Echoes of an Empty Mind

On Inception

2010-08-13T16:46:00.000-07:00

I dreamed I was a butterfly. Now that I am awake I wonder, am I a man who dreamed he was a butterfly or am I butterfly dreaming that I am a man? - Chuang Tzu

Man’s quest for the unknowing, the boundless vacuum of the Universe stretching across a perfect night sky, the “whole beyond the parts” is often at odds with the limits of his sensory perception and comprehension. What we hear, see, touch, taste or smell defines our world, a pretty postcard-picture with an occasional blemish of discontent, distrust or dystopian prophecies. But what if (a BIG if), all that your senses conveyed was a steady stream of manipulated neural impulses that artfully concealed “what lay beyond the veil?” What if we were the butterflies, merely dreaming that we were human? Would our minds have the ability to grasp the truth? And, more importantly, once the truth was known, how much of our own mind would we be able to trust?

Welcome to the world of Christopher Nolan’s “Inception,” where your dreams can be bought at the right price, by the right (or wrong) bidder. Inception is a tale with multiple, parallel narratives - guilt, redemption, expectation, loyalty, deception and acceptance. It is a tale that bridges the subconscious with the conscious, constantly probing the limits of the viewer’s assumptions about their world.

The subconscious (or unconscious, to be more precise) is an old battleground in the world of storytelling. Generations have been enthralled by the eternal struggle between Man, with his physical frailties, and the Mind, the ruler of Man, with its supposedly omniscient disposition. This duality is a commonly found in the myths and teachings of religions and cultures throughout the globe.

But what IS duality? A duality of form, of space, of existence, or of nature? Is duality defined for every individual? Or are we strands on the loom of creation, each with its own hue, but integral to the tapestry of Universe? Nolan deftly mixes into the pot, influences from both the Eastern and Western schools of thought. On one hand, we have individuals addicted to a shared reality. For them, the dream state is the reality. Interestingly, the ones who are the “addicts” are shown to be older - a cultural reference that could mean “the wise”. And how do our dreams “communicate” across the barriers of consciousness-as-we-know-it? What is the subconscious? Is it a part of the self (Nietzsche/Freud/Jung), or are we a part of a global sentience (Vedas / Taoism), a cog in the wheel that drives the machinery of the Universe?

Secondly, given the very definition of “duality,” can we limit the participants in this cosmic dance to “two” (yin and yang, Nara and Narayana, ego and id) or can we apply this definition recursively, abstracting all physical phenomena and their manifestations at each step, until all that remains is pure thought - without birth or death, without a beginning or an end?

Nolan treats this highest level of abstraction as a “limbo” - a world that is neither here nor there. Space, time and other physical phenomena hold no meaning here. The only currency are thoughts, and ideas that germinate from them. But thoughts are fleeting, evanescent, and ideas often crumble and fall, only to rise on a better foundation. What better way to represent the “castles in the air” than with crumbling high-rises and a dynamic, restless frontier between land and water? And is it not natural that a dream sequence that begins with the lowest denominator of human instinct, “survival” (Yusuf), progresses through “deception” (Arthur), “knowledge” (Fischer) to finally “acceptance” (Cobb)? Once we understand this progression, the ending does not look so ambiguous!

In the days when studios would rather produce sequels or comic-book crossovers, Inception belongs to the ever decreasing family of original and thought-provoking storytelling that makes movies enjoyable in the first place. It challenges our notion of reality, not by proposing an alternate-reality (a la Matrix), but by asking us to look “beyond” ourselves to find the meaning of our existence. Inception forces us to ask - “We may be aware, but are we truly awake?” - or is it the other way around?

Book Review : "The Elegance of the Hedgehog" by Muriel Barbery

2010-04-25T08:53:00.003-07:00

Translated into English by Alison Anderson

Muriel Barbery’s highly acclaimed novel asks the reader to embark upon a fascinating journey along two interconnected threads of narrative - Renée, the main protagonist, a fifty-four year old concierge at number 7, rue de Grenelle, and Paloma, a precocious twelve year old girl who hides her sharp intellect behind a mask of mediocrity. The territoire narratif is familiar ground for readers of Barbery’s prior work - The Gourmet Rhapsody.

Renée has spent much of her adult life living in the shadow of a tragedy that has left her wary of the bourgeois and their glittering, yet empty lives. She lives behind the veil of “ .. a millenia of class distinction ..” concealing her autodidactic persona with a bucketful of concierge-clichés - fatty food, an equally fattened cat, a sour disposition, and a look of perpetual politeness bordering on indifference.

Paloma is the twelve year old member of a pretentious upper-middle class family (the Josses), who has concluded that “life” as everybody believes (or wants to make-believe), is simply not worth the effort. As a result, she decides to end her life by burning down her apartment while everyone else is away. A sensitive individual by nature, Paloma also decides to make her few remaining days on Earth fruitful by recording significant events in her short-lived life - “Movements” as she calls them - a task that also results in a series of “profound thoughts.” It is to the author’s credit that none of these so-called profound thoughts appear incongruent with the psyche of an extremely intelligent twelve-year old girl.

The story alternates between Madame Renée’s attempts to hide her erudition from the world around her, and Paloma’s journey from the dark despair of helpless indifference to the realization of what makes life worth living after all. The concierge’s world is shaken with the arrival of a well-mannered Japanese businessman (Ozu-san), whose enigmatic personality makes him becomes the topic of furious gossip and competition among all the residents. Ozu-san discovers Renée’s ‘real’ identity, and simultaneously kindles curiosity in Paloma, who finally finds a grown-up she can trust and look up to.

The plot moves through at a subtle pace, like the movement of Spring through an orchard of blossoming cherries. The subordinate characters play their part through superficially inconsequential events, which take on a very different dimension when viewed through the eyes of the two journal keepers. Between the lines, in the white spaces between the rushing stream of a very well-paced narrative, lies the real esence of the plot - facing our inner demons, reaching across traditional class divisions, and an honest, non-judgemental outlook towards our fellow beings. A unique blend of oriental appreciation for the finer moments in life and western pragmatism, the story transcends any attempt of categorisation into bookstore-shelves with its universal appeal.

Barbery’s prose (as translated by Alison Anderson) is in many ways a gâteau de chocolat, a base of dense philosophical ideas (presented as the two journals); imbued with a gentle metaphorical kick, and topped with a luscious icing of humor and satire in equal measure. Paloma’s witty commentary strikes a chord with readers of all ages. This is not a book for the faint of heart - do not look for the sparkling, poetic notes that resulted in The Gourmet Rhapsody - this is a much profound story that reaches into the very depths of our existence in an attempt to answer a long standing question - Is life really worth living?

Rating : 5.0 / 5.0

Book Review - "Gourmet Rhapsody" by Muriel Barbery

2009-12-28T15:01:00.002-08:00

Gourmet Rhapsody, originally published in France as Une Gourmandise (2000) is Muriel Barbery’s roman de début but has arrived late to the US and UK shores. The book is a fascinating voyage through the world of a world famous food critic and the lives that he touched, knowingly or not. The protagonist lies on his death-bed in his Parisian apartment, longing for that one elusive saveur oubliée, the forgotten flavor, while waiting for his demise.

The narrative alternates between a desperate search by the bedridden maestro and the recollections from a motley crew of supporting cast members – a wife who never felt loved, his children who never measured up, his would-be protégé, his concierge, his grandchildren, an alabaster statue of Venus, and even his cat. Not surprisingly, but thoroughly amusing, it is the inanimate and the feline, who are fortunate enough to get a peek behind his public visage. On the other hand, the maestro’s journey at these last moments of his life take him back – not to the grand banquets and régals somptueux or the most exquisite dining experiences; but to those lost encounters when he was in the presence of something purely sensory, innocent and completely sincere with the purpose of life. His recollections allow us glimpse into the world of the “man” before he became the “Maestro.” They lead us on a journey of our own, to recognize beauty and grace in the most uncomplicated pleasures of our lives.

True to the book’s title, Alison Anderson’s translation loses none of the lyrical and at times, whimsical prose. The text faithfully conveys every individual voice in the chorus of supporting characters, each with their own share of pain and loss, grief and antagonism, for the dying man. In contrast, the main narrative is a poetic ode to the art of cooking and equally important, enjoying it. Wave after wave of delicate flavor, subtle textures, and colorful memories string together like an endless feast for the senses. The feeling one leaves with is like that of a gourmand who has had his every last wish fulfilled, with the sure anticipation that there is more where this came from. We will be waiting eagerly, Ms. Barbery ! Bon apetite !!

Rating: 5.0 out of 5.0

Book Review - "The Chalk Circle Man"

2009-12-28T14:58:00.002-08:00

The Chalk Circle Man, is a quirky, cerebral mystery by the French author Frédérique Audoin-Rouzeau, writing under the nom de plume “Fred Vargas.” It has been translated into English by Siân Reynolds, and is available from Penguin. Truth be told, the author’s sterling reputation in her home country precedes her and serves a tough act to translate. Reynolds manages to convey the dark ambience; the eccentric, almost impish characters with enough sincerity. However, the final product seems a precision engineered brick-and-masonry cottage, than a fluent, sprightly translation that captures the soul of the original.

Meet Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, Commissaire of the 5th arrondissement, policeman extraordinaire, adept at solving the most baffling mysteries, unable to sort his love-life. Adamsberg is a confirmed outsider, an anamoly in the otherwise logical world of the French police. Dubbed “the wild child” by his collegues, Jean-Baptiste is a confirmed romantic who prefers to be left alone. His often unpredictable and eccentric strategies for catching criminals makes him a rising star in the police force, but a professional outcast.

As a newly appointed commissaire, Jean-Baptiste must cope with his new police comrades, whose feelings alternate between awe and scorn of their new superior officer. His longing for a lost love adds to his loner persona, blurring his perception of reality and fantasy. All in all, Jean-Baptiste comes across as a detective who is “ripe for plucking” in a mystery novel. Vargas reveals the character with a slow, but gripping pace that never feels uninteresting to the reader.

The central premise of the story involves an investigation into the bizarre chalk circles that start turning up randomly on the streets of Paris, enclosing a single object, and accompanied by a cryptic inscription that could be a rhetorical question or an actual clue into the identity of the mischief-maker himself. The objects range from something utterly trivial (a hairpin, a vanilla yogurt, a pair of tweezers) to bizarre (a pool of vomit, “I love Elvis” badge) to the grotesque (a dead cat). Things start getting interesting when a dead body (finally – according to Adamsberg) appears inside one of these circles, and a mysterious woman comes forward who claims that she has followed and seen this “chalk circle man.”

The supporting cast of characters include a deputy with a dysfunctional family of five kids and a penchant for hitting the bottle after lunch (Adrien Danglard), a mysterious hydrologist who prefers to spend her time on land following her fellow citizens around (Mathilde), a secretive blind man (Charles Reyer), and a aging tenant who answers every classified advertisement for a companion (Clémence).

The murder investigation is more a Hercule Poirot-esque fit-the-pieces-together than a pacy Holmes-ian whodunnit. The Chalk Circle Man is an ideal companion for a cold afternoon with a mug of hot chocolate or coffee, than a breezy readthrough in between connecting flights. The plot unfolds in a subtle fashion, and demands the attention of the reader. Why is Mathilde trying to protect the chalk circle man? Who is the mysterious blind man who has suddenly appeared in Mathilde’s life? How is Mathilde connected to Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg? Who is the “Chalk-circle Man” and what are his motives behind his actions?
Read and discover !!

Rating: 3.5 out of 5.0

Book Review - "Escher's Loops" by Zoran Zivkovic

2009-10-04T14:49:00.001-07:00

Escher’s Loops is a delightful journey through the ‘degrees of separation’ that connect us together. It is a story without place and time, yet timeless in its message; and though the characters are nameless, they are at once universal in their appeal and intimately familiar due to their idiosyncrasies. The book is also a homage to Escher, a prose counterpart to his famous drawings.

The book is built in four parts, or ‘loops.’ Each loop connects to the one preceding it with one missing link – a link unknown in the previous part. What starts as a simple elevator ride soon turns into a roller-coaster of shared experiences, each more bizarre than the previous. Zivkovic uses the self-referential technique of storytelling (like Escher’s famous “Drawing Hands”) to move the story ahead.

Escher’s Loops reminded me of one of my childhood favorites – the Spirograph. If each protagonist was represented by an individual pen, then the entire story comes together as an intricately linked design produced by a spirograph that had multiple wheels that spun together in perfect unison. The threads of the story weave through each other to form periodic links, but the author’s sharp style keeps them from creating an entangled mess. We travel across a familiar Zivkovic landscape – dreams, passions, death, food, and – of course – books & librarians!

The author makes apt use of metaphors – locales (concert hall, prison, airplane, and even a firing squad) and people (pharmacist, explorer, butcher, athlete) – and conjures the most absurd situations that make us laugh when we read them, and ponder when we recollect.

Like all of his earlier novels, reading Escher’s Loops is a hard and honest look into one’s personal mirror. It is a quest to find that one thing that each of us holds dear in our heart, and offering it to some mysterious higher calling.

Rating:

5.0 out of 5.0

Book Review - "Steps Through The Mist" by Zoran Zivkovic

2008-08-27T00:00:00.001-07:00

“Steps Through The Mist” is a delightful, and thought-provoking novel by the Serbian author Zoran Zivkovic. True to his style, the novel raises many questions than it answers,

The novel is subtitled “A Mosaic Novel”, and Zivkovic does weave a mosaic-like narrative. The stories form an intimate bond, while retaining their independent place in the scheme of things. Only when you have read the entire novel does the gestalt emerge - a well disguised mosaic that comes alive as the last piece is put in its place.

The novel starts with the chapter titled “Disorder in the Head,” a prologue of sorts for the successive chapters/stories. We are introduced to Miss Emily, a draconian teacher at a girls boarding school. Her stark character is established through little details that reveal her obsession for order and organization. The story begins with a deceptively simple plot -- Miss Emily evaluating the dreams of the class and identifying a trio of “bogus” submissions, dreams that are too fantastical to be true.

But hidden in the dreams are stories, tales of fate and chance interwoven with mystery and pathos. Hole in the wall, a dream-story of a girl in whose hands lies the ability to manipulate the multiverse, thread by thread. Geese in the Mist, a gentle awakening of the wings that make us want to fly, to dare to dream and then chase it. Line on the Palm, a tragic story of a man whose life was cut short, figuratively and then literally, by the lines on his palms. And lastly, Alarm clock on the night table, in which Miss Emily herself makes a special appearance as the protagonist.

The novel, as the author says himself, is about Fate, about missed chances and newfound opportunities. Of the cold blooded disposition of Death, to the gay abandon of Life.

As the novel glides from one dream to the next connected dream, we realize that the story is not just about dreams or fateful connections. A much darker (depending on how you look at it) subplot runs through the entire novel, focussing on a much drearier topic than idle dreams - Death. Zivkovic seems to suggest that death is also a dream (or waking up from a lifetime of dreaming?). Fate-Death-Life seem to be three forces that work as One. Death acts as the cause de transformation, turning animate into inanimate, and then something beyond. It need not be the end of life, it could also be the end of life-as-we-know-it, a process of rebirth that needs but the unfurling of wings, and flight into the heart of the Mist

Rating:

4.5 out of 5.0

Warriors of Dandaka

2008-04-25T08:21:00.002-07:00

This blog is now hosted on the Epic India website

http://blogs. epicindia. com/warriors- of-dandaka

A big thanks to the EI tech-support team for their continuing good work !!!

Book Review: The Last Book

2008-04-15T01:09:00.004-07:00

The Last Book
Zoran Živkovič
PS Publishing, UK

Anyone who is an avid bibliophile can readily assert that the one quality that separates an “excellent book” from its “very good” siblings is that it is unputdownable. This quality is a rare trait, and even rarer is its manifestation in the mystery genre of the short-novel type. Even scarce is that special kind of mystery - a literary mystery - the kind as experienced when reading Jostein Gaarder or Lewis Caroll or Umberto Eco. At a time when the market seems to be flooded daily with paperbacks that run along the alphabet, exhort the cliché, revel in presenting a stereotypical “Yuppie” outlook, and (to say the least) fondly follow a long-forgotten dogma that the center of the Universe lies in the Central Park; here comes a novella that makes a detour in time and style, that sparkles with effervescent originality and acerbic (yet heartwarming) wit that can only be found on the other side of the Atlantic.

“The Last Book” is a delightful short novel by the Serbian author Zoran Zivkovic (http://www.zoranzivkovic.com/). Zivkovic returns to his favorite subjects – books, more specifically, a rustic bookstore with a lost-in-time ambience; that also serves as a sinister backdrop for a series of unsolved murders. The “story” follows Inspector Dejan Lukic as he attempts to solve a series of bizzare deaths/murders at the Papyrus Bookstore. Vera Gavrilovic, the owner of the bookstore, dons the mantle of the required romantic interest, though she may well be the femme fatale herself. The only clue lies hidden in “The Last Book”, so called because it is indeed the last book. The plot twists and turns at a fairly brisk pace and every hint of predictability is brushed aside nonchalantly after every successive chapter. Its as though Zivkovic wants to issue a whodunit challenge to the user at every possible instance. Every clue, and red herring, is subtly sown into the plot, and for those readers who enjoy reading a mystery from the last page -- sorry folks, the last page, while providing an extreme dramatic twist (only understood if you have attentively read the previous chapters), does nothing to make you understand whodunit? Rather, the mystery is not just a whodunit, but a where-and-why-dunit as well. Zivkovic is at his best penning the verbal jousts between Lukic and Olga Bogdanovic, Vera’s business partner. An interesting array of eccentric patrons - the ‘patients’ - provide the soup of usual suspects, and the solution to the deaths may lie with more than one of them. But which one or ones? Read it to find out !!

My only grouse lies with the rather hurried ending, with events neatly folding (or unfolding?) into place and characters suddenly acting outside their comfort zone. However, to be fair to the author and the length of the novella, the rapid shuffling may well be justified as apt and needful.

Rating : 4.5 / 5.0

Rainbows End - Book Review

2007-01-30T12:03:00.001-08:00

Imagine being thrown headlong into a brand new world. A world with its unique languages and modes of communication; a totally different way of learning (or unlearning!) everyday things; where YOU are over hundred years old -- not in terms of your biological age , but the age that you were born into.
Vernor Vinge's highly acclaimed novel "Rainbows End" (NO apostrophe, as the book says) takes us into a seemingly magical world into a not-so-distant future. Robert Gu, an erstwhile poet, gets a new lease on life after a radical treatment for Alzheimer's changes his physiology. De-aged and rejuvenated, he is "reborn" into a future where books are a troublesome luxury and huge conglomerates vie for the supremacy over thoughts of people.

Helpless against the onslaught of technology that-was-invented-while-he-slept, Robert tries to fit in with the family of his son, Bob. Estranged prior to Robert's resurrection (subtle metaphor here), Bob and his wife play formal hosts to Robert, till he is capable of living on his own. In an attempt to learn the ways of this new world, Robert enlists in the local high school class for repurposed seniors and juvenile underachievers. There, he meets several of the brightest minds of his time, who have been reduced to being reprogrammed because technology overtook them faster than they could adapt. Vinge makes a telling observation about the 'just-get-it-done' philosophy that seems to be the cornerstone of the consumerist world today. Little thought is given to the basic axioms, and in the end, it is the 'cool factor' that matters. Hence, it is not sufficient that you know your letters, if you cannot use the 'wearables' and 'Instant Message' with them, you have to be repurposed to fit into the society.

Much of the cool inventions look-and-feel cool -- not because they are from the future (its 2025 in the Gu-World) -- but because they seem perfectly plausible given the current rate of technology explosion. The jump from our dear old PCs to the very latest 'handhelds' to the contact-glass-wearables with their own Operating System (aptly termed Epiphany) does not strike us as a fools errand. In his own style, Vinge comments on the influence of technology over our senses, minds and lastly, over all rational thought. We see this world not only through the eyes of Robert Gu, but also as ourselves when we would be 'seniors' by 2025. It is to Vinge's credit that he does not go overboard with the technology. New inventions are described (for the benefit of Robert, as much for the reader) as they are introduced in the plot.

Vinge's futuristic world does give the user the feeling of falling-through-the-rabbit-hole, and the most important character in the book (IMHO) is known simply as the 'Rabbit'. An accomplished hacker of both systems and virtual avatars, he runs through the landscape as if he is the master and the world is but his dream (more subtle philosophy here!!). The Rabbit is the scourge of all intelligence systems in the world, and is recruited by a rogue RAW agent Alfred Vaz to destroy the traces of his illegal research carried out in a lab in San Diego. The Rabbit, for his part, recruits the unwitting Robert Gu to carry out his task in the guise of a student from UCSD, who intends to write a thesis about Robert Gu's work. In return, he promises Robert that he would help him 'find his words' (another Vinge masterpiece about the growing emphasis over technology and process in arts, over actual content). The paths of various the characters intertwine and cross each other, till they all come together for a (literally) grand finale involving thousands of 'belief-circle' members, the Gu family (most notably, Miri Gu, the granddaughter whose IQ seems to be way above the normal), the Rabbit, and Alfred Vaz himself.

In more ways then one, the story is a journey. A journey of a man born into a totally unfamiliar world. A journey of a 'bastard prick' who must learn to overcome his elitist biases and trust his underachieving partners in order to find himself. A journey of an estranged son who must walk that extra step to meet his helpless father. A journey of a loving granddaughter who must find a way to her gradfather's heart (with a secret agenda I will not describe here). But most of all, it is the journey of an excited reader who has a chance to live in Vinge's futuristic technopia. For one can truly say "There and back again"!!

Midnight Messenger

2005-12-13T12:07:00.001-08:00

Midnight Messenger is a short story that I wrote today, in one go from start to finish. It’s a tribute (of sorts) to our boss Ashok Banker. Ashok, thanks for your vision and work!!

MIDNIGHT MESSENGER

"Rama", he relished the way that name rolled on his tongue. It echoed in his mind, each instance raising the hatred brewing inside. Oh, how he longed to sink his teeth into the mortal's flesh, drain the lifeblood out of him. And watch him as he died, his life squeezed out a drop at a time. He would get to that, eventually; but today, he had a job to perform. He had a message to deliver. Not in words, but in blood and death.

He watched the mortal from his perch. For three days, he had tailed them. He had been careful, slipping into the shadows, merging into the dense treetops, following Rama and his two companions. Sita, he had called her, Sita. What an ugly name, not to mention that she looked every bit ugly as his mistress had said. She was out of bounds, naturally, given the Lord’s obsession with her. Why did someone like Ravana, who could get the Apsaras of Swargalok to pleasure him, want this ugly little mortal? This was beyond his comprehension. Strange are the ways of the rich and powerful, he thought, but then, maybe Ravana’s purpose with the mortal woman was not pleasure. He felt a strange arousal, a bestial urge to watch what his Lord did to, or with, the woman. NO, he shook his head, he was slipping. He had to stay focused.

He positioned himself on the branches, spreading his bulk to lower the strain on the tree. It was not yet nightfall. He needed some rest. He would sleep till dusk.

He woke up some hours later, disturbed by the incessant chirping of birds. Foul creatures, they had sensed his presence near their nests. He hoped the mortals had not noticed this ruckus. The fair one looked up to the trees, his ears straining to catch the bird-speak.

“Yes”, he licked his lips, in anticipation. This was his target, the one who had insulted his mistress. This one he would kill today, and take back his head. And if last night’s teaser was any indication, his mistress would heap unimaginable rewards on him for this feat. He had to play the waiting game. He had to make sure this mortal was alone.

He had watched the dark one kill his brethren, and in some ways, his presence was quite intimidating. But the fair one was a fair game. He smiled at his play on words, and shot out his tongue to grab the nearest bird. It was in his mouth and then in his belly in a matter of seconds. Tasty scraps, they would hold him for a few more hours.

It was dark when the mortals finally ate their dinner. They had been laughing and talking through the whole affair. Particularly, the woman and the fair one. Though he did not understand what they said, it gave an impression of light banter. The dark one was brooding, but he smiled occasionally, perhaps to convey his attention to their conversation.

He slithered downwards from his hideout, careful not to make the slightest noise. By the time he was near the ground, the fair one was alone, stoking the fires with his staff. Very good, and about time too. He was nearly dying from hunger.

He crawled across the mud floor, right behind the mortal. He stood there for a moment, feasting his eyes on the firm flesh of his human prey. He would strike high, near the base of the neck. That would stun the mortal for sure, making his next task easier. It was indeed easy to rip apart and eat up anything if it did not move or make any noise. He stood up, poised and ready to strike. That was his first mistake.

The blow struck him in the head. It was a blunt, heavy blow. He could barely make out the dark hand which carried the staff when he lost his balance and toppled over. This was not as planned, but now, he could take them out together – the fair one and the dark one. He spun around to face his assailant. That was his second mistake.

The fair one got up to his feet quickly, and by the time he had turned, the second blow struck him squarely in the face – drawing blood and fragments of his flesh. He ignored the pain and lashed out at the dark one, aiming for the right shoulder, and finding his mark. The dark one staggered under the blow giving him precious moments to deliver the final blow. He flicked his tail and threw the other mortal into the bushes. There would be time to deal with him later. He had to address the higher threat now. He drew himself up to his full height, over a half and a man to the mortal on the ground before him. “Rama”, he said again, enjoying the name itself. He drew back his head, ready to strike. That was his final mistake.

There was movement in the corner of his right eye, and moments later, he screamed. He screamed again, as the second arrow stuck in his right eye. He turned to face his attacker. The woman!!! He glared at her with his remaining eye. She stared back, unblinking, another arrow ready on her crossbow. He hesitated for just a moment, and the third arrow hit him in the neck, severing his vital arteries.

He fell on the ground. His vision clouded. The world grew dark. He could feel the mortals walking over to him, examining him as a butcher would inspect his days work. He felt dark, enveloped in a cozy darkness.

“Rama”, the name echoed as one final call.

And then there was Light.

Draupadi, by Pratibha Ray

2005-12-09T14:18:00.001-08:00

I picked up "Draupadi" based on the recommendation of a fellow epic-Indian, and I must say I was not disappointed at all!! I have not had the privilege of reading the original in Oriya, but if the Hindi translation is any indication, the original should be a treat indeed. The Hindi crossover has preserved the lyrical element of narration, the de-facto style for retelling/reinterpreting an epic as old as Vedic civilization itself.

My only sour point (and I want to get it out at the onset) is that the book should actually be titled "K4" :) (Krishnaa, Krishna, Kiriti – another name for Arjuna -- and Karna), cos it’s as much their story as it is Panchali's. Ray spends a lot of time in developing the relationship between the four K’s, sometimes adding her own imagination to aid this process. That said, the book is a refreshing outlook towards the epic for its time, and provides much food for thought.

Ray develops Draupadi's relationship with Krishna in the first chapter itself. The entire book is a first person narrative in 'flashback' mode, with Draupadi talking to Krishna in the last moments of her life, lying semi-conscious at the foothills of the Himalayas. From early on, we are made aware that Draupadi’s life, like her birth, was pre-ordained to move in one direction only – the destruction of the Kurus. This is further reiterated numerous times, by Draupadi herself and by those around her. Ray's Draupadi therefore, develops into a fatalist individual, and every so often we have lines such as "And little did I know that Fate was mocking me while I enjoyed these fleeting moments of happiness". Being born a fully developed woman, she has very little notion of ‘childhood’ and ‘innocence’, and her naïve concepts are soon shattered when she is thrown headlong into the brewing political melee between the Drupads and the Kurus. Adding fuel to the fires is Karna’s humiliation at her Swayamvara, and here Ray sprinkles her highly imaginative talents for the first time, making Draupadi yearn for the fair, strong, blonde Prati-surya (like-Surya, the Sun God) Karna. Her dreams are swiftly crushed by her brother who rejects Karna on grounds of lower caste parentage. Draupadi is then won by Krishna's protégé and close friend Arjuna (Kiriti). An example of Ray’s comment on Draupadi’s plight as a woman is the realization that she has to marry Arjuna, when she longs for Karna. She accepts this quite stoically, "seeing Krishna" in Arjuna’s persona, and actually begins to like him as he takes her home to their cottage.
From here onwards, its pretty much downhill for the Princess, who is forced to marry all the brothers – Krishna himself lectures her to sacrifice her interests for the ‘greater good’, the good of the land, for she would surely have been the cause of discomfort between the Pandavas. What follows is a mini-endgame between Yudhisthira, Arjuna, Kunti and Draupadi. Ray emphasizes strongly (through Draupadi) the unfairness of such an action forced upon a woman, and argues against it. She looks at Arjuna, the rightful husband for support, but cannot find any!! Ray establishes the relationships between the husbands and the mother-in-law at this point, and the “rift” only widens as time progresses. As with most of the actual epic, and its retellings, the main players are Yudhisthira, Arjuna, Bheema (to some extent). The Madri-twins are relegated to subordinate positions and not fleshed out completely.
While Draupadi’s relationship with Krishna is that of total surrender, her relationship with Arjuna is an act of tightrope balance between loving the man who has won her, and then trying to win his heart. Arjuna never forgives Draupadi for agreeing to live with each husband for a year, and in Ray’s version, forces an exile onto himself by coming into her bedchambers whilst she is with Yudhisthira. This is his way of conveying his anger over such an arrangement. According to Ray, Arjuna and Draupadi are not fortunate enough to enjoy conjugal bliss long enough, first due to his exile, then due to his vow of abstinence till he slays Karna. While they appeal from a human perspective, the larger-than-life canvas of the epic requires a certain grandiose behavior from the characters. But Ray does convey the emotional depth of her characters aptly, through indirect means of subtlety. The most important scene in this respect is the scene (in my opinion) when (after returning from the exile if I remember correctly), Arjuna and Draupadi are alone for the first time, and he recites her poems by heart. That scene, I expect, is quite a hit with the female readers of the book.
Ray is clearly sympathetic towards Karna. She weaves her own version of Kunti-Karna-Draupadi triangle into the story. Here, Karna is the maanas-putra or ‘like-son’ of Kunti, who visits Karna’s home regularly and is friendly with Radha, his mother. Draupadi never gets over her infatuation with Karna – confessing on the eve of the war before her husbands and Krishna, her love for “all the sons of Kunti, from the eldest Pandava to the youngest”, the full meaning of which is understood only by Krishna himself. Karna is also quite fond of her, though his Kshatriya code of conduct forces him to never show it on his face, but only through behind-the-scenes actions. On her face, his exterior exudes a cool breath of revenge for the humiliation forced unto him (due to her). Ray has added incidents which depict this love-hate relationship between the two, though she maintains the boundary between mournful longing and an all-out illicit affair.
This “longing” is perhaps the strongest aspect of Draupadi’s life, not just longing for Karna, but for respect, for love from her husbands, for a simple life devoid of crafty politics and lecherous enemies. In the end, her life is just a sequence of questions, some answered, according to the norms of social status of a woman under men, and some just left unanswered because they were not noteworthy enough for the Men to take notice of. She journeys through the rise of her husbands as kings, her disrobing in the Kuru hall, and then to exile and back again, only to witness her relatives being wiped out in the most vicious war fought on the Indian soil. In some ways, her journey is the journey of women in some parts of the world even today – spent in a lifetime of efforts to just be recognized as human beings and not just objects of lust and power brokering.
Ray does not dwell on the gory part of the epic at all. The entire war is described in 3-4 sentences. The message could not be more obvious – this book is not about the Mahabharata war, it’s about Draupadi, the woman, the princess, the queen. Ray’s Draupadi is a striking insight into the heart and mind of the woman who helped shape the history of the Indian subcontinent, but has never been recognized for her true worth. Its time we paid her dues.

On Ashok Banker

2005-11-17T13:54:00.000-08:00

In response to Ashok's call for providing some feedback about his writing , and in order to speak some more from my side , this post :).

Firstly, some background before we delve deep into Ashok's writing. A wish to say a few words about the most common form of comparision that people use to compare Ashok and Tolkein. I personally think that its quite unfair to compare LoTR with Ashok's Ramayana when talking about East vs West. The primary reason being that LoTR is not an individual work, but just a piece of a vast and expansive landscape that Tolkien intended to be a 'new' mythology for the British people (The Brits DONT have their own mythology !! Their folklore and legends are borrowed heavily from Nordic and European myths and legends. Tolkien wanted to provide the Brits with a well documented and chronicled mythology -- which became his life work). So, by definition, LoTR is not just a "fantasy novel" at all. It is rich in details and should be treated more like a chronicle of the Ages of Middle Earth, than as a story meant for entertainment. Tolkien himself felt disgusted when people referred to his work as a 'novel'. So, please do not use LoTR as a reference to compare wetern "fantasy novels" :).

Now back to Ashok. I agree with all of you in that Ashok is an amazingly gifted writer !! The ease with which he manipulates words into a seamless flow of ideas that the reader can actually visualise whilst reading, is in itself a no mean feat. Not for want of a better word, but partly due to the generous sprinkling of Indianese, and more importantly - because of ashok's firm belief in Indian roots and its philosophy, I will refer to his style of writing as "Indic" (thats a new genre that we have created at this moment :) ). Ashok is the first Indic writer that I know of. Please know that becoming an Indic author does not come from merely including traditional words and phrases in your work. In fact, its quite the opposite -- it comes from a firm foundation of Indian philosophy (by Indian, I do not mean the country India, but the Indian subcontinent as a whole). Much of it is actually unsaid in explicit terms, but rather stems from the intricate whys and hows and whats concerning his characters. Rama, Kausalya, and also to some extent, Manthara, Ravana and the other lot are all from the same mould. Two sides of the same coin. Built on the same unshakable framework of fundamental precepts which form the cornerstone of Indic way of life. Their trials and tribulations seem familiar to us, because their convictions, their beliefs are also a part of us all !!! And THAT is what touches us the most. Ramayana has traditionally become a uni-dimensional katha of a goody-goody hero, adulterated by all types of religious mishmash. However, Ashok's Ramayana does not portray the characters as string puppets who only know how to dance in one way. His characters are alive, in every sense of the word. The reason they appeal to the newer generation of readers is simple: the characters are identifiable, not through a smoke screen of 'implied divinity' or "avatars" , but rather through their human qualitites of courage, patience, adherence to 'Dharma' - qualities which the youth of today know are more important than the rote ritualism of their forefathers. Ashok, it does not matter that a few individuals cannot grasp our epics. By your efforts so far, you are a living example of what is routinely touted by 'saviours of Hinduism' as the most important message from the Gita -- "Follow your karma, without any heed to what you will get in return". This one sentence has been twisted beyond recognition for what it really means, and your writing is a perfect example of what it was intended to be. For that reason alone, continue writing the way you have...

So carry on my friend, it will take much much more than just a few publishers to stop this "army of words". Let the Indic revolution begin !!!

On "Being Indian"

2005-10-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

Scene 1: I received a mail yesterday, the subject line of which mentioned something interesting as "Dean IIT Madras" and "TRUE Indian". Being interested naturally, I read it, only to find a personal experience of a guy who fasted once-a-week since the 70's in response to Lal Bahadur Shastri's call to save food (a very admirable feat indeed), and broke the fast when India sent aid to the Katrina victims, signifying the end of his protest over America's 'no-aid' policy towards India !! He was being hailed as a "TRUE Indian".

Scene 2: Switch to apna US -- a group of friends watching a beaten up Bollywood Hindi movie. I comment on the ridiculousness of watching such a pathetic excuse for a movie. The excuse offered -- "We are Indians, so we should watch Hindi movies. We are not Americanized ".

Scene 3: Phone call from India-to-US. A friend of mine called up home after Swades was released. As expected, his parents implored him to watch Swades and return back. On pointing out the glaring flaws in their arguments, I am branded "non-Indian".

These are just some examples of the countless experiences we non-Indians experience living here across the seven seas. As is quite well known, a majority of us go quite out-of-the-way to retain their Indian-ness (whatever THAT is). Nothing wrong with that per-se, but a closer look will reveal that this act is being performed not for the reason offered -- saving the Indian culture, but for the family and friends left behind in India. Its an issue of prestige amongst peers that you have "preserved the Indian culture" in your home even after leaving India. Any thought of not doing so is considered close to sacrilege and could very well result in the family being cast out, amongst the Indians back home. To cap that, we have our own Bollywood showcasing the ideal grandchildren who live in US/UK but who speak impeccable Hindi without any accent, in contrast to their local counterparts who could have walked straight out of Times Square. Makes you think, what exactly is "being Indian"? Are you not an Indian if you wish to live overseas? Are you any less Indian if you think that some of the stuff thats passed on as "popular entertainment" is ridiculous enough to be even called entertainment?

So what do I have to say for myself ? Should I even defend myself against such remarks? First thought would be to ignore such snide remarks and continue on. But still, the question gnaws on - AM I NOT INDIAN ENOUGH? I finally decided to write my thoughts on this subject:

We, the Indian menagerie, take pride in being an ever evolving pot-pourri of cultures and peoples. Truly, on no other country could you find the population as diverse as the "Sherpas" of the North and the "Annas" of the south, the "Babus" of the East and the "Gujju-Bhais" of the West. Perhaps the only country today to house such a diverse population could be the US of A, where the races of the world converge in the hope of a better tommorrow.

This phenomena of immigration for higher prospects is certainly not a new phenomena, and not restricted to India (or other third world countries) alone. A look into the history of the world will reveal that entire mankind has witnessed, at some point of time, migrations en-masse from present locations to a new location.The reasons might be different - famine (Ireland-->Australia, US), ostracizing (UK--> US), gold/money/wealth (Africa/Asia --> Europe/US), or just conquests (UK--> Asia Minor) in the name of God -- the bottom line remains that a cup that runneth over spills its spirits into another. The US is a pretty hot location for a "better life" because of several factors - political might, economic strength, easy access to wealth of information and resources -- but one solid reason underlying all of this is --> the Americans learnt from the mistakes of the world before them and based their Constitution on some radical (for those times) principles. Not that it has proved to be totally watertight, but no one can deny that the Americas completely bypassed the Middle-Ages and resulting feudal hierarchy, which is prevalent in one form or another throughout the other countries. Coming back to the main point of this post: Yes, the US is today a hotspot for many who want to leave their homelands and settle here. The million dollar/dinar/euro/rupee question is if this act causes them to be labelled "unpatriotic"?

Does India live within me, within my sankaars or does it reside in the people living in India, but whose lifestyle closely mimics that of the European/American population? I don't think that being Indian requires you to blindly accept and then glorify anything that is presented as Indian with the sole qualification that it originates on the Indian soil ( I challenge anyone to find this particular clause in our constitution). A very close friend of mine , Nitin More, (who, by the way, is in India) once remarked the similarity between evolution of the human society & the computer. I am presenting an expanded sketch of the same. The computer began its life a huge, complex beast with no homogeneity (primitive Man). Slowly but surely, with advances in technology, it attained a formal structure (formation of tribes/societies), but a computer as yet did not have an identity. It always referred to a collective data processing machine which was shared amongst the denizens of its world. The advent of a personal computer (PC) gave a new meaning to the term computing. The process of computing was no longer limited to endless waiting in the global queue, it was more intimate with the user's thought process (concept of a family against the entire tribe). Finally, we see a move to towards connecting these individual PC's while retaining every PC's individual identity. Also, it does not matter to the Internet what part of the world your PC belongs to. Similarly, man has today transcended the physical boundaries of land and we are moving towards a "global village". The concept of Humanity at large, and the Online-community are strikingly parallel. Did we unconsciously model our most useful invention of the modern times after ourselves?

The point of this digression was to point out the fact that physical boundaries marked on land have almost no meaning today than serving the purpose of countless legal battles in UN over disputed land. A few centuries down the line, we might all be a "Megapolis" in the true sense of the word. But it is a natural tendency of man to 'cling on'. This manifests itself in the tendency to hold on to memories/behaviors of the more familar environment that has been left behind. Nothing wrong with that at all !! But an extreme step often seen is that this capacity to retain the old often becomes the yardstick by which the membership of an individual to his parent society is measured. In desparate attempts to maintain this membership, we blindly cling on to what is directed to us by external sources. Ans all in the name of saving the Indian Culture !! I personally do not for even a single moment think that the Indian culture is in any danger at all. Come to think of it, what exactly is this "Indian culture" which needs to be so fiercely protected? and from what does it need protection from? A cursory glance at our own history will reveal that we have in the past assimilated 'foreign' elements and evolved ourselves continuously. The Indian culture is not a static, stagnant phenomenon. Its a continuous amalgam where new stuff is poured both from outside, and from within as its constituents themselves evolve. The emerging pattern of global identity is a step in that same direction. Retaining all or some of the old, familiar lifestyle should not be looked on as 'backwardness' or 'primitive', not should the ability to embrace the new and evolve be frowned upon as an attack on the existing cultural ethos.

But sadly, today we find that the very same individuals who raise a hue-and-cry over the survival of our culture themselves hasten its downfall by going against its basic principle of evolution and growth. To confound matters further, THIS notion is misclassified as "FUNDAMENTALISM", a total misnomer. The fundamental law of the universe is that it is ever changing. The law of entropy is perhaps the most poetic formulation of the Universe we live in, as also the most accurate to a macro level !! If anything should be fundamental, it should be the growth, the changing face of society today and tommorrow.

I am an Indian. I was an Indian, and will always be an Indian. My passport is not my identity, it is just a label of my birth, which will probably go away once the physical boundaries of the world merge. My Indianity is not a function of approval of external elements. Nor does it glorify itself in the wake of tragedy befalling amongst my fellow beings. That is not patriotism my friend, it is jingoism, fanaticism !! A true Indian would not keep an account of what is given, for he does not believe in the duality of us-them. When swa (self) and twa- (Thou, or others) combine to mean swa-ta-ha (Me - a combination of myself and the universe), is there any need to discriminate on the basis of language/race/location?

And so I say -- I was, I am, I am ....

After a long hiatus

2005-09-01T11:10:00.000-07:00

Yeah yeah yeah, I admit it !!!

I am not a fullblown, caffiene addicted, night oil burning compulsive blogger as yet, and this post comes almost 2 weeks after my last. Scouting the net to look at fellow bloggers, I am still surprised to see a post just 2 lines long, which concludes by saying "This is the worst post ever" :) !! At the same time, I am absolutely amazed at how some people (like Ashok Banker) manage to write interesting stuff everyday !! I recommend his blog to everybody who wants to have something thought-provoking to read ..

Most of my last 2 weeks were spent in trying to get a rag-tag team of hobbyists together to write a PC game on the first two books in Ashok's Ramayana series. Managed to draw a couple of more interested people and I think we are ready to draft in some part, what the game should look like.. This surely is an interesting project for me personally and I hope to make the most of it !!

I think thats all for today, I will out-of-bloffice (blog-office) for the weekend -- going out on a camping trip with my wife .. Will fill you on the details later.

On death ...

2005-08-22T12:24:00.000-07:00

As, you might have guessed reading the previous post, the story "A Letter from Elaine" was inspired by a discussion on "Death", that I had with my wife (then, girlfriend). We talked about how it would be if one of us passed away and the other had to cope with living on. Trivial though it may seem, 'living on' can be one of the most difficult things that one may have to do in such circumstances.

Death is common. Its all around us. We see it everywhere, we feel it wherever there is life. Ancients believed in the duality of Life and Death as a 'passage into the unknown'. The yin and the yang, the white and the black (incidently, the two most common colors associated with both life and death. With beginings -- white for weddings, and the end -- white / black for funerals). We are all familiar with the famous stages of grief (Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' book, "On Death and Dying."), viz., Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. The denial stems from the fact that we have always grown up believing that 'bad things happen to other people'. The very notion of death occurring in our own family, or in our own lives, seems a far-fetched theory. We are angry, but that anger is more towards our own helplessness in stopping death, than towards death itself (this actually qualifies as 'acceptance' too. We accept death as a reality, but are unable to stop its advance). The most entertaining stage is the bargaining. Bargaining can occur at all ages, at all strata in the society (more so in the upper), in all religions (they are the chief means for the barter), and across race, gender, time. The devout offer their services to the holy to buy some time, the rich offer their wealth. Its all in the name of 'punya', the Hindu name for accumulated pious. Hindus believe that with enough accumulation of 'punya', they can bargain a later death, or at least, a place in the heaven. Just shows how selfish humans are, instinctively! We may have shot satellites in space, but at our core, we are still the hunter-gatherer tribe that we used to be. Only the means have changed from primitive rock-weapons to the more civilised religious rituals and traditions, but the goal remains the same -- hunt for more, gather more, live more, but at the expense of fellow humans. So we invent more sophisticated forms of bargaining with Him, in the hope that we may buy an extra day, an extra hour to milk our fellow beings. Come to think of it, I have never seen a dog stand on one leg for days together, just to please a god and ask for a boon. Its only too late that we realise that Death is one tough guy who cannot be bargained with !! But resourceful as humans are, they have also invented ways to veil their defeat in this acceptance. Death, now is not a 'period', but turns out its a 'comma' in the story of life. Its a "door into the unknown". The more you know that you are helpless, the more you want to cling on to. This feeling of not-letting-go then extends into reincarnation and mumbo-jumbo about having multiple lives.

That was quite a digression, thank you !! Coming back, well, our discussion got me thinking about how I would actually feel if I was the one left to live on. Though I dont think my reaction to that situation would be as extreme as the protagonist in the story, it would border somewhat between acceptance and denial, for I believe that we have but ONE lifetime, so live it to its fullest and share it with the one you love till the last moment !! Let people truly say "He lived till he died" ...

A Letter from Elaine

2005-08-20T18:44:00.001-07:00

This is a short story that I wrote a few months back. More details on it tommorrow. Meanwhile, read on:

A letter from Elaine

The postman was late. Rossen Edger Jones III, waited all day on Monday for the now so familiar sight of the USPS van bearing the now so punctual letter. It was a weekly ritual for him now, receiving the letter on Monday, and replying almost immediately by Wednesday, so that his reply reached the destination the next day, and he got back a new letter on Monday of the following week.

But this week, it was already past Monday, and there was still no sign of Harry, the neighborhood postman who had been here from eternity, or so it seemed. Harry was usually very punctual, and this is what worried Rossen Edger Jones III, the most.

“Not like Harry to miss a day’s mail”, the folks would say. “The Spring may come in late on Edgecastle, but not Harry, the herald”. The folks in this plain town of Edgecastle fondly addressed their postman by this ancient title. Queer style, someone would say, and the people of Edgecastle would probably drink a hearty beer to that too.

Edgecastle was not what you would exactly call a town, nor did it have the rustic ambience of the long forgotten villages. It was somewhere in between, and the folks here liked that. “Ours is not a dinky town, or a plain horse-driven country. Its just Edgecastle”, was their response to the snobbish looks of the townspeople, who happened to stop by in the town. The people of Edgecastle were simple-minded folks with simple lives, and Rossen Edger Jones III, was perhaps the oldest living human there.

Rossen Edger Jones III, whole of eighty six years, lived in his dainty little cottage by an equally neatly groomed farm, where he grew a handful of vegetables, which were all that one needed to survive in these times. He never owned a television, that black box of intricate monstrosity, which those peoples from big cities were proud of. It was probably the tradition in Edgecastle of not to own one, for no house had a TV set. Nor a microwave, or a dishwasher. It was as if Time had passed by the place, and never left its footprints behind. Rossen Edger Jones III, as such had nothing to do once he had tended the farm in the mornings, and it was the letter that kept him busy at least some days of the weeks. But now without one on a Monday, he had wasted his day, not knowing what to do, deliberating on the fate of that precious cargo. Old men were seldom busy, and Rossen Edger Jones III, welcomed the letter as a welcome diversion from the usual ennui of his life.

It was late Tuesday afternoon then that Harry rolled into the driveway of Rossen Edger Jones III’s cottage.

“Your letter, as usual, Mr. Jones. Sorry the mail came in late from the town, seems like the new computers they got in the city broke down. If you ask me, they never should have got them in first place. Nothing like good ol’folks handling the deliveries. Never trust the machine to fill in our place”. He shrugged, receiving no response other than a half grunt “H-uh”, from the older man. Harry walked back to his van, his thoughts already on his next delivery. No one paid much attention to Rossen Edger Jones III, these days.

Rossen Edger Jones III ambled across the hall, which led to his study; he always read the first letter in the study, the second in the kitchen. The peace, the tranquility surrounding the place gave him the much needed concentration to read. He held the letter gently as if it were made of the wings of the August butterflies, brittle and delicate, but immensely beautiful. It smelled like the old time, yes it did!! He opened the envelope and smiled. Oak wood stationary, always the same. Some things just never changed.

* * * * *

“Dear Rossen”, it began, and Rossen Edger Jones III, squinted behind his glasses to bring the words into focus.

-- I cannot describe my joy on learning that our patch had finally yielded the biggest pumpkin in Edgecastle (she always did take pride in the farm). I would have loved to be there, but Mrs. Simons (ah! That shriveled she-rat) fell ill and Mrs. Simmons (bless her soul) would not want me to leave so soon. I do eagerly wait for a word from you, dearest, for your words are all that what means to me. Forgive my ambling dear, I must be getting old too..

Its Fall here too, and the trees have starting shedding their old wares, waiting for the Spring to arrive. Poor souls, baring themselves to the harsh Winter, in the patient longing of the Spring. The ranch and the Hunter’s Burrow sparkle with golden brown hues in the wee hours, and I am reminded of your warmth, so much like that golden sunshine (Ah, my girl, I know). But it’s not just the trees that are changing. Last week, that Johnny boy across the street got a new bicycle for his birthday (God, how fast these children grow? Was he ten already?), and he spent all day driving the bicycle and in turn, driving me mad by his hooting and honking (Rossen Edger Jones III permitted himself a little smile here – that rascal, I bet he did that on purpose, he chuckled). Little Edna was terrified of all the noise her brother was creating, and my, did Sally have a hard time pacifying her.

Last night, the doctor stopped by to look at me. ‘Ah’, I said, ‘what do you see in this old frail lady , doctor? Why waste your time on me, there’s a lot of folks who need you’. And that young man, he just smiled and said ‘I have to take care of everybody, Mrs. Jones. And after all, you do bake the best cakes in a hundred miles’. God bless that young man. It’s not often that we see such men today. He is indeed the brightest of the new lot. Remember the time when he used to climb over our backyard with his friend, what’s-his-name (Arbor, Donald Arbor. Yes I remember) – to steal the carrots. I told you then that this young man was going high. And look where he is today, the best doctor (the ONLY doctor, my dear, Rossen Edger Jones III sighed) that Edgecastle has.

I went to the Still Lake with the Dumses yesterday, and it was a jolly good time together with Barton and Leia (Barton, my best buddy. It just seems like yesterday, doesn’t it dear?). The men went fishing and we womenfolk spread the lunch. It seemed so much like the old times. I wished you were here (I wish that always, dear, I wish that always). You do take in your daily pills, don’t you? I know you don’t really believe in the new medicines, but trust that doctor, he is a good man. Take good care of yourself dear.

Yours Lovingly

Elaine”

Rossen Edger Jones III dabbed his sleeves to his moist eyes. He missed Elaine too. Elaine, his wife of forty years, the only person he ever felt connected with. He missed being without her, and how he wished that Elaine would come back, just for a day. But these were idle thoughts, she had made up her mind, and she was not coming back. He thought of all the loneliness without her, and then came the first letter. He promptly replied to it and now it became a regular feature of their lives. Monday was the day that Rossen Edger Jones III, would receive his wife’s letter, write back to her on Wednesday, and await her reply the next Monday. It was a game they both loved to play. Rossen Edger Jones III, knew that she loved him, loved him more than he could love her, but she would never come back. That was just impossible. His friends, neighbors all helped him get over that initial shock, and then slowly drifted out of his life, each with his own to look after.

He did not blame anybody. Rossen Edger Jones III was a war veteran, and a hardened soul at that. He went on with his life, though he cherished the letters as much as his own life. Some things just never changed.

* * * * *

Rossen Edger Jones III, pulled out his writing pad and pen. He was already a day late in replying to Elaine. “I just hope she understands”, he mumbled as his pen made strokes with a flourish, on the smooth paper.

“Dearest Elaine,

I watched the sunset all by myself yesterday. Sitting there by the patio, I looked out and embraced the thousand golden wings of the sun. Watched till the Dusk crawled over the valley and took all the birds under her fold. How I wished you were here by my side, holding my hand. Remember that time when we visited the Welshes? I can never forget that evening? You were the most beautiful that you ever were, on that one evening. Remember how we slept on the bare grass, gazed for hours at the stars above and around us. Named each star for a dream, each dream for a wish, each wish for a moment, and asked for never ending moments of togetherness (Rossen Edger Jones III brushed a light tear from his eyes as he wrote, I remember. God, how I wish I could forget. Just this once!!!). It seemed as if the Daylight, a Gypsy with braids of golden rays, had finally stopped her dance and settled for a night full of rest. The Night came on, like a wizened old lady, caressing the younger one to sleep, and singing her songs. The moon shone like the silver streaks of wisdom in the older woman’s hair, who went about her duties of setting the world right once the dancing Gypsy had rested. I felt so much together, so much with you.

Every day I tell myself that it will still be. That it cannot be true that we are not together. But every passing day reminds me of the distance between us, and every passing night renews the hope that Dawn will break. I will be waiting for you in the Dawn, Elaine. I will always be waiting for you.

Yours lovingly,

Rossen”

He folded the paper neatly into the envelope, and licked a stamp to it. He would walk to the post office after his supper, which was shortly. He looked outside, from his study window and sighed, “O Daylight, elusive Gypsy, how you mock me with your colors? Do feel pity for this old soul, who has lost all that he ever had, to the deep recesses of the Night. Do be by my bedside when I go, O fair maiden. Do be so…”

* * * * *

It was Thursday, and the postman was late, yet again. Rossen Edger Jones IIII paced around his room, waiting for Harry to show up. God ! damn those incompetent fools who could not deliver a letter on time. Didn’t they know that each letter was not just a bunch of ink scrawled across paper; it was something much more than that.

Harry rolled his van into the driveway lazily. He had done it so many times, he could do it blindfolded. Rossen Edger Jones III was perhaps the only person in the entire area that he knew, who received not one but two letters every week. One on Monday, and one on Thursday. He never knew anybody who had that busy a life, and ol’man Jones was hardly one whom you could call a ‘busy’ person. He hardly ever spoke, and rarely made an attempt to socialize with his neighbors. But he was a quaint little man, never troubled anybody, and in a way, Harry was actually fond of him. Especially after his wife Elaine died a few years ago, ol’Jones had turned into a recluse, shutting himself from all outsiders.

“Your letter, Mr. Jones”. Harry saluted the war hero as he handed the letter. Rossen Edger Jones III gave one of his rare smiles, and then turned back into the house, without saying a word.

He went straight to the kitchen, to the table facing the backyard, and sat down to read. The envelope was apple-white, with a roughly licked stamp clinging to it. He smiled as he removed the letter and began to read, though he already knew what the words were.

“Dearest Elaine,

I watched the sunset all by myself yesterday. Sitting there by the patio, I looked out and…..

……………I will always be waiting for you.

Yours lovingly,

Rossen”

Rossen Edger Jones III sighed as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then, with renewed vigor, he took out a pad of oakwood stationery and began to write –

“Dear Rossen …”

It was time for another letter from Elaine.

* * * * *

Blogging and more ...

2005-08-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

"Blogging" is not a so recent phenomena as it seems, though the word was indeed coined very recently. There have been many websites in the past which have been maintained as a means of posting daily comments/random thoughts/diary writing -- one of my favorites was THE site for OpenGL tutorials -- nehe.gamedev.net. The author not only gave sound advice on technical aspects of the subject (being into Computer Graphics and 3D, a matter quite close to my heart), but also kept a log of his everyday activities, both personal and professional. The site is going strong as of now, and has developed into the place to look into if you are new to the realm of 3D graphics in general, and OpenGl in particular. The official openGL site (www.opengl.org) also maintains a link to nehe (stands for Neon-Helium).

So the million-dollar-question remains -- WHY do we blog? why this need to make our voice heard (You are not even sure if it would be actually heard - what if no one reads your blogs?). What is "that" definitive quality about blogs that make them so appealing? I guess one thing you cannot get out of a news site is the 'personality' of the writer. Blogs do make the "person inside the individual" accessible to the millions of "blogees" ( I am a bloger -- you are a blogee, one that's being bloged on :) ) worldwide. And hey, didn't your kid sibling sneak in and read out your diary to their friends sometime :) . I think the more important aspect here is the instant visibility to billions. I would not be wrong to think that soon we would have an entire 'blog-publishing' businesses sprouting like May flowers. Already, several blogs command a fantastic fan following ( My fav: The blog of Darth Vader - http://mfdh.ca/starwars/darth-vader/ or darthside.blogspot.com ) and it would not be long before authors realise that they could actually make money by releasing their content over blogs and supplement that with paid-per-view ads (They would certainly make more than the publisher pays them anyway!). Any takers for this blog?

Then there are blogs and there are blogs .. but a discerning eye knows what to look for :). So surf around and send me stuff that you find interesting :).

First Steps ...

2005-08-19T17:03:00.000-07:00

Its funny actually !! I fought so hard to NOT become a blogger all these days ( seriously, who wants people to read their most intimate thoughts anyways !!). And suddenly, yours truly has jumped onto the bandwagon faster than you could say 'FLASH'. Truly a volte-face, if one. I guess Ashok Banker's blog (and the discussions I had there and on the epicindia list) provided the stimulus to finally take the plunge. So hang on to the rails and join me on a hell of a ride (helmets mandatory by law !!)