#ThankYouSachin

Star Sports has been running this ad campaign for the past three weeks now. The BCCI is trying its best to catapult its own advertising revenues. Twitter is flooded with the hash tag #ThankYouSachin. And do you know why is that so? Because we all owe him, big-time.

Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar had eclipsed the status of a mere mortal long time back. The 16 year old boy who smashed the ball to every corner of the park right from the onset of his illustrious career has done and achieved everything that exists. I am sure there must be a record book which only tells us how many records belong to his name. But this post is not about me showering adulation on him. And even if I attempt to do so, I am sure there are some adjectives I will still miss out on. Tomorrow the man who represented the hopes and aspirations of a billion strong will take to the field for one last time. For one last time he will do his famous half squat to adjust his guard and we all hope that for one last time, he raises his bat in the air for us. Yes we all love him and everything but inherently we are all selfish, aren't we.

But again this post is not about all that. I am sure CricInfo has better written articles with accurate statistics to support them. Neither am I as good as someone like Harsha Bhogle to whip some magic instantaneously (the IPL final, "replays are for mortals like us"). This is all about an entire generation growing up with dreams of not becoming engineers or doctors or crickets. It is about an entire generation wanting to be the next Sachin Tendulkar. It is about trying to emulate his stance, his panache, his straight drives. It is about those quarrels for batting with a bat with a MRF sticker on it (they used to cost Rs. 10, also we used Brittania for our fondness for Rahul Dravid). It is about staying glued to our television sets when Sachin was in his 90s and then jumping with our siblings as he raised his bat and looked up in the sky. Its about a man who installed a belief in the Indian sporting community. Its about being humble and polite and not letting fame and money to turn your head around. Its about being criticized over and over again and then coming back with a not out score of  248* on the SCG (honestly I can quote about 30-40 such innings but this picture says it all).

It is about my childhood, my love for this game and my admiration for this man.

#ThankYouSachin

PS: Dear Darren Sammy, no disrespect for you or your team but this all about SRT. 

#SachinSachin

#Sachin #Dada

Final Year Chronicles 1.0

It has been a long time since I sat down and wrote something in my journal or posted something on my blog. Actually it has been a long time since I sat down with a moment's peace. All this time it has been a frenetic circle of running and trying to keep up with a schedule. Apparently I have not had an easier time table in the past three years but even so, my alacrity suffers a dip which has no apparent explanation.

Final year of engineering is a funny period. Since everybody is studying engineering these days, this universal conclusion is not hard to derive. People badger you with the same questions that have are a part of an inconclusive loop that drags for twelve months. People grow an increasing reclusive nature, and honest opinions are hard to find. Parents are concerned and in some cases worried too. It is not wrong in any sense because what we kick start from here will be a very definitive force in shaping our future careers. Up till now, even though we were already inducted in a professional world, college life shielded up from the anomalies. From now on there will be no mass bunks from office hours. The boss will not extend the submission deadline if I don't manage the assignment in due time. No endless sitcom marathons. No incessant drooling. Time flies past quickly and by the time you realize, three months are already down the drain.

But I don't understand the constant cribbing and complaining. What if you don't get placed? What if you don't get admission in your dream post graduate school? How bad can it it get than this? Does it mean the end of road? Does it mean that it is the end of everything plausible?

No, not at all. Some frustration is bound it creep in because you expect certain results and if they don't turn out the right way things do get messy. But constant whining is not taking you anywhere close to it either. The funny part is people think am I doing all the aforementioned things. In reality I am sick of such people and this is the reason why I have shunned perhaps everyone in the past month and half. All you want is a short cut to success and drink your asses off (yeah fuck vocab) on the hostel roof top. I prefer a cup of steaming tea and my books rather than raising a hue and cry about every thing instead.

I don't want that man. And hence I won't whine, I won't complaint, I won't make shitty faces each time you see me. Yes I am no better than you, and it is still a long way to go. I am bidding by time, for it will come sooner or later.

PS: This picture, it speaks for itself.

The Totem.

Part I

I stepped outside fumbling with the keys, the downpour had been incessant for the last three days. My rain coat was already half-wet by the time I locked my low key, dimly lit and poorly ventilated single room apartment. But then I had no other options- a man has needs and none more implicit as housing, food and an occupation.

I had been posted to this village for almost seven months now- Kishangarh on the banks of the holy Ganges. This monsoon she was in a ravenous mood: threatening to engulf and emancipate whatever and whomsoever came in her path. I was just a provisional officer in a bank run by the State, and had no other option other than obliging my duty. My daily routine comprised of an eight hour desk job, which I hated with every ounce of my energy. Entertainment was subject to availability of electricity and it was a major issue on most occasions. Yet I had this one unflinching, ever so consistent addition to this drab, monotonous schedule: it was this the totem.

I noticed her for the first time a month back. That I was already deprived of human companionship (read as the desired companionship in this setting), she was more than just a pleasant surprise. She walked across the opposite road, balancing a mid-sized handbag, pushing her specs back up every now and then. I kept my gaze on her for as long as I could, and she was too busy with her balancing act. And then she disappeared in the next alley. And so began the routine. I would see her for five days in the week- walk across the same street with the same handful items. I would keep my eyes on her, making sure that I didn't appear too obvious. For I was sure that I didn't look like a C grade Bollywood villain, I had no desire to be the subject of vernaculars of this orthodox community which had been very kind to me so far.    

She was my totem. Forget knowing what she did or where she belonged to, I didn't even know her name! But she was there everyday, without fail. I soon developed a liking to this routine, trotting around at a snail's pace sometimes so that I didn't miss seeing her for a single day. Yet it did happen once in a while that she won't be around and as incredulous as it may sound, and those particular days were hell. Either my manager would blame me for something which I had no connection with, or my food went bad, or there would be no power supply for the entire day. Even water would taste bitter! To be honest, even I think that it is kind of lame but then I had already started enjoying this game. It was my sole source of entertainment in the wild countryside. In fact I had started linking every good and bad thing in and around with this totem, with my totem.

Maybe it's really disrespectful to refer to one as inanimate thing as a totem. But then this is why we are blessed with the power of thought and imagination. I am sure I can find out all about her easily, if I spend one evening in the dust smitten records of my bank. But then I am happy to continue with this game for now. Sometimes I amuse myself thinking about what she must be like actually: for starters, what's her name, how she is like as a person, why does she have the exactly same routine each day and many more. I might be sounding crazy, but no I have been doing it on purpose for the past one month.

But it's lashing down hard today and my hopes of seeing the totem are slim. And already that I am late recounting this story for the umpteenth time in my mind. I must quicken my strides now.

Part II

It's raining cats and dogs this season. Honestly I have not seen such torrential rains ever in the past in all the places that I have lived. I never wanted to live this typical village life once again but my father was transferred and we had no option other than relocating. Not only does that it not have the amenities of the city life which I was just starting to grow accustomed to but I have no school in the nearby locality. Luckily I was able to find a tutor under whom I receive private tuition daily and enrolled in a private school. Still Father would have to accompany me for my exams to this school which is 38 km from Kishangarh. So much for education this government claims.

This daily drab is the perfect epitome of dullness. I have no friends, as there are no girls of my age around. I am sure that if I hang around a boy in this orthodox village then it will wreak havoc in this small community. And why will my parents support something like that? All they want is me to get through my schooling and marry me to a complete stranger. I want to join a college and study literature, and so I am trying my best to keep a level head and pass the exams with better marks. I am still not sure whether it would tip the scales in my favour but then at least I will have an argument to present.

Of all things that I expected to lift my spirits from this soporific, mundane routine was this game that I invented for myself. Well it does not involve me alone to be precise, it involves someone else too. And that somebody does not even know about it. He is there each time I step on the Badi Gali each morning. These days he is working like my totem.

I noticed him sometime back in his crisp, shirt wiping the sweat off his brow and taking quick steps while avoiding stepping on cattle filth. He looked like a polite educated fellow, with a quizzical look on his face. But after a couple of days I noticed that somehow he was always present each time I stepped in the street. He didn’t stalk me at all, didn’t stare at me, he hardly seemed to notice me making my way through all the scattered vendors. Yet he was ever present and soon I developed a liking to this stupid game too! No contact at all, verbal or non-verbal. No acknowledgement of each other’s presence but something that made me aware of the fact that life is more than just my classes and helping Amma in the kitchen. It’s about trying to find a reason and a cause to indulge and a reason to look forward to another day.

Sometimes people are so predictable, and his dressing patterns rarely went wrong by my calculation, always white-blue-white-blue-white shirts he adorned. All this was a part of the game. It didn't solve any purpose but then I was enjoying it at the same time. Later that week I overheard Father talking about the new bank clerk who solved his issues sooner than he had expected. And so he almost spoiled my game with this but I wanted to keep this totem alive so I ran outside! Luckily I didn’t hear about it again from him or anybody else. So the game is still on, I am going to see him again today (I hope so) and the totem survives for another day.

The new bank babu must have left on time. I must rush now if I want to catch him walking by past me. It’s pouring down like anything and I am only slowing myself with recounting this story for the umpteenth time. I must quicken my strides now.

Free.

Bheekhu saw more people these days in Bade Sahib's office. Ravi, his co-worker (a very modest coinage for another domestic help like him) informed his in a smart tone that it was an election year, so they will have more chores to do in the house alone. He had worked in Bade Sahib's house for almost two months; Ravi had been there ever since he was five, but even he had still not seen as much furor as this. He had overheard the driver talking about "a return to power" or some homonym. While doing the dishes, Ravi once again bragged him about Sahib hoisting a flag some day next week. Bheekhu asked what was the occasion, cursing his negligence and his naive nature. While Ravi howled he told him it was 15 Agast.

Bheekhu was an illiterate, but he was still not stupid enough to ask Ravi what it meant. But he was curious boy, and eventually rounded the cook in the late hours of a dopey afternoon next day. With a bundle of bidi he bribed him successfully. But his answer was really terse, and left more questions than it answered- it means being free, the Angrej left the country and we were free to do whatever we want.

As the day progressed the skies grew grey. He finished doing the dishes, ate his food and took his place on the kitchen floor. He looked out of the window, the lightening, the downpour being incessant. Free, the word had echoed in his mind throughout the day. He dare not discuss it with Ravi, he made enough fun of him already. But free was not a difficult word. He knew it alright. He knew that it meant doing something out one's own will. He wondered what it could be like to free for a day or two.

Would he be allowed to dress up in a smart uniform and board a shining yellow bus for an Angreji  school? Would he have two square meals each day? Would he get a a proper bed to sleep on? Would he get to see his poor parents again who had sent him to the city for some cash? Will he ever get to dress up in crisp and colorful clothes like these city folks do? Will he ever own one of these cars which run like raging bulls on the roads? Or a shiny handsome bike, which the Chota Sahib owns? Will he ever learn to read, something that he desired with all his heart. Will he ever be free of his limp, the one which he had carried since some polio thing happened to him. Will he ever be free of all these constraints that hold him back and live life as he should- free.

Bheekhu turned and tried to catch some sleep, and secondly the floor was damp while facing the window. He suddenly remembered that he had to wash Sahib's car next morning. He was not free, not yet. 

Everything, Almost Everything.

Everything, almost everything.

No, this is not one of those pictures that epitomizes the technological advancements in photography. It's a simple picture that depicts everything that my life is about, almost everything.

An assorted collection of pictures, with some impregnable memories. Friends, some old some new. Old friendships that have stood the test of time, and the newer ones that were forged with blood and sweat. My Gods- standing by as silent custodians, watching me work and day dream at the same time. My books, that gave me solace and company without questioning my estranged absence. The lamp, my shining light in the darkness of this world. My pen and ink, the strange yet comforting liking that I have taken to writing. The clock, which tells with constantly nags me with it's ticking, reminding me of the moments that slip away like grains of white sand. My study table, my Colosseum, where I battle with the gladiators- stray thoughts, possibilities and ultimately, the cold reality. And my beloved club, Liverpool that houses at Anfield, the cherry on the top.

Everything, almost everything.

The Fallen Angels.

The unspoken, the unknown, the underrated, the incognito. They came, they shone and conquered everything that there was. Everybody loved the eternal underdog. They were up there, at the zenith, as close as one could be to the stars. Whom am I kidding: they were as good as demi gods.

And then they went on a downward spiral. Surprisingly enough, the same fans who worshiped them up until now cheered for the new conqueror. The fallen angels stare back in disbelief as they move down the pecking order. Some don't give up as easily as the others; they show restraint to certain degree. But when that is surpassed there is nothing left- no voids at all. Their crowns are already occupied and the new angels are surrounded by worshipers who chanted their names and sang laurels in their praise. What was their is now someone else's. And maybe it will never be their's, again.

The Final Yard

Trains used to frighten me when I was a kid. Yes I will deny it now, I mean I am going to be 22 next month. Whenever the engine used to come in, rumbling and growling, I used to hold my Mother's saree tightly, try to look away and act like a brave boy. Yet she used to sense it anyhow, her reassuring hands did some magic and the moment used to pass away.

I never planned today's little excursion to the railway station. A friend called, and said that PD "boss" was leaving (well that's what our campus lingo directs us to use for our seniors). PD boss was leaving and said if I could come to the station to see him off. I was a little apprehensive because I sensed something more than a just a see off. Yet I was there few minutes later, and so were my friends. PD boss was leaving for his home, completing his four year long B.Tech. as a graduate with a handsome job and a truck load of memories. Some chit-chat, some snacks and a few minutes later the train was ready to leave. PD boss had moist eyes, there were promises of keeping in touch. There were hugs all around, some final goodbyes and at the same time we were somehow trying to reassure ourselves that this time was still one year away from us.

A strange emotion was bubbling under my skin. I was wondering where did the last three years went by. It was all a blur, a subdued sensation that had a bitter-sweet taste. Was it the parking where we had those gossip sessions, or the canteen waiting for our orders. Or maybe Architecture block, which was the most visited premises, for obvious reasons. Those treats we had or the night long study sessions to survive semester after semester. I had a smile, which was half happy yet half sad. Somethings are beyond words, and some emotions are meant to stay in the heart. Some feelings are beyond description and I shall make no further attempts to explain my state of mind now. Why- because I can't.

Today after so many years I felt that fear once again, that same anxiety, I tried to look away but I wonder that can I really muster the same courage again, and act like a brave boy. There are somethings in life that cannot be turned back at any cost. What is gone is gone, its the past- and they call it so for a reason. Sooner or later me, you and everyone has to accept the reality. I have one year to go before I am standing on that same platform, bidding adieu to all and ending this trail. An ending- or a new beginning? I am drained of all discretion to even think about it tonight.

Bye.

From left to right: Dukki, Me, Reverse Byas, Dubey, PD Boss and Pragy

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I am a paradox.

I want to be happy, but I think of things that make me sad.

I am lazy, yet I am ambitious.

I don't like myself, but I also love who I am.

I say I don't care, but really I do.

I crave attention, but detest it when it comes my way.

I am a conflicted contradiction.

I think about love, but then I think its not worth it.

I want to befriend you, but I don't trust you with all my heart.

I want to give in my all, but I doubt the outcome.

I want to touch the zenith, but I am not sure about the ground beneath.

I want to bid adieu, but I want to see you for one last time

I want to die today, but the promises of tomorrow keep me hanging on.

If I can't figure myself out, there is no way anyone else has.

From A Million Hearts To A Billion Wallets

Mahatma Gandhi- The Father of the Nation. 

The nation that we call India, lets stick to this only because calling it Bharat does not really help our cause. Some random thoughts began brewing in my mind as I took a hundred rupee note out of my pocket and handed it to the worker who knows me well and has been working in this ice-cream shop for some time. No, I don't even know his name, but a "Bhaiya" is more than sufficient to get my order placed quickly.

For some reasons, Gandhiji's photo has decreased in both its affluence and influence and has been limited to currency notes only. In primary classes there are essays that students have to mugg and replicate in their exam copies. A nice holiday on 2nd October is always welcomed. A couple on minutes of silence on 30th January, well that gives a nice break from all the commotion around, doesn't it. A framed picture on the walls in government offices, with an inch-thick layer of dust. Yes he is still the father of our nation but the peon does not bother to wipe the dust now. The people do not remember him on days other than these two of course. Yet their was a time when this now forgotten man walked on the face of the earth, right where the British were on the peak of their atrocities and lead an entire country to freedom without even raising a stick. But then, Bharat turned into India, we came civilized and modern, Gandhism turned into Gandhigiri and all the noble deeds of this man ended up in our pockets, with his bespectacled face in our wallets.

However one would contradict with me in some regards, what with Anna Hazare and his revolution. His method, his fasting and the lathicharge on protesters in Delhi. For a moment, even for a bleak one, it felt as though the times had reversed- a nation going head-on against the incumbent government without any act of violence. But it did not last for the Jan Lokpal Bill is still under "consideration". The very root of the problem that it intended to cut off- corruption, has grown in its domain day by day. The movement which began as protest has turned into a political party, deprived of support and muscle. But what was it that really made the difference back then, during the struggle for independence, because the principals are more or less the same- but why are they ineffective in the present context?

I think we can narrow it down to a couple of simple facts. Firstly it was the man himself- Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, for his charisma and intensity is yet unmatched. Perhaps it was far more convenient to forget the man, rather than following his principles he stood for. The social values and beliefs he stood for were and always will be easier to admire than to follow. While he was alive, he was impossible to ignore- the British tried to at their demise. And once when he was gone, he was impossible to imitate- which is quite apparent in the present scenario. Apart from this, the other thing which drove his engine forward was his pursuit of Truth. Truth with a capital T. For he believed in the the fact that if you are correct, and the Truth is on your side nothing can hold you back. Truth cannot be attained by unjust or violent means. For he said, "Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth." Such was his deep-lying belief in this philosophy. Its hard to break resistance of able bodied men, but for a man whose spirit is as indomitable as his, it was next to impossible.  

Secondly, and maybe this one holds the edge, it was the people who made Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi into Mahatma Gandhi- and not just in name. He was their leader, their saint walking in front of their eyes.They followed him and he lead them towards truth, towards light, towards freedom. Had they absconded his pursuit in the middle of this epic struggle, things could have shaped up very differently indeed. Those people did not sit back in their homes, waiting for things to happen. They did not flock to the cyberspace to extend their support via innumerable "shares" and "comments" on virtual "walls". They stepped out and wrote "Inqualab Zindabaad" with their blood on the walls of jails inside which they were beaten down to pulp. They did not walk away when the police drew lathis on a a couple of girls in Punjab. They did not walk away with indifference when a group of young men protested on the main square of the city. They stood there, abiding his command not raising their hands even once. They joined shoulders forgetting their petty differences- yes those very differences which have become the basis of communal politics.
They stood their by his side

I wonder how Gandhiji would have reacted when he would have seen what has happened to his beloved country. Maybe he would have asked for a bullet, and said "Hey Ram" (though this time in a very different sense) and put it inside his head. Probably saving another Nathuram Godse from the trouble, for he is our father, and he took this blame too upon himself.

Summer is here, I feel like an ice-cream now. The old man in my wallet needs some air too.
Bye.

The Mango Tree

As I made my way back to home after another monotonous day, I saw her sitting under the shade of the mango tree. Officially I am giving another one of those "midterms", which have diminished in their importance with each passing semester. No they still carry the the same weight as they did before but the sincerity is long lost and seriousness has dissolved in the abundant distractions and apathy of time. Yet they are a part of the cycle which I have to oblige for another year or so.

I tried avoiding catching her eye, once again. The mango tree- which has belonged to my family for about four decades and at which she holds an even stronger claim, was swaying gently in the cool spring breeze. I knew for sure that her eyes were fixed on me, I could feel that piercing gaze as I scrambled to park my bike and get inside. What transpired was not new, yet it leaves me with a strange, empty guilt each time.

Not long back she was the buzz of the locality, the "Narad Muni" in a more generalized sense. She had the agility and cunning of a fox. It was impossible to escape her eyes before leaving or entering the lane, let alone my own house. The agony aunt of all the domestic helps that fretted to and fro all day. The secret keeper of all the dodgy business in the 1 km radius. The live, walking and talking source of all new and old. She was Taijee. As I have grown up in a typical Indian setup where the neighbors have always had a more important say in the decision making process rather than the family members themselves, I called her Taijee ever since I learnt to speak. Taijee, which in Hindi means aunt. She had some command on me till I grew out of her reach, and practically everyone else's too. I always received this specially bought box of Gulabjamuns on my birthdays, which was occasionally peppered with a chocolate candy-bar. And picking up a ripe mango in front of her was a challenge in itself. The truth was that my Grandpa had planted the tree way back, and it was half in our's and half in her domain. Nevertheless, its origin and location made no difference to her, for all the mangoes that were on her side of the tree belonged to her. On countless occasions my Grandma, who herself is a tough cookie to crack, would go all guns blazing for all the mangoes belonged to "us". It never made any difference to her, and I guess it never will.

She has always been present. I rarely have any memory of her not being there.  I remember her calm and composed self when my mother went into labor with my younger brother and her compassionate smile, reassuring me that everything is fine. I remember her presence my Grandpa passed away, and the void that was created due to his untimely demise. I remember her happy face when I came home running to declare my impressive Board result. I remember her in all the small and big events that have happened in and around me. 

Then a few months back, Godly forces took toll of her health. As she came home after picking some fresh flowers for her morning rituals, a failed attempt to please the Gods as one would later conclude. What followed some nausea and vomiting was a severe brain hemorrhage. She ended up in the critical care unit, and subsequently paralysis. As a 21 years old male, I am supposed to take these things without any significant display of emotion, and so I did. Obviously, with such close family ties and her only son being out of station, my parents and our family was the only significant support they had. Her husband was mentally and physically exhausted, not to mention the immense financial strain this unforeseen situation had put him under. Even the doctors had given up and it was left for the Almighty to deal with.

Then as if it was a miracle, and her health began to improve, slowly yet steadily. After three weeks she was discharged and she made it back to home. Her health though receives continuous jolts and is subject to a lot of uncertainty. She cannot walk anymore, at least not without someone supporting her. Her faces is now nothing more than a lopsided accumulation of mass. Her voice has a very difficult accent now, mostly because of the paralysis. She needs support for even making it to the loo and every thing. She has ceased to be just a shadow of her former self.

But there is something that has changed somehow. Her gaze, her piercing gaze which makes me jump out of my skin now. Earlier it were these eyes which meant a lot more reassurance and brought a calmness to the state of affairs. But now they resemble something completely different- the plight of a woman who for her entire life has defied the odds, and stood against the tide of time for her own good. I cannot help but feel sorry about her, and her family. To be honest she has been family for us ever since, and it is going to stay so.

I tried avoiding catching her eye, once again. She must be thinking of me as an ungrateful brat, who does not even turn up to ask her well being- let alone any help. But I hope, that she understands my pain, which I feel each time I see her in this dilapidated condition. I hope she forgives me for my conduct, which is definitely not appropriate. I hope she gets well soon- well enough to give me a wry smile. Yes, even a wry one would suffice. It would be more than enough.

This year there are going to be no mangoes in the tree. It remains barren, though still in tact. The spring is here, the leaves have turned green once again. It is as if the tree has been put itself on hold, waiting for you Taijee. For you to come up to that boundary wall and stake your claim on your half. Frankly I won't even mind if you wish to extend your territory. It waits for you.

The Juvenile Nation

It's a date that has been etched in our memories forever. December 16 2012 will not be forgotten easily. For a country that has already surpassed the hundred and twenty five crore mark in terms of population, it had to be something out of the blue to shake a sleeping nation out of its slumber. Sadly enough it came at the expense of a young girl. Leaving behind yet another helpline number and another committee whose recommendations will be reviewed and re-reviewed. Yes, it happens only in India.

For a nation which calls its holy land as "Mother" India, the social status of women, in spite of the numerous efforts and schemes, has been in a state of free fall over the decades. Even six decades after attaining independence, the streets are not safe. The "involuntary contacts" persist. We boast of arsenals of advanced ammunition  an excellent GDP, advancement in space science and technology, renewed diplomatic relations. We have icons in virtually every field, be it sports, politics, economics, literature; but each time a girl steps out of her house she is under a constant threat. The fact is that the rape incident which occurred on that unfortunate night was not the first which happened in our country. But it was the sheer brutality and savageness which prompted the nationwide demonstrations. From our primary classes we remember that man is a social animal, perhaps we are still animals who don't know a thing about a civilized society yet.

Rapes and eve teasing are given coverage in the media in such magnitudes because they are the tip of the iceberg. They are observed on a vivid scale as it is a phenomenon which is somewhat centralized with the urban population. If we widen our perspective, the plight of women in modern India is much more acute than it is actually perceived. Female infanticide, sex trafficking, domestic violence, dowry, abduction; these are just to name a few o fully functional mature society has imposed on the female kind. The laws have always been in place and so have been the loopholes. The culprits ditch the bars and roam around in the open, with the devil inside them unscathed.

And then comes in the question of being juvenile. How old one has to be to commit a hideous crime such as rape and murder? If there cannot be an "appropriate" age for them to descend to a nadir, then why can't we pursue the punishment the guilty likewise? If we can render a culprit who is 17 years and 364 days old as juvenile, then perhaps we must simply accept that ours is a juvenile nation- a nation which does not dare to look beyond the obvious. We create these escape routes and then battle our wits and reasoning on live video feeds. the heat from these discussions is used to cook political ambitions. If the rules have to be changed then they have to be- for what lies ahead of us is an abyss.

How many candle marches, protest rallies and demonstrations we conduct, it is simply not enough may well never be enough.. What we need in real is an educated society where respecting women doesn't come  as an option- it comes as something which is as natural as breathing. Where women don't suffer from social hiatus, where there is equal participation irrespective of the gender- both on paper and in practice. For these helplines numbers are not only of any use like today- but a society where they are not needed at all. that is what we aspire as a part of this generation- a modern India, true to its name.

Hope.

Anybody who watches Hollywood flicks won't be unaware of Morgan Freeman. Speaking on my behalf, I am a huge fan of his work. I have seen a few of his movies- Seven, Bruce Almighty, The Shawshank Redemption, Million Dollar Baby, and of course The Dark Knight Trilogy. In particular, the role of Red that he portrayed in Shawshank stands out for me. His astute and resourceful character cuts an entirely different dimension. And then he has this line- Hope? Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing.

Is it really that bad- to hope for something, to hope that things would eventually turn around. Hope, as my teacher had once told me, has a positive connotation. Well you could be a sadist too, hoping for someone else's dismay. Luckily I am not made out of that mold.

To share my own experience, hope indeed is a dangerous thing. To add to it, its also infectious. Spreads out like a wildfire. You hear someone say that the Professor you don't like may not be taking your classes and then you start hoping that it indeed goes that way. Company visiting your college for internship, you hope that you get selected- surprisingly you do go through and then you are never called up for the interview because of some technicalities. You write your semester exams and hope that some particular topic does not pop up but then it does. Then you hope that somehow magically that you lose that extra flab on your tummy even that does not happen. And then you love somebody, and hope that they would somehow realise it, but that never happens. You hope that you will be perfect and then you end up with the cold reality that it was simply not worth it.

Why do we hope- I mean yes to think that things would be better off later is never a bad thought. But on the inside we all know that it may simply be a myth, a false dreamland that we have created to please our subconscious. I am more of a believer in doing rather than thinking. If I hope for something, I believe putting in my best. Even then it may not be enough. Then I look above and curse the Gods. No, nothing has changed yet but then it is a plausible retaliation of some regard.

But then I say to the Almighty that in spite of all this, I am still not giving up. Nope. Not in this life. Not so easily.

Its cold outside. January is indeed chilly this year. Well it should be, ain't it. And its cold inside too. No, the house is pretty warm but the flickers of hope inside me are on the verge of exhaustion.

I turn towards the universe. And hope that I get a sign. Even a small one would suffice. Yes- I hope. Because that is one thing that even the Gods would have have to struggle to take away from me. Hope indeed is a dangerous thing, but then I am willing to take that risk.

Liverpool is doing pretty good these days, hope we make it to the Top 4.

Bye.