book antiqua"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Anand, my host, is a final year student of engineering at the
ITER College and lives along with six other guys in a dingy 3BHK very near his
college campus. He also happens to be my first-ever friend in life. Being
next-door neighbours in Patna, we grew up playing cricket with tennis balls,
often hitting and losing them on neighbouring rooftops from where they could
never be reclaimed. When I was 10, my father was transferred 200 kilometers
away from Patna and our friendship – in the absence of cellphones, the Internet
and the zest for writing letters – waned. Only a year ago, Anand somehow traced
me on Facebook. Before starting off for Bhubaneshwar, I had hesitantly messaged
him there if he could host me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">Although it has been almost eight years
since we last met, there is no sense of unfamiliarity. His face hasn’t changed,
neither has his appearance. He is as skinny as he used to be. The last time we
saw each other, we were at the cusp of adolescence: a foot shorter, barely
moustached and too <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">decent</i> to talk about
girls. Instead, we would devote most of our time to WWE trump cards or cricket
matches – on the TV during the day, and on the roof of our houses in the
evenings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">After the cloud of awkward small talk
cleared, I venture into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">indecent</i>
territory. ‘Any girlfriends?’ I ask. The phrase acts like a detonator that breaks
loose the imaginary wall between us, all hesitation trounced in an instant. He
shows me pictures of a bubbly and charming Bengali girl on his phone, his
college-mate – ‘the best singer there’, while he plays the keyboard along with
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a giant Roland on the side,
draped in a flowery bed-sheet. I urge him to play for me. His fingers scurry
along the black and white keys – playing classics, contemporary melodies, and
western soft-rock. I can’t recall when I fall asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">~</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "book antiqua";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">Written for </span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "book antiqua";">#TheBlindList and #<a href="https://www.yestotheworld.in/?utm_source=IB&utm_medium=contest&utm_campaign=MRM_Blind_list_HY2&utm_term=Fixed">SayYesToTheWorld</a>, Lufthansa’s exciting new campaign. Do check the video below:</span></span></i></div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-78862298314939513402015-03-15T01:40:00.002+05:302016-06-24T15:16:19.215+05:30Panditji : A Real Life Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">When I was a child, there used to be an extremely old Panditji from a nearby temple who frequently visited our home. He had been our family Pandit, much like family doctors. His was a tall and lanky figure who was fond of preaching young kids like me. His long lectures used to irritate me so much that I preferred to hide in the inner room to not confront him when he had come over for puja. Hailing from a very religious Brahman family, hardly a month went without there being a puja at home, which was presided none other by the Panditji. </span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">The never-ending religious chores and my evergrowing interest in science, logic and rationality had turned me averse to the every little process that was related to God. I became a skeptic first, followed by brief stints at being an atheist, an agnostic to my ultimate state (that I still carry) - indifference to God. My father encouraged me to question traditions, beliefs and he never took my curious questions and extreme opinions as blasphemy. Despite being moderately religious, he entertained my skepticism patiently with logic and had just one advice for me: I am allowed to keep my views as long as I was not hurting anyone's sentiments. I was too young to understand what exactly he meant with the word 'hurting sentiments', so I presumed it to refer to verbal/literal disregard of any religion or religious activity and I carefully avoided them in my conversation. By accepting my non-religious views, my father very had intelligently induced tolerance in me and made sure that I accepted his advice without any further questions. </span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">We lived in a big three-storeyed house of our great-grandfather in Patna, along with some other relatives. There was a big field around a kilometer away from my place, where I played football everyday. On my way to the field, I used to cross the temple where Panditji lived. I was just 9 at that time. It was summertime, when I was returning in the evening after two hours of my favorite sport, when Panditji called me from inside the temple. Being tired and disinterested, I pretended not to listen to him at first. But he summoned once again, louder. I turned and greeted him. </span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">'Harsh, everyday I see you crossing the temple, but you never bow in front of Lord of lords, Shiva. You are a Brahman! At least uphold some samskaras that your parents have failed to teach you.'</span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I was terribly annoyed. Who wants a lecture after an intense football match? I didn't reply.</span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">'Now, bow in front of ...' his monologue was interrupted with his acute coughing, until he caught hold of his breath. I remained mute, exasperated with the ongoing preaching and looked at my maxima watch. </span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">'Bow to the great Shivling and say sorry to the Lord of the Lords,' he ordered and followed it up with his tender words, 'and take this prasad.'</span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I bowed with folded hands and a sly smile at the idol, went back to him. He handed me some anardanas with dried-rice(chooda), that I grabbed in my fist and ran away, saying irritably, 'Pranam Panditji.'</span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Next day, my ankles got sprained in the school and I was bedridden for one long week that implied no football. On the coming Sunday, much like our regular affairs, my mother hosted a puja at home. I went with my father on the car to seek the Panditji from the temple, the thought of his arrival had already vexed me. We were stunned to find that the temple was locked. When my father inquired from the neighbours, they informed us that Panditji was suffering from tuberculosis and had passed away one day ago, in the hospital. I still remember the tears that I saw in my father's eye upon hearing the bad news. He related to me about how Panditji had selflessly served our family for over two generations.</span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I didn't feel sad. Rather, I felt a little relieved that I was saved from boring lectures. I was too small to feel any remorse. The regular Sunday puja was postponed as my parents went to a bigger Shiva temple along with me to pray for Panditji's soul to rest in peace. I was thoughtless. I remained just a mute skeptical spectator to the proceedings. </span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I observed no change in me and soon the much-awaited day arrived when my ankle got completely healed. While returning from the football field all alone in the dusk, that night, I was unconsciously drawn towards the temple and I did something that I could have never imagined myself doing. I entered the temple premises and sincerely bowed. But not to the lifeless Lord of the Lords that resided inside, but to the full-of-life God that resided inside the devoted new Panditji who had took over. When I came out of the temple premises and said, 'Pranam Panditji', my tone carried immense sincerity and for the first time in my life, heartfelt remorse. The dusk had given way to the night and I was glad that no one could have observed my wet cheeks as I strolled back to home.</span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;" />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">15 years have passed since then. Even now, I never miss visiting small temples that come in my way. I like to pay my adieu to those who have given their entire lives serving the idols without life with just one firm belief that that little lifeless piece of stone had given them lives.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><i>Written for <a href="http://housing.com/">housing.com</a>, watch the embedded video and #StartANewLife like Panditji got me started with.</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/1FXdCjk505w/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="532" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1FXdCjk505w?feature=player_embedded" width="640"></iframe></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5636348724365px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-70883869904319059692015-03-05T14:48:00.003+05:302015-03-05T14:48:38.591+05:30The Go-Getter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The year was 1986. She was 25, a university topper with high ambitions, when she had got married. If she were given a chance, she would have studied more, enrolled herself in a Ph.D. and become a tenured professor. But as her parents and the society desired, she got married.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
She moved to her in-laws’ house, two hundred kilometers away, in a big city. A patriarchal house at that, with a joint family of over ten members (including a couple of cousins, IAS aspirants, of her husband). The first day, she was handed over the kitchen; the mother-in-law heaving in respite that now, after all these years, she could relax. Three times a day, she would spend hours in the kitchen, making dal, subzi and over fifty chapatis each time, feeding everyone before she could. It wasn’t the kind of married life she had anticipated for herself. She thought of a more academically stimulating household that encouraged women to go out and chase their dreams. But the society wasn’t so back then.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
She kept quiet; her tedious routine silently took her dreams away. Two years later, a son was born. Life became busier. Now, with the kitchen, she had to take care of the baby, too. The joint family helped, but soon, her husband was transferred to a rural village in North Bihar, without electricity, without proper water. She accompanied him taking their little son along. The kitchen became smaller now, but the upbringing became difficult. She took it upon herself to teach the kid – read out books and stories to him, taught him alphabets and numbers and readied him for school. By this time, a daughter arrived. The process continued. The husband was transferred back to his sprawling city, just before taking care of the two kids could go out of hand. Two kids and kitchen followed her everywhere she went, until the son turned 17. She worked day and night to assure that her son, who was preparing for the JEE, had proper nourishment and rest. She would make coffee for him at two at night, 6 am breakfast before the school and the 2 pm sumptuous lunch when school got over. Her years of hardwork reaped a result. The son cleared the JEE. All of a sudden, she found something that she never thought she had. Time.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The year was 2007. She was 47, an age where most people comfortably cocoon themselves in the familial comfort zone. However, she had other plans. She resumed her studies, something that she had dreamed of pursuing twenty-two years ago. It took her time and efforts to regain her confidence, to brush off the layers of dust enveloping her prior knowledge and once she did, there was no looking back.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The year is 2014, the son is a graduate from IIT, the daughter is a graduate from DU; however, both of them are pursuing unconventional careers, careers that require one to shun away the comfort zone – one, being a full-time writer; the other, a freelance photographer. On a stuffy summer afternoon of 2014, the son receives a call from their mother, a lecturer now, who has some news to convey. After much jubilation and celebrations, the son changes the mobile contact name of his mother from Ma to Dr. Ma.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
~</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhm7sXkrPBEg1eiV1nquK8tyqTI-WrTRvMxS4q_0lZbW6BjVtyP0IzG4GyKnotDlpNZaLpQmVN3VOYgKA0vhFMIR7HO4ZhpeMCwqecNZfqRQbpP-EFEVOCcj6WLTfDfEbehkba4mItPA9/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhm7sXkrPBEg1eiV1nquK8tyqTI-WrTRvMxS4q_0lZbW6BjVtyP0IzG4GyKnotDlpNZaLpQmVN3VOYgKA0vhFMIR7HO4ZhpeMCwqecNZfqRQbpP-EFEVOCcj6WLTfDfEbehkba4mItPA9/s1600/2.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
This is the story of my mother. For twenty-two years, she gave up on her dreams to fuel mine. She resumed her studies when I entered college. Seven years later, she completes her Ph.D.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ma, I'm proud of you! Your passion, resilience and determination continue to be my biggest source of hope.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.2459993362427px; font-style: italic; line-height: 21.3443984985352px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 13.8599996566772px; line-height: 1.4;">Written for Housing.com's new lookup. Check it here:</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 13.8599996566772px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="https://housing.com/lookup" style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://housing.com/lookup</a></div>
</div>
Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-7589879426891683922015-03-05T14:47:00.003+05:302016-06-24T15:16:00.972+05:30Darkness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>This story is of my friend Gaurav, who used to race.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">‘Give me a reason to live,’ he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">‘I can’t give you any...it’s something you
must find out on your own,’ she said knowing it would never have work for him
if she tried to help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">‘This is not fair. Nobody knows me better
than you do and at this critical juncture, you can’t leave me alone. Please.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">‘I’m doing it for you, baby. This time, you
have to fight it alone,’ she said. He heard receding footsteps disappear into
nothingness, followed by the sound of the door shutting.<br />
<br />
One month ago, he had lost his vision in a car crash. He had suffered from
injuries to his head that sent him to a coma for two weeks. With the crash, his
promising career as an F1 racer ended and all his ambitions tied to the sport
were crushed head-on. He was one of the youngest racers to have made it to the
F1 circuit and his skills were unmatched by any other racer in his country,
they said. Five days ago, when he came out of the coma and realized what had
happened, he couldn’t accept his fate. When the doctor informed him that his
retina was ruptured and he wouldn’t be able to see again, he refused to believe
it and strained to disprove it. He whimpered for several hours. The darkness
taunted him. The thought of never being able to escape this darkness pressed down
on him until he dropped into the chasm of depression. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br />
All throughout the past seventeen days, she remained by his side. She loved him
like no-one did and he loved her like no-one could. When he cried in fear, she
hugged him tight and cried along with him; when he cursed his fate, she tried
to reinforce his faith; when the darkness irked him, she told him stories he
could visualize, that could help him see the world as it was before, through
his mind’s eye. Or was it her eyes? But despite her love, she couldn’t stop him
from falling into that abyss. At first, she tried to conquer his negative
thoughts by countering them positively but that didn’t help. She followed it up
with motivational stories of people who made it big even after being afflicted
with disability, but even that didn’t induce any change. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br />
He had lost hope. He had lost his determination. And in his last conversation
with her, she was dismayed to find that he had even lost interest to live. Upon
hearing his words, she realised that it was her persistent care and presence
that had made him so negative. It was only when he knew she was around that he
would curse his fate – to seek her sympathy. He swore at God to make her stop
him from doing that. He ridiculed the stories she read out to him so that she
would come up with a new one. Though most of his injuries had healed by then,
he didn’t try to walk on his own even once, he didn’t figure out things on his
own – he was too used to her help. Although it demanded immense self-control on
her part, she saw that the time had come to withdraw herself from him. Come
night-time, she would leave him all alone to fight his fears by himself for the
first time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br />
Without her by his side, he lay on his bed still, thinking. He couldn’t believe
that she had left him all alone in such a situation. The silence frightened
him. He started talking to himself. All alone, cursing his fate didn’t seem
like a very entertaining option. He started reciting his favorite poem –
Darkness by Lord Byron, which left him awed, for his favourite poem was
actually an omen. After reciting it , he exclaimed loudly to himself, ‘I love
Darkness like nothing else, thank you Byron,’ and laughed hysterically. It was
the first time after the accident that laughter paid a visit by his bed-side.
It tickled his bladder and he got up from his bed on his own, and placed his
feet on the cold marble floor. He imagined the white of the marble. Carefully,
he took guarded steps and grabbed the wall next to him. After knocking against
the almirah, hitting his feet against the table’s leg on the way, he finally
located the loo and let himself loose. When he came out, his sense of direction
got skewed and he failed to locate the bed. Fear captured him once again and he
panicked. He started running frantically, hit against furniture and toppled on
the ground.<br />
<br />
Before he could cry for help, someone pulled him up, with utmost care and took
him to bed. He recognized the smell. It was her. She didn’t speak a word. He
moved his palms near her face. It was wet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br />
‘You didn’t leave, did you? You were right here, weren’t you?’ he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">‘How could I leave you? I’m so glad to find
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followed by two tearful smiles.</span><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "utopia" , "palatino linotype" , "palatino" , serif; font-size: 15.2459993362427px; font-style: italic; line-height: 21.3443984985352px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 13.8599996566772px; line-height: 1.4;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Written for Housing.com's new lookup. Check it here:</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "utopia" , "palatino linotype" , "palatino" , serif; font-size: 13.8599996566772px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="https://housing.com/lookup" style="background-color: white; color: #990000; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://housing.com/lookup</a></div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-65169526088994893622014-04-24T00:02:00.004+05:302014-04-24T00:28:24.491+05:30God of Big Things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Have you ever wondered why cricket enjoys the status of the most sought after game in the country despite the fact that our national game is hockey? What is the first thing that strikes your mind when you hear the word cricket? What is the one popular name that had been unblemished and glorious right from the first time you'd heard it? Who is the one person whose achievements seem as important and make you as proud as your own would? No points for guessing, the answer to all the above questions is the little master, Sachin Tendulkar. The name that fills the heart of each and every Indian with pride that is unprecedented.</div>
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Well, I won't be boring you with stats and figures that adorn the scintillating track record of the greatest cricketing legend ever in the cricketing history. But instead, I would like to bring out what he means to us - Indians - by relating to you reminiscence from my childhood.</div>
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<a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Sport/Pix/columnists/2010/2/24/1267040238200/Sachin-Tendulkar-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Sport/Pix/columnists/2010/2/24/1267040238200/Sachin-Tendulkar-001.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
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As far as my childhood goes, I remember that before every cricket match where India played, I, with the help of my friends, would go to the market and bring three to four big bottles of Pepsi <i>(the brand he used to endorse) </i>and my mother used to make pop-corn for each one of us, who would be glued to the TV until our hero, our idol, stylishly played his master-strokes. At each and every shot that our hero played, all of us would raise our glasses of pepsi in air and shout 'cheers', with our glass tumblers hugging each other, making sharp sounds which always used to worry my mom that we would break them, because there occurred a glass-banging once almost every over and sometimes even twice or thrice during the same over. A boy amongst us would take note of the scores at every ten overs so that we could compare the scores when the other team batted and revel at the chances of our winning. In fact, I maintained a cricket copy scoring every match Sachin played in and batted in. At every <i>lbw</i> appeal or run out appeal to the third umpire that the opponent side made against Sachin, we would inwardly pray to God to save our god on the pitch. Such was the fever not to miss even one shot by the little master and we made sure to pump up our inverter batteries, even had a radio on just in case the battery failed, and if nothing worked, run all the way up to the main market and find a shop that streamed the match live thanks to the generator they had. People, like bees, would buzz across their TV screen blocking their customers, but no one cared, since the shopkeeper himself would be busy watching the TV.</div>
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And if by any chance, the pride of the nation lost his wicket, the sheer delight of the match would go in vain, and without wasting a single moment we would turn the TV off and go out and practice <i>Tendulkarship </i>with our tiny bats carrying the little hand-made MRF signs and a tattoo of the signature of the little master stuck at the back. Interestingly, courtesy to the man with the MRF bat, in those days none of us wanted to be a bowler because when it came to being a cricketer, which was our evident dream, it meant being like Sachin Tendulkar. Almost all of us, no matter how lousy a cricketer we were in the childhood, tried to imitate the star batsman when we were with the bat - right from affixing a stressed Sachin-like smile on our face to bending our knees intermittently while the bowler was taking a long run-up, from proudly lifting our bats parallel to our right hand when we hit a century and then thanking the Almighty by looking at the sky to hammering the pitch near our crease of no reason just because our idol did the same. Sachin lived in our very blood.</div>
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My father being a great fan of Sachin himself used to take us to restaurants for dinner every time he hit a century, most of which were already jam-packed by people celebrating the little master's success. Such was his fever, which remains unexampled even today. </div>
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As I grew up, many more stars came into the picture, but none of them could leave an equal impression on my mind as our master blaster did. Some lacked consistency, others lacked elegance and style of batting and the remaining ones lacked modesty. No-one could replace Sachin as my hero, and I doubt anybody ever will be able to. Though I stopped following the game of cricket so keenly as time passed, but the assurance that Sachin was still going on with great splendour kept my heart satisfied.</div>
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But the most spectacular moment in the cricketing history was when Sachin achieved the most stupendous feat for any batsman. 200 runs in an ODI. Perhaps, it was the only record that was not in his name. I saw some amazing things that day. Thanks to Sachin, people who never knew that there was a space for status message in facebook or people who haven't changed their gtalk status messages since ages, had got a status message to praise his genius! From children to uncles, from our hostel's guard saheb to celebrities on TV, Sachin was on everybody's mind. Even the rift between political parties could not stop the unanimous praise coming for the maestro. It was the only day when Cricinfo's traffic trounced IRCTC. It reminds me that I've to ask my Dad to take me to a restaurant 'two times' for his 200.</div>
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If only we had the essential TV features that <a href="http://www.starsports.com/">StarSports.com</a> now offer which would save me up on all those minutes invested into gathering information into my cricket copies. <a href="http://startsports.com/">Startsports.com</a>'s INFOGRAFIX provides snippets of information with visual twist, making caricatures and funny cartoons of the players, animating the field but at the same time offering information digging up the history of the player, his country and world records across. I wish Sachin played to this day, so that I could use <a href="http://starsports.com/">Starsports.com</a>'s infografix to explore his uncountable records that could turn even the best of the world's talent green with envy.</div>
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P.S. This post is a part of <a href="http://starsports.blogadda.com/" target="_blank">Cricket just got better! Activity</a> by <a href="http://www.starsports.com/" target="_blank">starsports.com</a> in association with <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" target="_blank">BlogAdda.com</a></div>
Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-90524312181709761522014-02-22T03:10:00.003+05:302014-02-22T03:10:59.518+05:30Fired before Hired!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4; text-align: justify;">This story is about December 1 - the first day of placements of IIT Delhi.</span></h3>
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<br />For the first time in the year, I had woken up before 7 am. For the first time in my four years of engineering, I <span style="line-height: 1.4;">had</span><span style="line-height: 1.4;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.4;">taken a bath so early. Other than occasional shivers, slight panting and feeble 'I-am-so-cool' feeling, I experienced numbness all over. It was the day of interview. Job interview. My interview with a major consulting company was scheduled at 8 o' clock in the morning. In such a cold weather, it sounded pretty insane, but my arse was willing to go through any torture as long as it promised me enough money to buy bread, butter and a BMW at the end of the day. The company was reputed having many credentials and worldwide standings by which I was completely wooed. Besides, it offered the highest package in the campus - a whopping 19 lacs. So, at 7.00 am sharp, I baffled myself by being completely suited-up, much like Barney, except for the awesomeness. I rushed to the interview room, after having completed three circles of <i>agarbatti </i>in front the miniature Saibaba sculpture in my room praying for success.</span></div>
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<br />Other interviewees, some of them my batch-mates, were waiting already. All of them smelt quite good, most of them, who otherwise wouldn't bathe for weeks, didn't seem to belong to an IIT, but rather a model hunt. Envy greeted me before the interviewer. After ten minutes, I was allotted an interviewer, a Sardarji whose name I don't exactly remember. His seemed quite scary. No, not by the face or voice, but by his serious walk. He advanced towards me as if he was gonna give me a pugaree-butt, making me retrace my steps at first. But soon sense hit me back. If I run away, I'd lose the job. In absolute cold and lull, I tried to make some noise with my newly bought Hush-Puppies and advanced towards him. Soon, a firm hand-shake took place under the shadow of the cloudy sky. Firmer from my side, just to let him know that I was not scared. Or rather let me know that I wasn't.<br /><br />'Hello, I'm Harsh,' I said, in a crisp and soft voice.<br /><br />'Hi.' I waited for him to continue, while we advanced towards the slaughter house. He didn't.<br /><br />'Your good name please,' I asked. Being curious is considered good, isn't it?<br /><br />'Hmmm.' That was all that he said.<br /><br />At this point of time, three separate thoughts swayed in my head simultaneously.<br />1. Either he had not heard my question. Quite possible.<br />2. He could have forgotten his name. He might be trying to recollect.<br />3. He didn't like me asking his good name. Stern interviewer, you see?<br /><br />Okay, so I was lost in my mind and in his 'hmmm', when he opened the door to the torture room. What I saw left me parched. Those three thoughts merged with each other and brought me at my most confused state.<br /><br />'Harsh, have a seat,' Hmmm said. Let's call him Hmmm, for ease. I was glad to know that he could actually frame sentences.<br /><br />'Thanks a lot.' I grabbed the opposite chair, which was as cold as ice. With my butts frozen, I felt like a scapegoat in the making. I was wearing cotton trousers for the first time in my college life. I tried to make myself comfortable, but soon his serious face espoused its sadistic course.<br /><br />'So, you're?' Hmmm shot the trigger straightaway. I was startled.<br /><br />'I am... I am Harsh Snehanshu, student of Engineering Physics, 4th year...'<br /><br />'No, no, don't go ahead. I just forgot your name. So Harsh, what do you like?' Hmmm asked.<br /><br />'Definitely not a creepy Sardar in the chilly morning!' I thought.<br /><br />'Hmmm...' I said and began thinking in a similar manner to Hmmm. Despite my liking for Hmmm, he didn't seem pleased. I continued, 'I like writing. I like business. And, I like people.'<br /><br />'What's the order of liking?' He asked.<br /><br />'The reverse. People, business and writing.' I said. The first big mistake.<br /><br />'When it's your first choice, then why did it come at last?'<br /><br />'I saved the best for the last,' I tried to please him with my wit. He didn't know appreciation.<br /><br />'Hmmm.' He said. I think he liked his name too much. His eyes were deadly.<br /><br />'Okay, so tell me about this the-witty's-hit dot com that you've mentioned in your resume?' Hmmm asked. He wanted more wit. No problem, I had plenty.<br /><br />'So, thewittyshit.com is my start-up, which I co-founded around 6 months ago. It caters to people who are good with one-liners. As a writer, I realized that there was no platform which promotes common-man's basic creativity of crafting quotable one-liners and no way to popularize or gain incentives for the grassroot level of creativity that every common man possesses...In this...'<br /><br />'Interesting? You're a writer too...what have you written?' Hmmm developed some interest. His scary eyes turned a bit green.<br /><br />'I've written a novel, titled "Oops! 'I' fell in love!" which I got published in Aug, 2009. Besides that, my stories have been published in various books of the Chicken Soup for the soul series,' I said, rather proudly.<br /><br />'Is your novel autobiographical?'<br /><br />'No, it's fictitious. Autobiographies tend to be boring, you know.' My confidence was sky-rocketing. A day 1 job was on the cards.<br /><br />'Why are you interested in consulting?' Hmmm asked. He was good at changing topics.<br /><br />The rocket encountered a sudden drag. 'Hmmm, consulting is a field which would offer me great insight into the field of business and people, which I'm really passionate about. It would give me a chance to....blah blah blah ... tell me to stop licking your boot, you sucker...blah blah blah. Or at least smile. Your serious face is killing me...blah blah.'<br /><br />He looked convinced. Boot-licking, who doesn't like that - that too at the start of the day?<br /><br />'You're a writer as well as an entrepreneur. And you're making money as well from both the places. If I'd been at your place, I would have pursued the venture full-time. Why don't you go full-time?'<br /><br />'I am going to go full-time. I am sitting here just to please my Mom.' I uttered, irritably. The second mistake. That turned out to be quite heavy.<br /><br />'Thanks for the interview. Great to meet you.'<br /><br />'Hmmm,' I said, in a contemplative tone. I stood up and said, 'It's the-witty-shit dot com, by the way.' For the first time, his serious face broke into a smile. It reeked of sarcasm. The serious face was much better. I banged the door in frustration before leaving and didn't sit for the subsequent job interviews.<br /><br />My Mom couldn't have been more pleased. She did not talk to me for a month after December 1. #ConditionSeriousHai</div>
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P.S. If this story seems boring, it's autobiographical. If not, then it's fictitious. You know what it is.</div>
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<i>Written for Indiblogger's contest #ConditionSeriousHai by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/cadbury5star">Cadbury 5 Star</a> </i></div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-6655407937809744012014-02-11T21:09:00.001+05:302014-04-17T20:37:36.540+05:30Ishiguro, please call me home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The first time I read Kazuo Ishiguro's novel <i>Never Let Me Go</i>, I couldn't let go of the novel. Its limpid prose weaved a literary world that I had never experienced in my life before. I wanted to meet Ishiguro, to learn from him in person, to write like him someday. Little did I know that his book's influence would soon prod me to follow his footsteps, by aspiring to become a part of the programme that nurtured him as a writer.</div>
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I am 24 now, having been writing for over six years. In the past six years, I have published four books. Three of them have been in the genre of light fiction, and the fourth one, a serious fiction. Over the years, my reading has exposed me to many such masters, from Amis to Barnes to Rushdie. The more I read them and about them, the more I understood that honing the craft of writing can best happen in the company of good writers, something that all of them had access to.</div>
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Last year, while travelling across India, I attended the Delhi launch of the book <i>Calcutta </i>by the acclaimed writer Amit Chaudhari. Chaudhari mentioned, during his conversation, that he taught prose writing at the Creative Writing programme at the University of East Anglia, the same programme that polished the craft of my favorite writer, Kazuo Ishiguro. I came back home and read about the UEA's school of literature and drama in detail. Reported to be one of the most reputed writing programmes in the world, having renowned faculties and alumni, it sent me into an aspirational frenzy. I wanted to be a part of it.</div>
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The entire 2012 and half 2013, I travelled across India with the motive to grow as a writer. It was a conscious step to broaden my experiences of life, to understand which stories are worth telling by discovering India and a little bit of myself. This journey had a life-changing impact on me. It made me realize how little I knew, and gave me the time to read more. Two years later, last December, as I was weaving those strands of my journey into a travel book, I felt a dire need of a mentor, of a circle of writer friends who could critique my writings, give me suggestions to polish it. And there was just one such programme in my mind, the one which bred my idol Ishiguro. For a Japanese writer now living in the UK, Ishiguro is a living testimony to how welcoming Great Britain is in promoting literature, arts and drama. I checked the website of the University of East Anglia. To my surprise there was a fellowship offering for the South Asian writers.</div>
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That I have already applied to the Creative Writing programme for writers, the Charles Pick Fellowship, by the University of East Anglia shouldn't come as a surprise to you. Holding my favorite novel <i>Never Let Me Go, </i>expectantly waiting for the results of the programme, I am just wishing: <i>Ishiguro, please call me home.</i></div>
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Written for indiblogger's contest: <a href="http://knowledgeisgreat.in/">Knowledge is Great</a></div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-69483624447462177922014-01-03T23:37:00.000+05:302014-01-04T00:01:46.846+05:30VOTES APP: What say? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
How would you inspire and mobilize India's youth to vote in the Indian General Elections 2014 using social mobile apps?<br />
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A year ago, if the same question were posed, I would have deemed it to be impossible. But over the past one year, the kind of response and social media mobilization the Indian politics has been seeing is unprecedented. Not only did people discuss, criticize and put forward their ideas in relation to the government, but also campaigned their favorite political parties and lead them to surprisingly good results. A good case in point has been Aam Aadmi Party, which initially mobilized the masses through its social media handles and thereon through mobile apps and cloud telephony using VoiceTree.<br />
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India has already reached a billion mark for the mobile phone users and right from the rickshaw driver to the CEOs, everyone has an access to mobile phones. With cheap internet packs and offline mobile apps, it would be a landmark move to see the voting process be undertaken via this medium. To mobilize India's youth to go a further step so as to vote in the Indian General Elections 2014 using social mobile apps, I think some of the following creative ways could help. This can be done by an app appropriately named Votes App, which has the following features:<br />
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Prerequisite: <b>Aadhar integration: </b>Each person while buying the sim of his or her mobile phone should give his aadhar number for the integration.<br />
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1. It's <b>SMS based - </b>Since we are talking about the General Elections, we should keep in mind that unlike urban areas, in the majority of India it is mainly the poor people who come out to vote. If we assume the voters among them to have a phone, it's unfair to assume them having an internet connection to use such an app. In such a case an SMS based app works the best. Through the census, we can already assess the number of voters under one family mobile number. Each voter can add the aadhar code through which he could send in an SMS to register his vote.<br />
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<b>2. </b><b>Has finger print scanning feature: </b>One touchphone can be installed to cast votes in villages across India. Such an app can reach out to many people who otherwise are not accessible. Under the observation of one Election Commission member, this can have wide reaching effect, since finger prints are unique and thanks to Aadhar card, these are ingrained in the computer system as well.<br />
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3. <b>Face recognition: </b>For urban places, this can definitely work well. Having a camera phone where face could be scanned and matched with Aadhar cards, this can enable people to cast their vote privately.<br />
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4.<b> Simulating Democracy: Voting game apps: </b>The best way to mobilize youth is to generate more interest about politics. The best way for that is to create apps which simulate democracy and include a campaigning method of online voting in that simulation, so that their minds can relate to the idea on a more personal level.<br />
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5. <b>Tying up with news sites: </b>Political news sites with heavy traction could be approached on a barter deal to create a quizzing app based on current affairs which mobilizes interest of people along with makes them lead into a technologically sound election system in near future - by giving them hypothetical questions about online voting.<br />
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6. <b>A movement in favor of technology needs to created now: </b>With brands like We-Chat thinking on these lines, they should utilize their gigantic userbase to popularize this idea. Also, by incentivizing the government to pilot run such an idea over the next few months is bound to create a sound result.<br />
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Frankly, it's quite difficult to make it a reality by 2014 since it requires both technological and policy changes, but I'm sure that by the end of 2019, both the advances in technology and the strengthening of government's technological prowess will enable this dream a reality.</div>
Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-39604092205380632802013-11-05T02:42:00.003+05:302013-11-05T03:14:57.208+05:30The Chetan Bhagat Phenomenon: Boon or bane for Indian Publishing and Readership?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><i><b>Note: </b>This is an academic paper, not an opinion piece, except
for the conclusion. </i></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>Having been a part of this industry for over a period of five years, I have made it an honest and in-depth analysis, to give you an elaborate idea of the Indian commercial publishing industry.</i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Introduction</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
The year is 2004. A 30 year old investment banker, having just finished writing
a novel on his college life, is going door to door of publishing houses in old
Delhi. He has been rejected outright by twelve of them. They say that his
writing style is too simplistic, unliterary, and some even call it bad; the
topic he’s writing on lacks the broader societal landscape; some question his
credentials and background to attempt writing a novel – his prized investment
banking career doesn’t add value to his fledgling writing CV, and some
conveniently choose not to reply at all. But he is persistent. He befriends the
owner of a small publisher based in Daryaganj, who, seeing him in a hapless
condition, takes mercy and gives him a shot. They estimate the number of copies
he would sell, aware of the fact that in India, it’s only the elite who read
works in English – the writings that are literary and descriptive; their
bookshelves adorned with internationally acclaimed stalwarts like Salman
Rushdie, Amitav Ghosh, Vikram Seth, and Arundhati Roy, their writing style rich,
layered and elegant unlike his. Nevertheless he counts relatives,
friends, and friends of friends on his fingers. The number adds up to, after a
lot of optimistic extrapolation, slightly less than one thousand. The book is
released with the first print run of one thousand. One year later, his book is
the highest selling novel of India and its author, Chetan Bhagat, a phenomenon.
What’s the catch here? That he is from IIT and his book breaks many myths about
an institute of formidable repute? (Viswamohan) Or is it because he celebrates
the loss of virginity among his characters (Mishra), which is unconventional
and appeals to rebellious youngsters?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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Nine years have passed since. The Indian publishing industry has been a
dumbstruck witness to all its prior predicted trends and speculations being
given a toss by one man with no background in writing, no godfather in the
industry. Four other novels and a work of non-fiction, besides myriad newspaper
columns and Bollywood scripts, have come from his pen during this time, all of
them bestsellers which touched a million copies mark within a few years from
release. In 2008, New York Times called him ‘the biggest selling English
language novelist in India's history’. In 2010, Time magazine named him as ‘one
of the 100 Most Influential People in the World’. It looks like a life out of
dreams, a rags-to-riches story and no wonder, in this country which believes in
hero worship, Chetan Bhagat becomes one. But unlike the magnanimous
international adulation that he has received, he has grown to be one of India’s
most hated public figures for many reasons, his success included.<span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">For many who are his
fans, he is a cult, an icon, a role model; a regular invitee to their college
guest-lectures where, as he writes on his website, “his stellar education and
diverse professional background make him the ideal person to share his thoughts
and experiences” (chetanbhagat.com). He is someone who is approved of by
parents, even those who can’t read in English as they are impressed by the very
same IIT/IIM degrees in his author profile which earlier didn’t seem useful for
his writing resume. For some, he’s like the superhero that had shown some spark
when it arrived into the literary scene, but instead of saving the sinking ship
with his popularity and reach, he has been instrumental in plummeting it deeper
into the sea of mediocrity. For others, he never arrived on the literary scene
– he remained an epitome of mediocrity. (Dasgupta)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It’s difficult to come
up with one conclusion among these diverse and extreme opinions, each of which
stands true in its own right. Therefore through this essay, I intend to analyze
Chetan Bhagat’s impact on Indian publishing and readership, rather than
analyzing his writing. This paper shall examine three aspects of Bhagat’s
impact: (a) the birth of a massive young readership and its effect, (b) the
emergence of commercial fiction and its quality, and (c) writing as a career
post-Bhagat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Readership: The birth
of the middle-class Indian reader<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The reason Bhagat
attained unprecedented success is because his work struck a chord with
middle-class young India, the India that never read Indian writing in fiction,
that held and still holds English in awe and fear, which belongs to the tier 2
and 3 cities of the country . Even to this day, almost ten years since his
first book appeared in the market, his books don prime space in all the Wheeler
bookstalls of even the smallest railway stations – from Guwahati to Ranchi to
Kanyakumari. Kavita Bhanot, an erstwhile literary agent, relates in Forbes, “I
have known young people who don’t usually read, reading his books. Most
recently, I met a boy on the bus from Palampur to Delhi, who would not normally
read, and was not so comfortable in English, reading<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The Three Mistakes...</i>, slowly,
but enjoying it, and proud too, to be reading a book in English.” This pride is
what Chetan Bhagat delivered to the middle-class Indian reader, which has made
his following loyal and huge with over two million fans and followers on
Facebook and Twitter. Suman Gupta’s research paper sheds light on this trend:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Two surveys give some indication of the character
and attitudes of this reading constituency: a CSDS-KAS (de Souza et al 2009)
survey of social attitudes among Indian youth, and a NBT-NCAER (Shukla 2010)
Indian youth readership survey. The CSDS-KAS 2009 survey uses data collected
from around 5,000 respondents, aged between 14 and 34, more or less evenly
distributed across the country with some booster samples from areas with high
population density (towns); and the NBT-NCAER 2010 survey covered 3,11,431
literate youth (13-35 year olds), across 207 rural districts and 199 towns in
India. The latter estimates the youth population of India to be 459 million
(38% of the total), of which 333 million is literate. Of the literate youth,
this survey indicates, about 25% read books for pleasure, relaxation and
knowledge enhancement; and English is the preferred language for leisure
reading of 5.3% of those (Hindi is for 33.4%, Marathi 13.2%, Bengali 7.7%). By
these figures, the number of readers of an extraordinarily successful English
language commercial fiction book is unlikely to exceed 4.41 million.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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This survey was taken in 2009; five years after Bhagat’s arrival and the
figures are whopping. 4.41 million constitutes a huge readership, something
that India had not seen before. The author Samit Basu puts it rather
succinctly, “[Chetan has] shown how wrong Indian publishers are when they
explain away their failures to sell Indian fiction to large numbers of Indians
by saying there are no readers. Of course there are readers; Chetan's managed
to tell them they exist.” Bhagat’s first book<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Five
Point Someone</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>continues to be
the most landmark book in his literary career, being the highest selling book
of India till date. The book describes the other side of the reputed IITs and
was an immediate hit in the audience. For the first time, an aspirant or
someone who’s grown up listening to the huge hype built around the brand of IIT
could vicariously become a part of its life. Ever since its inception, IIT’s
entrance examination JEE has been considered to be world’s toughest examination
(The Hindu) with over half a million aspirants from all across the country,
mostly from middle-class India, undertaking it each year. Bhagat’s first book,
dedicated to his alma mater IIT Delhi, busted all the myths related to the IITs
in a gripping story. It worked in favour of Bhagat in two ways. First, it
inducted a non-reader curious about the IITs into reading, and later hooked him
with its simple language, which the reader could very well identify with.
Chetan Bhagat, with his illustrious degrees and later on fame as an author,
became a role model for aspirants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">To cater to the mass market and
middle-class audience, the publisher Rupa had carefully tweaked around with the
price point. All of Bhagat’s novels have been priced at an affordable 95 rupees
(now it’s 140 rupees), which makes it possible for the young small-town
high-school going student to buy and read what it is to be inside the IITs, to
work in a call center, to have a love marriage, and how to make it big despite
not getting into the IITs. As a bonus, the low price deters piracy, since at
such low cost the profit margin for a pirated book becomes insignificant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">To keep the reader engaged, Bhagat
implemented a lot of lessons he learnt during his IIT-IIM days. Along with the
media buzz, he happens to be the first author to have his own website, his
first books contained teasers of the upcoming books, he initiated the concept
of selling signed copies at a premium price (chetanbhagat.com), and spent
rather lavishly in the PR campaign of his books with grand launches roping in
stalwarts like Shashi Tharoor to inaugurate his book. Though Bhagat claims
himself to be destiny’s child (Dasgupta), having not anticipated his stupendous
success before launch and counting prospective readers on his fingers before
the release of his first book, Ankita Mukherji, a former assistant editor at a
big publishing house which rejected Bhagat’s manuscript, writes in her
autobiographical article with the Open Magazine:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">[In the slush pile<a href="file:///C:/Users/yifp09/Documents/The%20Chetan%20Bhagat%20Phenomenon.docx#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>,
there] came a professionally bound manuscript with perfect layouts and
typefaces. Even more interestingly, the first page had a CD stuck on it which
said ‘Read Me’. Feeling a little like Alice in Wonderland, I followed
instructions and up popped a multi-hued PowerPoint presentation. Swiftly and
efficiently, it introduced me to the author (a hot-shot young investment
banker) and his book (a coming-of-age novel about friends at one of India’s
best-known colleges). But what came next absolutely took my breath away. A
marketing strategy that would ensure the book became an instant bestseller: low
pricing and buy-backs, tie-ups with the said academic institution and its
alumni (all of whom, the author felt, would immediately want copies of his
book). This author was clearly no pushover. If only he had written his
manuscript with half the dedication he had put into his marketing plan!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Clearly, Bhagat’s success has not been serendipitous but a carefully calculated
work, targeted to capture the mind-share of people from all across India.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Publishing: Emergence of commercial
fiction<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Chetan Bhagat is often credited with
single-handedly revolutionizing the commercial fiction industry in India. When
newspapers and magazines rightfully adorn him with sobriquets like The
Paperback Messiah (Perur), The Game Changer, The Trendsetter, The Golden Goose
(Sarkar), it’s but natural for him to comment on the era before him. Novels before
Bhagat, as he himself says in an interview with NDTV, “targeted the elite and
most often Western audience, and were written to win prizes” (Perur). There was
no culture of commercial fiction and even if there was, it was frowned upon and
there was apathy towards such writing (Bose, Forbes).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One of the first successful commercial
novels before Bhagat was Anurag Mathur’s<span class="apple-converted-space">
</span><i>The</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Inscrutable
Americans<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>(Rupa), published
in 1991, but as Saugata Mukherjee, publisher of Pan Macmillan India notes,
“[Mathur’s] success was not anywhere close to Bhagat’s phenomenal rise.” The
possible reason that prevented Mathur’s book from pulling off a Bhagat on the
Indian publishing scene can be aptly summed up in the words of Amitabha Bagchi,
author of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Above Average (2006,
Harper Collins) –<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>a book
about a student’s life in IIT. He says, in an interview with Forbes, “The
interesting thing is that<span class="apple-converted-space"> <i>The</i> </span><i>Inscrutable Americans</i>,
a publishing phenomenon in its time (and still selling well today) was not
able, at the time, to goad the rest of the publishing business into being more
aggressive the way<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Five Point
Someone<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>was. Perhaps that is
a product of the rise of a media culture that Bhagat was able to navigate
successfully.” Bhagat’s success in this view is the result of his being at the
right place at the right time with the right product.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Since Bhagat’s arrival, the Indian
publishing industry has witnessed drastic changes. The first being how it
transformed the definition of the word bestseller. Typical Indian ‘bestseller’
sold between 3,000 and 5,000 copies; a true success is one that remains
in print for years, with reprints of 2,000 copies or so every nine or 12 months
(Tharoor). Bhagat’s novels, with sales of a staggering million copies a year,
sparked off a trend that made publishers escalate the bestseller slab to a
minimum of 10000 copies. The expanding market saw a burgeoning of myriad
publishing houses with the passing years. As researched by Gupta:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The story of commercial fiction publishing is part
of a larger story about the growth of the Indian publishing sector. In terms of
absolute figures this is an impressively large and diverse sector. According to
Pathak (2011), 12,375 publishers were registered with the ISBN India agency at
the end of 2007, with an estimated 90,000 titles being produced each year, and
with the industry showing an optimistic growth estimate of 30%.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
The stories of independent publishing houses bring together another astonishing
saga. Most notable of the local proprietary publishing houses is Srishti which
immediately capitalized on Bhagat’s opening of the market. When Tushar Raheja,
a fourth year student of IIT-Delhi in 2005, was searching for a publisher for
his manuscript<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Anything for
you, Ma’am</i>, an IITian’s love story, as the subtitle blatantly says, Srishti
immediately published it with a similar MRP of 100 rupees (flipkart.com). The
book was an instant bestseller. What followed was the creation of the hundred
rupee fiction market and new publishers like Mahaveer and General Press jumping
in to grab a piece of cake. It seemed as if every engineering college student
with a girlfriend scribbled his love story, aspiring to be the next Chetan
Bhagat, with titles like<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Of
Course I Love You </i>(2008),<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Oops!
I Fell in Love! </i>(2009) etc. authored by engineering students flooding the
market and selling like hot cakes. Srishti churned out bestsellers after
bestsellers, its raw manuscripts most often unedited, shoddy, in Hinglish,
didn’t bother the mass market readers, rather it connected well with them since
it spoke to them in their language and there was no need of a dictionary
whatsoever while reading. There is an upward trend not only in readers but also
authors. Srishti’s proprietor Jayant Bose notes, “Earlier we would get 100 book
proposals a year, now we get around 100 book proposals a month,” (DNA). This
alarming rate of budding writers owes itself directly to Bhagat who made novels
an affordable and readable commodity. Most often these new lad-lit writers,
after reading Bhagat et al, think that they too can write like Bhagat and
driven by the live example of Bhagat’s success, hope to make it big. The new
publishing houses only help proliferate their novels in the eager consumer
market.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Giants
like Penguin and Random House after keenly watching the post-Bhagat period for
over three years shed their snobbery and entered the commercial fiction market
to wrestle with established Indian players like Rupa and Srishti. Penguin came
up with Metro Reads, which promised to publish commercial fiction books
ensuring Penguin-like quality and Random House brought forth Ebury Press, to
take forward the domain of commercial fiction. Unable to find the next Chetan
Bhagat on their own, they started utilizing their deep pockets and lured the bestselling
authors of Rupa and Srishti with huge advances. Authors like Ravinder Singh,
Rashmi Bansal, Durjoy Datta, Ravi Subramanium, Preeti Shenoy have all been
picked by these big houses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
literary industry defined by Chetan Bhagat encountered another phenomenon seven
years after his entry in Amish Tripathi. Amish, hailing from a similar IIM and
investment banking background, owes it to Bhagat for opening up the market for
unliterary fiction, but Amish had to create his own readership. His books,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>The Shiva Trilogy</i>, were not
Bhagatish – pertaining to love, relationships, youth, career, but rather
mythological fiction, and have been a welcome change in the published genres.
Amish, unlike Bhagat, is more open about the role of marketing in making his
books take India by storm. In his interview with Sunil Sethi in NDTV’s<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Just Books</i>, he says, ‘Books
don’t sell on their own. I know so many books that deserved to be bestsellers,
but lack of marketing didn’t make them become one.’ Amish has taken book
marketing to the next level, having invested heavily for marketing his first
book with posters and free sample first chapters at all the major bookshops
before launch. For his books, he even launched the first video trailer of a
book in India and followed it up with a music album with Times Music for book
promotion (HT). Courtesy Amish, writers nowadays are not shying away from
giving credit to marketing, and even publishing houses are coming up with
innovative strategies to promote books. Penguin India, to promote Durjoy
Dutta’s new book<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Someone Like
You (2013)</i>, tied up with Barista and offered a free book with two
cappuccinos. Thanks to their association with big houses, authors like Bhagat
and Amish with contestable literary talents are now a regular presence at
prominent literature festivals among veterans like Pico Iyer, Gulzar, and Amitav
Ghosh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Spin-off
Writers & Writing as a Career:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Writing,
no more, is a vocation pursued only by the gifted litterateur, but by anyone
who can make the mass readers of India hooked on to their words. Most of these
authors write ‘Bhagatized’ fictionon common themes – love, sex, college,
education, politics, mythology, and cricket – the essentials of Chetan Bhagat
mass market fiction. Bhagat’s readers are not only loyal to him, but to
‘Bhagatized’ fiction, which has given birth to numerous young lad lit<a href="file:///C:/Users/yifp09/Documents/The%20Chetan%20Bhagat%20Phenomenon.docx#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[2]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a>
writers in India.<span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In
a country where full-time writing was a dream not achieved by even many
critically acclaimed writers, these young writers have become money-making
machines, with their novels having shifted into the category of fast-moving
consumer goods (Soofi). The royalties earned by commercial fiction authors in
post-Bhagat era is unprecedented source. Author Ravi Subramaniam bought a BMW
from the royalties from his debut book,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>If
God Was A Banker date</i>, which sold around 2.65 lac copies in a year. For a
two book deal, Subramaniam received a whopping 1.25 crores rupees advance from
Penguin India (Forbes). Durjoy Datta cashing in on his popularity from his
extremely popular books co-founded his own publishing house Grapevine along
with Sachin Garg, his friend and a bestselling author. Amish recently received
a five crore advance for his next series from Westland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The
publishing industry is a big money game, and writers who have found their
audience are now living not only comfortable but lavish lives with their
royalties (Outlook). The trend is upwards and writing market in future is only
going to expand and commercial fiction writers are only going to flourish. Even
seven years after his arrival, Bhagat single handedly turned away the slump in
fiction sales in 2011. Anyone who has ever snorted contemptuously at Chetan
Bhagat should know that the “steep growth” in the fiction market in the second
half of 2011 is credited to the sales of his latest novel,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>Revolution 2020</i>. (Pal)
Penguin India had experienced 500% sales growth in the same year and the Indian
reader market could now compete with the entire middle-east (BookSeller). The
upward trend doesn’t only affect the commercial fiction writers but also
literary fiction writers, since a lot of people who get inducted into reading
via commercial fiction are now migrating to the literary fiction. A literary
novel like G. D. Roberts’ Shantaram (2003) has sold over 5 lac copies (DNA), though
it took around five years to achieve that target, but still it’s a positive
trend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Conclusion:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Indian publishing industry, in the times to come, is going to look back at the
Indian publishing history in two different eras: pre-Bhagat and post-Bhagat.
Chetan Bhagat, irrespective of public opinion, continues to be a boon for the
publishing industry for India has never been swept to read like this before,
the sales have never been so astounding. New authors following his footsteps
are only benefitting out of it, and same holds true for the old authors who
could capitalize on the widening market. Some of the readers who start with
Bhagat’s fiction migrate to literary novels with time, one step at a time, from
Bhagat to Amish to Adiga to Rushdie. Besides, for the first time in the history
of Indian publishing is Bollywood keeping keen watch on popular books, getting
intricately involved with the publishing industry, after the blockbuster
success of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>3 Idiots<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>(2010). Unswerving critics blame
Bhagat for the corruption of the English language by using Hinglish and
colloquial words, but Bhagat claims that he is not a Hinglish writer but an
English writer (NDTV), which is true. Apart from a casual Hindi cuss-word
sprinkled once in a while in his books, there isn’t any Hinglish usage. As long
as the editorial arm of the publishing house take care to make his writing
grammatically sound and less colloquial, Chetan Bhagat shall have no reason to
worry.<span class="apple-converted-space"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In
terms of writing, however, Chetan Bhagat has been slammed to be a bane by many
critics like Shougat Dasgupta etc. Since it has not been analyzed in this
article, we aren’t in a position to draw any conclusion here, but his effect
can definitely be discussed. He has created a readership no doubt, but at the
same time he has developed a tawdry taste of reading among them, which has been
made inflexible because of redundant plots (Forbes). Bhagat readers want to
read more of Bhagatized fiction, as can be seen by following the bestsellers in
the market, which often are laden with clichés and melodrama. The audience
which graduates to consume literary fiction after reading Bhagat is still
little, nowhere close to the size of his market. Moreover, to understand the
aesthetics and subtle nuances of literary fiction, it takes an entirely new
conditioning, sensibility, and motivation, which is quite difficult to build.
If this state persists, the huge gap between the mass market and the elite
readers is only going to widen, and Chetan Bhagat will continue to be hated by
critics with literary bent of mind. However with Bhagat’s mass reach and
popularity, he has the power and choice to bridge this gap if he could come out
of his comfort zone and dare to walk on unconventional roads by giving up his
propensity to create a <i>masala<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>movie-script
out of his every novel, which might adversely affect the size of his
readership, but at the same time would refine, add value by elevating his
audience’s reading tastes. This can happen only if he wishes to become a boon
for writing as well.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoFootnoteText" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="file:///C:/Users/yifp09/Documents/The%20Chetan%20Bhagat%20Phenomenon.docx#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">[1]</span></span></span></a> <span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">In publishing, the slush pile is the set of unsolicited query letters or manuscripts sent either directly to the publisher or literary agent by authors, or to the publisher by an agent not known to the publisher (Wikipedia)</span></div>
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<div class="MsoFootnoteText">
<a href="file:///C:/Users/yifp09/Documents/The%20Chetan%20Bhagat%20Phenomenon.docx#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14px;">[2]</span></span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt;"> <span style="color: #333333;">Lad lit is the phenomenon of best-selling books written by men, and bought by lots of men, which tell tales of masculine insecurity in relationships, problems with male identity in the 21st century, and stories which explore the state of play between men and women from an often emotionally confused confessional male perspective. (Britishcouncil.com)</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<div style="line-height: 22.45pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>About the author:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Harsh Snehanshu is an author, most recently of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.bit.ly/BSHAmazon">Because Shit Happened - What NOT to do in a start-up!</a>, a freelance<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.clippings.me/harshsnehanshu">journalist</a>, and a Young India Fellow. This paper was written as a term paper for the Young India Fellowship course on Academic Writing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
<b>Bibliography:</b></span></div>
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Aysha Iqbal. Marketing Lad Lit, Creating Bestsellers: The Importance of Being Chetan
Bhagat. Postliberalization Indian Novels in English: Politics of Global
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</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Tharoor, Shashi (2006), “India Finds Its
Calling. One Night @ the Call Center by Chetan Bhagat”, <i>Foreign Policy</i>, No. 153 (Mar. - Apr., 2006), pp. 78-80</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Mishra, Jitendra Kumar (2013), “Celebration
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">5.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Dasgupta,
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">6.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Perur,
Srinath. The Paperback Messiah. The Caravan Magazine. 1 May 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">7.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">The
Big IIT Dream. The Hindu. 13 March 2013<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">8.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Amish
Tripathi launches music album for Oath of Vayuputras. Hindustan Times. March
12, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">9.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Bibliophile.
Outlook. 26 Dec, 2011<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Mayank Austen. The Sound of Money. Livemint. 11 March, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">11.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Mukherji,
Ankita. One Mistake of My Life. Open Magazine. 9 October, 2010.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">12.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">Rautray,
Samanwaya. Chetan Bhagat: India's Dan Brown or Charles Dickens? ET Bureau. 21
Jul, 2013</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">13.<span style="line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%;">The
Writers Community on Chetan Bhagat. Forbes India Magazine. 23 Dec, 2009.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-13251492662238986582013-11-03T07:00:00.001+05:302013-11-07T02:18:23.873+05:30Dabur Lol Tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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How many times has it happened that something that you encounter in present transports you to your past, making you nostalgic when you have least expected it?</div>
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Rarely, right? Today, that rarity happened with me. I came across an advertisement of the <a href="http://www.dabur.com/Products-Consumer%20Health%20%28OTC%29-Dabur%20Lal%20Tail">Dabur Lal Tail</a> on the internet and immediately, one of my fondest childhood memories was triggered. Yes, I know, memories being intricately linked to a baby oil is kind of weird, but what should I say? It is about the baby oil, after all. It was the winter of 1998, 30th October to be precise, when my just born cousin Archit was brought home from the hospital, and my nani, maternal grandmother, grabbed him in her arms and before cuddling him or letting anyone fondle him, she declared, 'First he'll get the massage. Only then shall anyone touch him.'</div>
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I had never seen Nani being so commanding before and for a while, I remained quite scared and surreptitiously followed her from a distance. She went to the kitchen and came back with a steel bowl half-filled with yellow mustard oil, its sharp smell making me sneeze. I crawled away and sat far off near the window, to breathe the fresh air as I'd vicariously enjoy her delicate massage on Archit's chubby baby-legs which began as soon as she returned. Archit giggled when her hands moved over his tummy, and I urged her to do that once more. She instead chided me for instigating mischief upon the vulnerable Archit and said, 'Tease him when he is big enough to retaliate. Now come, it's your turn now.' </div>
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I was dumbstruck. I craved for one such massage; my football-tortured lanky thighs and legs would definitely not have minded some kneading, but the goddamn smell hindered the fulfillment of my desire. My nose hated the odour of mustard and would transform itself into a sneezing machine if I went near and sniffed it. Fearing an unfair comparison with my little brother, who was cool with mustard oil unlike me, I laughed at her suggestion, saying, 'Me? A ten year old "man" getting a massage from Nani? Ha! No! Only kids go for that.' It gave me a false but good opinion of myself. Every morning and evening that followed, I would greedily watch Archit relishing his massages twice a day, bursting into giggles at the end of it every single time, which started becoming a source of great envy.</div>
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Two weeks passed and my envy had already peaked. I no more hung around Archit and spent most of my time in front of the TV. It was during one of these evenings when for the first time, I encountered <a href="http://www.dabur.com/Products-Consumer%20Health%20%28OTC%29-Dabur%20Lal%20Tail">Dabur Lal Tail</a>'s advertisement on the television - a mother massaging the little baby with it. At first, it infuriated me. Now that I had stopped being around my little cousin, the wicked God planned to make me feel jealous through the television. The advertisement went on and no matter how much I wished to change the channel, I could not coerce myself to do that. So much for vicarious pleasure! However, when the advert got over, it said something that caught my fancy. It mentioned that it was fragrant, besides fostering height and weight - an absolute need for my lanky body eager to attain early manhood. </div>
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Over the next two days, I convinced my family-members why mustard oil was bad for the baby's health and why Dabur Lal Tail was of utmost importance - it was ayurvedic, made up of completely natural ingredients, didn't have synthetic products that could harm baby's skin, besides it ensured better sleep and natural growth. I intentionally gobbled up my prime concern - the fragrant part and desperately waited for the Nani to make a list for the next month's ration, which was done in a few days. </div>
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A week later, my legs were getting massaged with the <a href="http://www.dabur.com/Products-Consumer%20Health%20%28OTC%29-Dabur%20Lal%20Tail">Dabur Lal Tail</a>, and this time my month-old brother Archit was gaping at me enviously, when Nani asked, 'What happened to your manhood?' </div>
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'<i>Kuch pane ke liye kuch khona padta hai,</i>' I replied like a man.</div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-13751257617544516382013-11-03T05:16:00.002+05:302013-11-03T05:58:59.865+05:30Strangers on the road<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Yesterday, while I was walking on the road, a stranger walked up to me and said, 'hi.' I saw him, didn't recognize, presumed him to be a stalker, ignored and whisked off.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">A little later, still on the road, a stranger came up and asked for directions. I directed him. He went his way, I went mine.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">A hundred meters later, at the turn of the road, a stranger tapped on my shoulder and said, 'Can I have your number? Let's meet som</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">etime.' I got so scared that I ran off.<br /><br />At last, near the road leading to my house, I met a stranger who came, introduced himself and asked if we could talk to me for a minute. I felt better. The unfamiliarity was broken. We talked for fifteen minutes and later even went for a coffee.<br /><br />Now read everything again, knowing that the road is facebook.</span></div>
Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-49840465636063662412013-05-28T23:37:00.002+05:302013-05-28T23:45:21.798+05:30मुशायरा -<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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नींद की दस्तक से पहले </div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.54;">हर रात,</span><span style="line-height: 1.54;"> </span>एक मुशायरा चलता है </div>
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इधर से हम कुछ बोलते हैं </div>
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उधर से वो </div>
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अक्सर, इन सब के दरमियाँ<span style="line-height: 1.54;">, </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.54;">हम दोनों खामोश हो जाते हैं </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.54;">फिर मुस्कुराती हुई </span><span style="line-height: 1.54;">नज़रों से</span><span style="line-height: 1.54;"> </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.54;">ख़ामोशी को कहते हैं -</span><span style="line-height: 1.54;"> इर्शाद!</span></div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-41321440193017565212013-02-04T04:42:00.000+05:302013-02-04T18:08:40.572+05:30Paradigm Shift<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm a witness to a radical transformation in myself. With passing time, the word intention is taking precedence over each and every other word that defined my life earlier and I'm getting closer to attain what perhaps is the most important thing in life. Knowledge.</div>
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Is it an effect of my journey? Maybe. I don't exactly know. The entire goal behind everything that I'm doing, be it meeting new people, hearing new stories, gaining new perspectives or reading new books is to become a better writer. Anything that doesn't lead me there is a distraction and I find myself aversive to that thing.</div>
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I want to learn right now. Learn so much that ten years down the line when I look back, I realize that I invested my prime years of my youth doing things I love, learnings things that would help me in doing things I love better. </div>
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The second most important thing that this sudden transformation within me has brought is that it has lowered the hype of things around me. For example, recently I wrote an article for The Hindu, they didn't accept it, despite the fact that it was one of the most heartfelt articles I'd ever written. Had it been my earlier self, I would have gone crazy and hyper with anxiety waiting for their response - and if there had been no response, I would have become frenzied about it because of disappointment. Now, it hardly registers an effect on my mind. Getting that article published doesn't precede my happiness. I would rather be stable and happy, than letting a "thing" affect my happiness. </div>
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Elucidating this fact further, recently I got through Young India Fellowship and indeed, it was one of the best things to have happened to me. I was elated, but I was normal at the same time. It was not like "The Only Thing" I have in my life that could make me jump and cry and all that. Even if I hadn't qualified, I would have travelled, maybe started-up a venture, re-applied the next year and be calm about it. I now realize what has happened to me. I have become calmer. No, it's not that things don't vex me. It is more about results not vexing me, because actions still do. I get really irritated with myself if I end up hurting someone emotionally. I get really annoyed if I see someone wasting his/her life out of sheer laziness. But "getting something out of something" has been replaced by a very simple yet powerful word called learning. Everything teaches. Everybody teaches. And I have suddenly started to love learning. Every little or grand ambition can wait, until I have learned enough, because that gives me a faith that yes, I would be able to pursue my ambition in a much better fashion if I'm sufficiently equipped with knowledge.</div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-65713148628942095732012-11-16T04:13:00.001+05:302012-12-06T11:41:20.591+05:30मंज़िल<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
मंज़िल की फ़िक्र क्यूँ करे तू राही?<br />
जब तक चल रही है तेरी स्याही<br />
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ना डर से डगमगा, ना ग़म से डर<br />
जब रास्ता है तेरा, तू चल बेफ़िकर<br />
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अगर लोग कहें तुझे अकेला, पागल और सनकी<br />
तू मुस्कुरा, क्यूंकि खौफ़ बोल रही होगी उनकी<br />
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बेख़ौफ़, जब ज़िन्दगी तुझे उड़ना सिखलाएगी<br />
दूर से दुनिया कुछ और ही नज़र आएगी<br />
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जब तेरी कहानी ख़त्म होने को आएगी<br />
उनकी अधूरी कहानी मुँह ताकते रह जाएगी<br />
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कुछ बोलेंगे दोस्त था मेरा, कुछ पागल ठहराएँगे<br />
कुछ अन्दर ही अन्दर खुद को कोसते रह जाएँगे<br />
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तू उन्हें देख कर ऊपर बैठा हसता रह जाएगा<br />
तेरी मंज़िल तेरा सफ़र था, ये कुछ को ही समझ में आएगा </div>
Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-523454379141810152012-09-05T05:35:00.001+05:302012-09-05T05:35:28.458+05:30ग़म का सुकून <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 28px;">लफ़्ज़ों में तुझे बयाँ करने चला था </span><br />
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ख़ुद की तक़दीर तेरे साथ देख </div>
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गुस्ताख़ी समझ के भूल जा तू </div>
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मुझे, लेकिन मेरे लफ़्ज़ों को ना बेच </div>
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तेरे ख़याल में डूबा रहा मैं </div>
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मरा नहीं, ये जादू नहीं क्या देख </div>
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हर्ष की कमी खलती <span style="line-height: 1.8;">है </span><span style="line-height: 1.8;">ज़रूर </span></div>
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पर ग़म के सुकून ने कर दिया ठीक </div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-89216996344956446822012-08-14T03:51:00.001+05:302012-08-14T03:51:14.775+05:30इश्क़ की चोट <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}" style="font-weight: normal;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">वो खंजर लिए हाथ में<br /> लगे कुछ ऐसे मुझको<br /> <br /> कि अगर मैं उन्हें मना करूँ<br /> तो वो मार डालेंगे खुद को<br /><div class="text_exposed_show">
<br /> सहम सहम कर मैं बोला<br /> मैं क्या मना करूँ तुझको?<br /> <br /> अगर क़त्ल का इतना शौक़ है<br /> तो क्यूँ ना मार डाल तू मुझको?<br /> <br /> खंजर गिरा धडाम ज़मीन पर<br /> इश्क़ की चोट लगी उसको<br /> <br /> उनकी चौकस आंखें, बेझिझक पूछीं -<br /> मेरे लिए मार सकते हो खुद को?<br /> <br /> मेरी बेबस आँखें, बेझिझक बोलीं -<br /> खुद के लिए, मार सकता हूँ खुद को</div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-70864921067674218432012-08-13T00:32:00.001+05:302012-08-17T10:23:12.130+05:30Soak, No More!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Lonely and shivering<br />
Covered with a tattered blanket<br />
Praying it to not happen.<br />
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But He's merciless<br />
He sends those dark demons<br />
And they burst<br />
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Cold water kisses the chilly winter<br />
The tattered blanket is no more tattered<br />
Water sews its wounds<br />
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Soaked, I smile.<br />
No more shivering, no more loneliness.<br />
Soaked. No more.</div>
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P.S. Written for <a href="http://www.indiblogger.in/topic.php?topic=61">The Surf Excel Matic #SoakNoMore Contest </a>of indiblogger. It's a very dark take on the topic, hope the intensity and emotions contained in this poem has struck a chord with your heart.</div>
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Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-46005921097729426782012-08-03T19:47:00.002+05:302012-08-03T20:38:58.017+05:30Book Review: How about a sin tonight? by Novoneel Chakraborty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>WARNING: My style of reviewing is different. I barge in my own past experiences, aspirations and delve less into the book's plot, as I believe that telling someone why to read the book is more important than what to read in the book. Please don't expect</i><i> a traditional book review.</i></div>
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This blog is five years old. In the last five years of blogging, I have voluntarily reviewed just one book: The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga. Generally, I review only those books which leave a deep impact on my mind. Till date, despite reading several books, the most impactful books can be counted on my hands to be only around 6.</div>
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I am glad that my recent read: <i>How about a sin tonight?</i> by the young and brilliant Novoneel Chakraborty has influenced me tremendously and I'm bound to review it.<br />
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I am a mean reader. It takes one little plot-hole/break in flow from the author's end to exasperate me with him/her, and perhaps, that's why I never read books by young authors(like me), and always remain contented with books, that are recommended by reliable sources. However, things were totally different with Novo's book.</div>
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I had been friends with Novoneel on facebook for quite sometime, as we both published our initial books with the same publishing house and perhaps, knew each other by name. There is some connection even before that. Much before I had published my first book, I had gifted my sister Novo's debut novel <i>A Thing Beyond Forever </i>which she thoroughly enjoyed. Though I couldn't read his first book, I was told by my sister that Novoneel is different from everyone else.</div>
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Recently, when his new book<i> How about a sin tonight? </i>came out, I was much like my laid back self when it came to reading contemporary authors. Not interested. But days passed and the lines from the book were quoted by some of my readers, thereafter Novo's mind-boggling and well-worded updates adorned my newsfeed and I couldn't resist myself from ordering the book.</div>
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As I got the book, I went through the blurb. The very first line stood out and I read it every time I hold the book, so much so that now it is etched in my memory:</div>
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<i>From the most beautiful space in their souls to the most confused portions of their hearts and the dirtiest corners of their minds... LOVE. TOOK.</i> <i>THEM</i>. <i>EVERYWHERE.</i></div>
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The line was so beautifully worded that I immediately began the book and couldn't leave it until I finished. I had read writers who have touched me(Khalid Hosseini), I had read writers who made me laugh(Chetan Bhagat), I had read writers who had inspired me(Yogananda Paramhansa), I had read writers who glued me to the book(Julian Barnes, J.D.Salinger) but for none of them could stop me at every alternate paragraphs to utter a loud: 'wah! amazing', which Novo did.</div>
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Novoneel is masterly with his craft of words. The way he plays with emotions and feelings with his poetic prose is astounding and leaves you desiring for more. Sometimes, you get lost in admiring the author and his dexterity with expressions; at other times you just can't stop thinking how could he even think of that sentence. As the story goes ahead, you are glued as though you are living all the characters. As Novo weaves a magic around the five extremely well crafted characters, you realize that he has not just written a book, but actually, created an experience.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOGPUlHPQ_U7XIpD0-yvHHTM-AWeSymCivaisTUR-X58VhfHnbbg08zdAoLCtm-KSdNPSCyMsi_fwkMYY8tqnaSP-xT05miTGJqZto4X7YdtFRk1V3vPDwmq6nDjN6XlppOcwr3e-LHCbD/s1600/how-about-a-sin-tonight-700x700-imad9fvr7fzp7e82.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOGPUlHPQ_U7XIpD0-yvHHTM-AWeSymCivaisTUR-X58VhfHnbbg08zdAoLCtm-KSdNPSCyMsi_fwkMYY8tqnaSP-xT05miTGJqZto4X7YdtFRk1V3vPDwmq6nDjN6XlppOcwr3e-LHCbD/s320/how-about-a-sin-tonight-700x700-imad9fvr7fzp7e82.jpeg" width="209" /></a></div>
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The only demerit that I found in this book was every character's way of expressing was the same: Kaash' diary entries or Mehfil's words
both seemed to be worded by the same pen, rather than having different
identity and thus, way of expression. For writers, not reflecting their
identities in the character is a prerequisite and I think, Novo -
already a master of the art of expression - needs to pay a little heed to it in his next book. Also, since the language was so elegant some phrases like 'power off' to depict disappointment spoiled the flow.</div>
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The book, set in Bombay - amidst the enigmatic and infamous Hindi film industry, consists of intricate interlinked stories of five completely different characters, where the shackles of relationships, love, sins, revenge, ambition and jealousy bind them together. The language is poetic and the content is thoughtful. It's not a book for those who want to read for time pass, it's a book to leave you thinking. It's so good to see that authors like Novoneel are setting benchmarks for younger authors like us and helping us aspire to give due weight to the language, rather than just the story, which most of us have been doing till now.</div>
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Some novels tell you stories, some novels provoke the story inside you to be a part of it. Novo's <i>How about a sin tonight?</i> belongs to the latter category; that announces to the Indian audience that there is a stalwart hidden in the Indian writing scene.</div>
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Must read. Buy <a href="http://www.homeshop18.com/sin-tonight/author:novoneel-chakraborty/isbn:9788184000313/books/miscellaneous/product:28975572/cid:14567/">here</a>.</div>
</div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-8582455844233606562012-07-28T01:50:00.003+05:302012-07-28T01:56:02.529+05:30आज की महबूबा<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: small;">आप मुझसे क्यूँ ही बातें करते हैं </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">जब मेरी बातें कम, खुद की ज़्यादा करते हैं </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">अकेलेपन, ख़ामोशी से डर नहीं लगता हमको </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">पर आपकी एकतर्फी ज़ुबान से, हम भागा फिरते हैं </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">आपके बारें में बहुत सुना है हमनें </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">कि आपके हुस्न पर हज़ारों आशिक़ मरते हैं </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">किस काम के हैं वो आशिक़? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">जो आपकी आशिक़ी में खुद को दगा दिया करते हैं</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">ज़िन्दगी आपके बिना ही जी लिया हमनें </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">कभी सोचा, क्या आप हमें भी याद किया करते हैं? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-70598129873854793612012-07-27T00:08:00.000+05:302012-07-27T00:25:29.774+05:30Third Book: Reason Behind Delay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I finished writing the third book - <i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/sheissingleimtaken">She is single, I'm taken</a> </i>- in March, before I went on my India trip. I had been in conversation with Rupa for quite sometime, which wanted to take over all the three titles of the trilogy. However, the earlier two titles were with Srishti, and as any small publishing house would have done, Srishti negated Rupa's offer of releasing the earlier books. I was fine with it. Srishti gave me a break; I was and would always be indebted.</div>
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But the third book was not yet signed with any publisher, so I was free to chart my own route. Rupa was willing to take it over and after a lot of negotiation, I was happy beyond bounds for they gave me a very good offer. Rupa, no doubt, is one of the biggest names in the Indian publishing. I sent my manuscript to Rupa in mid-March, for which they had been pressing, and left for my travel. Since they wanted my manuscript so much, I presumed that they would begin the editing process for the book.</div>
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I kept travelling while Rupa sent me an elaborate marketing plan which included interviews with all the major newspapers and review sites. I realized that all the PR and interviews that every author gets has little to do with the book that they have written and a lot to do with the publishing house they are associated with. Srishti has been a low-profile player: spending zilch in marketing and had carved out its own niche in the chic-lit 100 rupees space. I was happy that with Rupa, I would be getting not only a hefty advance but necessary PR, which I missed earlier.</div>
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Happily I came back in May and scheduled a meeting with Rupa's editor. I had already been given the agreement: which was very fair and transparent. At the meeting with Rupa, I had been told that their publishing schedule was packed for this year and my book would come out early next year. I was shocked. All the while, I was thinking that the editing process was being carried out but alas, they told me that it would have started only after I signed the agreement. And moreover, it would take at least three months to complete the editorial process.<br />
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Also, I was told that only the trilogy would be acquired by them, not my further books. I felt a little bit cheated. They wanted to acquire what was already selling; they were not betting on my writing. </div>
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I was in two minds. At one side, I had one of the best publishing houses in the country offering me whatever I could have wished for; while on the other side, there were thousands of readers eagerly waiting for my book, which I'd been delaying since February. In July, I chose to go with the latter and came back to Srishti. It was a tough decision for me, much like every other decision that I have taken in 2012. Srishti was quick at task as I outsourced the editing process to my friends and sent the entire thing to Srishti within a week.</div>
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I'm happy as now, the third is being rolled out and my next book, on my start-up, would come out by early next year - is also witnessing many interested takers. </div>
</div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-36858399524240935592012-06-26T00:53:00.005+05:302012-06-26T00:59:58.640+05:30The Magical Hands<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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His hands are gifted. He knows magic. Creating immaculate shapes out of plain mud has been a gift he inherited in legacy. </div>
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His name is Zaffar and he resides in Zangam, a rural village of Kashmir, with his family of ten and a kucha one room house.
Every morning, he walks twenty miles to fetch what he calls the finest and rarest alluvial soil in the mountainous region, for which he needs to plough, carry and till until they are enough to make around 20 utensils a day.
As I indulge in a conversation with him - with the help of a local interpreter who translated his Kashmiri into Urdu to me, his four sons: Zeeshan, Rizwan, Zaqeer and Misal run and surround us. I smile at them and ask them whether they go to school. Zaffar hesitates to answer. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictotdSQoact_j4cENYvJaDQtNeooIWUV7-MZ8mIfFkNPoCkUKS4aQ9WEDOzecSXB_oyi4DrwuwWit1MV8GBm5YTM32qGoUA_q5_Z6oGgcqwZNHkVO6e4f0mnT1C8aHlxlV44QohUVYlZH/s1600/2010-05-18+19.10.45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEictotdSQoact_j4cENYvJaDQtNeooIWUV7-MZ8mIfFkNPoCkUKS4aQ9WEDOzecSXB_oyi4DrwuwWit1MV8GBm5YTM32qGoUA_q5_Z6oGgcqwZNHkVO6e4f0mnT1C8aHlxlV44QohUVYlZH/s640/2010-05-18+19.10.45.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Zeeshan, the oldest one among them being around 12, is the only one who could converse in Urdu and he tells me that he used to go to school till 4th grade, where he learnt little bit of Urdu. Ever since the birth of his fifth and sixth brothers, who are around 2 and 1 respectively, he has not been going to school as his father needs his help to carry extra soil.
I am taken aback. Zaffar, who couldn't make most of the Urdu that his bright young son spoke to me, asks my interpreter about what I inquired. I quickly change the topic by asking him how many pots, utensils and hukka pots he sells on a daily basis. He makes around 30 in total, out of which 4-5 get broken when they are taken into furnace and he sells them at around 10 rupees each. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhwPUzg5Zz3svqlJvdJl_zpsoLdWECloWNfRUrBx0KRmFeC8gmTWBmRqF2yF-MV9YEeoS7HXYq6Cyt3y65mkvNKGwzMXQq6MRlRSE5k6WeKBrqrJfuM2o5o6U5s2UPmsUsHI9P5n3aHz-/s1600/2010-05-18+19.05.05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhwPUzg5Zz3svqlJvdJl_zpsoLdWECloWNfRUrBx0KRmFeC8gmTWBmRqF2yF-MV9YEeoS7HXYq6Cyt3y65mkvNKGwzMXQq6MRlRSE5k6WeKBrqrJfuM2o5o6U5s2UPmsUsHI9P5n3aHz-/s320/2010-05-18+19.05.05.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I am saddened. A gifted artisan, whose art is unparalleled and whose skills could earn him fame at the world level, is making just around 200 rupees a day, for earning that he and his son have to walk for over ten miles daily, have to find and till unclaimed lands in inaccessible tract and carry around twenty kilos of soil on their backs; for which his son had to leave his school; with which he has to feed his family of ten and few months down the line, survive the biting cold of Kashmir.
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Having nothing more left to say or hear, I begin to leave his house, asking Zeeshan one last question: 'do you want to go to school?' I inwardly pray to hear a yes and await his reply.
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He says, 'Yes, even my father wants me to go to school. But, he needs help as well and I'm the elder son.'
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I am touched by his maturity. I, being a struggling artist myself, couldn't empathize more. I made a promise to them that the next time I return, I would stay in their village for three months and teach them, and meanwhile, I'll support their education financially as much as I can, with the help of my willing friends and help Zaffar market his art in cities.
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They are waiting to hear from me. I'm waiting to hear from you. Please help me raise money for rural artisans - people who are gifted but owing to their lack of resources, are not able to monetize their gift.
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P.S. In case you want to help Zaffar, you can contribute in my fundraising campaign at Milaap (<a href="http://www.milaap.org/harsh">www.milaap.org/harsh</a>). Having met over fifty such artisans during my ongoing tour into the roots of India, I urge you to lend your helping hand.
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Empower Zaffar and thousands others by GIVING A LOAN at: <a href="http://www.milaap.org/harsh">www.milaap.org/harsh</a></div>
</div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com1Zangam34.1445159 74.568297234.0919499 74.4893332 34.1970819 74.6472612tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-45886313364877564022012-06-25T22:01:00.003+05:302012-06-25T22:01:25.515+05:30Why you should NOT keep your camera out while travelling?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I will start this article with a little bit of self-marketing. I will tell you how once I was a passionate photographer and how when I became every photographer's dream : a professional traveler, I almost stopped using my camera. </div>
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It all started when I went to Glasgow. I had a Kodak C700 camera, the most basic camera back then and I was awed by Scotland's unparalleled beauty. I developed the keen sense of vision and snapped whatever I saw in its entirety. I also started a photoblog called Rods and Cones(www.harshsnehanshu.info). My father gifted me an SLR and I started taking photography seriously, for the next two years. </div>
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This year, the turn of events in my life brought me closer to my dream - of travelling across India solo and I became a professional traveler. Going by the photographer's point of view, this was the best opportunity for the photographer within me to evolve and practice, but somehow, the entire idea of travelling suppressed my hobby, something about which I'm happy more than sad. </div>
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The reason why I got a bit detached with photography is because it stops you from travelling to your fullest. Travelling is an art: art that requires you to open, exercise and unwind all your five senses to your surroundings, to the sounds around, to the sensations around, to the smell of the place, to the taste of the delicacies and lastly, the sight of scenic beauty. Photography is a great exercise for mind and sight, but it numbs the other senses to such an extent that you stop living and start just seeing: which is just one-fifth of the travelling experience. </div>
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I don't recommend you to not carry your camera, but I strongly recommend you to keep it in your camera bag, and take it out only when you have lived through the first few moments of experiencing something new and beautiful. Travelling is an art, don't let the artist in you die by caring about just one color: experience the entire spectrum instead.</div>
</div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-65994676789709946912012-06-10T01:42:00.000+05:302012-06-24T01:55:46.715+05:30हर्ष की तलाश<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
आज जब फेसबुक में उन्हें उनके नए हमराही के साथ मुस्कुराते देखा<br />
तो अन्दर से एक आग सी खौल उठी, लपट दर लपट खुद को जलाती हुई<br />
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आग जब ज़हन को जला बैठी तो एहसास हुआ कि अभी भी वो बाकी हैं कहीं<br />
एक अजब सा सन्नाटा अन्दर से बोल उठा, कहने लगा कि मैं निकम्मा हूँ<br />
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मैं लड़ा, खुद को निकम्मा नहीं साबित करने में निकम्मेपन की हदें पार कर बैठा<br />
सन्नाटा हार कर वापस ज़हन के उस पार जा बैठ गया, और इधर मैं और उनकी तस्वीर<br />
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मैंने उनकी आखों में झाँका, बहुत कोशिश की उनकी मुस्कान को झूठी साबित करने की<br />
लेकिन नाकाम, बेइंतेहा खुशी मानो गरम तेल की बूंदों की तरह उनके चेहरे से मेरी ओर बरस रही<br />
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मैंने उनके हमराही से नज़र मिलायी, उनकी मुस्कान मुझे नीचा दिखा रही थीं<br />
और फिर, पता नहीं क्यूँ, मैं मुस्कुराया, बेझिझक, बेफ़िक्र, और उनके हमराही शर्मा बैठे<br />
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न वो समझ पाई मेरी खुशी का कारण, न उनके हमराही, पर मेरी समझ ने कहा - <br />
उन्हें किसी की ज़रूरत थी खुश रहने के लिए, लेकिन मैं - हर्ष ही हर्ष </div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-9362062094393634702012-04-19T10:19:00.003+05:302012-04-19T14:18:12.016+05:30How to get published?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Lately, more than half of the mails that I'm receiving ask me how to get published. Tired of typing the same thing over and over again, I think this blog post would be of help:</div>
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<li style="text-align: justify;">In India, publishers can be approached directly. No mediators are required.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">You can google all publishers and mail your manuscript to them. Some publishers are keen on having the hard copy and they ask you to mail the hard copy. Though it's said that they go through each and every manuscript they get, I have a serious doubt.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>Rejection is a widespread disease</b>. Reasons might be very genuine such as you are not at all good to sometimes, what you are writing doesn't suit their publishing scheme. Be persistent and try to think why something is not working. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>If you are getting rejected from everyone </b>for a manuscript that you clearly see is having big market - it means that your writing is still amateurish. Accept it. Improve it. Shoot back.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">The big houses take some time to respond and sometimes <b>they don't respond </b>at all. Sometime after 2-3 months you hear from them saying that your manuscript doesn't suit their publishing scheme. It'll be disappointing. I have been there - consistently. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">The concept of literary agents - though it has nascently emerged - is bullshit. <b>Agents are pimps</b> who target novice authors having no idea/network/foothold in the publishing industry and take away a significant portion of their royalties. But <b>if you actually have no idea</b> about how to go about publishing and you suck at self-marketing, then they can be of significant help - at least they can get you big houses and also get a good editor to you. They just use their contacts to make it easy for you.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>Big publishing houses don't mean that you will sell</b>. Ironically, smaller publishers churn out more number of bestsellers in comparison to big publishing houses, because current readership of India has more non-English background readers and they prefer light fiction over literary books.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Smaller publishing houses' <b>editorial teams are</b> <b>an imaginary entity</b>. The editor associated with small publishing houses is either some random blogger/a failed writer and they get peanuts for editing the book. How can you expect them to do a great job at it? Most of the times they publish the raw manuscript, without even editing a paragraph in it. Editing is important - even if you have an excellent English - because it makes the manuscript much more readable, compact and weaves the corners to make the flow better. If you are going with a small publisher, get it edited by some freelance editors. I can refer you some editors, if you wish.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">There are few publishers who are very good and <b>they respond via mails</b> as well. Westland is one. But they are very selective about your quality of writing. You can try writing to them.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">The way to steer yourself without an agent in the publishing industry is by <b>networking with people in the industry</b>. How to do it? Try twitter. Associate with a lot of social groups - where you get to meet a lot of people. Hang out in creative places. Exploit your already existing network - ask your friends if they know someone in the industry, schedule a meeting. Get out of your comfort zone and meet a lot of people.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">It's very important to <b>be in a metropolitan city </b>to get a strong foothold in the publishing domain. The concept of networking doesn't exist in smaller cities. So, come to Delhi/Mumbai/Bengaluru. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><b>Don't ask an author to refer you</b>. Authors have got very little say, since they are not a part of the publishing houses - they are just their customers. Rather ask a publishing/media person to refer you - it'll have a better impact.</li>
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All the best.</div>
</div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7049464200235252140.post-81923188836883937712012-04-09T13:18:00.000+05:302012-04-09T13:37:54.904+05:30One Last Breath<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>2007, Summer.</i><br />
<i>Jharia</i><br />
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The temperature was 38 degrees, it had been half an hour in the scorching heat. We were in the no man’s land, the area being prohibited, and there was no-one to prevent trespassing. The sun was showing no mercy on us - Aman and Harsh(yeah that's me) : college returns, who decided to break the monotony of the ongoing vacations by spending some time in the countryside - the mines near our city.<br />
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Half an hour ago, we parked our butts on the hot seat, our bottoms feeling as if they were on a toaster, of a five years old Suzuki Fiero, and dragged ourselves towards the undiscovered areas of our city. The area was picturesque and that gave us, the budding photographers some incentive to compensate our play with the scorching heat. After passing through the crude road, with the tyres of the bike become brown with mud, we got completely drenched in sweat. I chided myself for having worn my new T-shirt that day, which was now stinky because of the sweat-drops rolling down my neck. After hopping here and there for about 15 minutes, at last we found the place which offered us a grand view of numerous hills. The majestic sight of something like The Grand Canyon filled my mind with awe and wonder. I had been untouched by such a beautiful place that too lying hidden and undiscovered in my city. I jumped all through the way and finally made it to the edge of the hillock. The smoke of underground fire filed my nose, reminding me of the similar smell encountered in the chemistry lab when they conducted that H2S experiment. I sensed that it was a risky place, but the advertisement of DEW during that time with the tagline 'Darr Ke Aage Jeet Hai' inspired me to stay firm. Just six feet from the edge I was thinking of capturing the panorama of the canyon.<br />
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Humming Creed‘s famous song One Last Breath, I moved ahead with my right leg trying to find a vantage point only to realize that it was not at all the right thing to do. To my surprise, the land beneath me began to go down. No, it wasn’t a landslide, it was not a swamp, but it was actually loose soil, which had inside it - fire, underground fire. The area had burning coals within it all around and was prone to be swallowed by the earth. Everyday newspaper editors filled their local columns with one news of 'land swallow' in Jharia - that’s the name of the place where we went. The place was prohibited for the laymen, and we, the future engineers of India were not counting ourselves in this category of ‘Layman’. And that day, this future engineer of India was going to get roasted in the underground fire of its own country. My feet trembled as I saw the soil beneath my feet trickling down.<br />
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Within a moment, I realized how bad this death would be as there would be nobody to ever get to know the cause if my death, nobody to relish the sight of my red hot tandoor, rather I would add to the national reserves of coal! I saw Aman at a considerable distance from me and told him not to proceed that side, as the soil was very loose. I took two photographs(see my passion for photography!) and ran back as fast as I could. Had it been a 100m race, surely I was gonna win. Several lumps of soil were swallowed by the earth as I hurled my 58 kg light body over them. I felt like HULK because for the first time I saw that my 50 kg was enough to crush the grounds by about two inches. By the way, have you ever wondered why HULK‘s underpants do not get torn when he transforms from a human to a HULK? I was feeling a sudden power in my veins (and arteries too). And this sudden power was suddenly overpowered by the ground, as I tumbled on the way back while adoring my power.<br />
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Seeing his friend enjoying the song One Last Breath alone, Aman could not resist. He came running towards me and helped me out. And we hand in hands, with utmost caution, proceeded towards the safe place and took three shots through our silly 2 mp phone camera. Finally a sigh of relief !<br />
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Thanks to the Suzuki Fiero, my perspiration was air-conditioned on the way back and set-wet zatak did the other work, and the ordeal was etched in my mind, forever.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNVUXNPubFxm_qztBJxzg_9KozxGEmBgYE3pgIMfuyfZS1ubWFY4yhLWsmOp0zHaN2ocP4wT9ZLwPKl92jB4hvSMQ08Nc9psnbbmuJRU0hS1UPXDGlRfrhU6ZPlYirIUoiWw31vZp3nCN/s640/2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Place Where I Stood</td></tr>
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</div>Buzzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17811082747400612065noreply@blogger.com0